A more complete man.
A man capable of building something far more valuable than towers of glass and steel.
A man worthy of Savannah Blake.
Chapter 24
Savannah
Two lines. Pink. Definitive.
I stared at the pregnancy test on my bathroom counter, the room suddenly too small, the air too thin.
My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the marble, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
Pregnant.
The word echoed in my mind, foreign and terrifying.
Not part of the plan.
Not part of my carefully constructed journey back to independence after Miles.
Certainly not part of whatever I was building with Lucas—this complex, intoxicating, still-fragile connection that had upended everything I thought I knew about myself.
I should have known when my period didn't arrive last week. I, who tracked my cycle with obsessive precision, had somehow dismissed it as stress.
But then came the other signs I couldn't ignore: the sudden aversion to my morning coffee that left me gagging over the sink, the tenderness in my breasts that made even the softest fabrics uncomfortable, the bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep seemed to fix. And this morning, when the smell ofLucas's cologne—a scent I usually found intoxicating—had sent me rushing to the bathroom to dry heave, I couldn't deny it anymore.
I slid to the floor, back against the cabinet, knees drawn to my chest.
Three tests, all positive. No room for doubt.
My body—the one domain I'd always controlled with clinical precision—had betrayed me with perfect biological efficiency.
"Savannah?" Lucas's voice, calling from the bedroom. "Conference call in twenty minutes. Have you seen my blue tie? The Hermès one?"
"Check the closet. Left side," I called back, my voice amazingly steady considering the earthquake happening inside me.
I quickly wrapped the tests in tissue paper and buried them deep in the bathroom trash.
Not ready. Not yet.
The bathroom door opened, and Lucas appeared in an unbuttoned dress shirt, watching me with immediate concern. "Are you alright? Why are you on the floor?"
"Just dropped an earring back," I lied, pushing myself to my feet with fabricated casualness.
"Found it."
His eyes narrowed slightly—Lucas Turner, missing nothing, reading everything.
"You're pale. And you've been in the bathroom every morning this week."
"Just tired. Didn't sleep well." Another lie stacking atop the first. I moved past him, careful not to meet his eyes directly.
"Your tie should be where you left it last night. With the dry cleaning."
I felt his gaze follow me across the bedroom, assessing, calculating.
