I set the phone down, this small exchange having settled something restless inside me.
Six months ago, I would have intervened directly with Reynolds. Established dominance through authority rather than allowing Savannah to handle the situation herself. Would have considered it protection rather than recognizing it as a form of control.
I was changing. She was changing me, not through demand or manipulation, but through the simple power of seeing me altogether and loving what she saw—flaws, strengths, and everything between.
The intercom buzzed, Carol's voice interrupting my thoughts. "Your father is here to see you, Mr. Turner."
Surprise jolted through me.
My father rarely visited the office since his semi-retirement years ago, and never without calling first. Since his stroke, he'd been even less mobile, preferring to summon people to him rather than venturing out.
"Send him in," I said, moving around the desk to meet him.
Richard Turner entered with the aid of a sleek ebony cane—a concession to physical limitation that he carried like a scepter rather than a support.
Even at his advanced age, he remained imposing, despite the slight stoop to his shoulders and the careful measure of his steps.
"Dad," I greeted him, genuine concern overriding the complicated dynamics that had always existed between us.
"Is everything all right? You should have called, I would have come to you."
He waved away my concern, lowering himself into one of the visitor chairs with careful dignity.
"I'm not an invalid, Lucas. The doctors encourage regular activity."
I took the chair beside him rather than retreating behind my desk—a deliberate choice to engage as son rather than CEO.
"Still, it's unusual to see you here. What's happened?"
"Nothing's happened." He studied me with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated board members and politicians throughout his career.
"I simply wanted to see you. Is that so extraordinary?"
It was. In forty-seven years of shared history, my father had never "simply wanted to see me" without purpose or agenda.
Our relationship had been built on achievement and expectation, not always a loving, casual connection.
"Can I offer you a drink?" I asked, falling back on social protocol to cover my confusion.
"Scotch. The good stuff you keep in that cabinet, Miles thinks I don't know about."
I smiled despite myself, rising to retrieve the twenty-five-year-old Macallan I reserved for significant moments.
As I poured two fingers into crystal tumblers, I felt my father's gaze steady on my back.
"You seem different," he observed as I handed him his glass.
"Lighter, somehow."
I settled back into my chair, considering how to respond to this unprecedented personal observation.
"I suppose I am."
"The Blake woman." Not a question but a statement, delivered with the same certainty he'd brought to business assessments throughout his career.
"Savannah," I corrected, surprising myself with the gentle rebuke.
"And yes, she's part of it."
