And there was no turning back.
Chapter 9
Lucas
Eight o'clock.
I checked my watch for perhaps the twentieth time in the past hour, then returned to the reports spread across my desk.
The Madison Street numbers blurred before my eyes, my usual laser focus fractured by anticipation.
Would she come?
She'd said yes in the gallery, had taken my card, had whispered "tomorrow" like a promise. But Savannah Blake struck me as a woman who might change her mind, might listen to the voice of reason that had nearly won our argument the day before. Might choose practicality over the dangerous current running between us.
Part of me almost hoped she would.
The rational, disciplined businessman who had built Turner Holdings from a modest inheritance into a real estate empire.
The father who, despite our complicated relationship, shouldn't cross this line with his son's former girlfriend.
The man who had spent decades cultivating a reputation for ethical dealings and clear boundaries.
But that wasn't the part of me in control tonight.
My penthouse occupied the top two floors of The Archer, the luxury high-rise that had been Turner Holdings' first significant development in San Francisco.
Forty-five stories up, with floor-to-ceiling windows that transformed the city into a glittering tapestry spread at my feet.
The ultimate statement of power and achievement.
My domain.
The space reflected me—or at least, the public version of me. Clean lines, modern furnishings in neutral tones, strategically placed art pieces from notable contemporary artists. Impressive but impersonal. The perfect backdrop for entertaining clients, hosting fundraisers, and projecting the image expected of Lucas Turner, CEO.
But my office—that was different.
Tucked away on the upper level, it was the one room rarely seen by visitors.
Where the rest of the penthouse was designed to impress, my office was designed for comfort. Solid walnut bookshelves lined the walls, filled not with impressive first editions or designer-selected volumes, but with well-worn books I'd read.
Biographies, histories, philosophy, poetry—eclectic choices that reflected curiosity rather than status.
An antique Persian rug in deep blues and burgundies covered the hardwood floor, a family heirloom from my grandmother.
The massive desk wasn't the expected sleek glass and steel, but a refurbished partner's desk from the 1920s, its surface marked with decades of use, each scratch and stain telling a story.
The only modern concession was the wall of windows behind the desk, offering the same panoramic view as the rest of the penthouse.
The only reminder of the power I wielded in this city.
I selected a bottle of Highland Park 25 from the bar cabinet, pouring two fingers into a crystal tumbler. The ritual calmed me, imposed order on the unusual restlessness I'd felt all day.
Control had always been my cornerstone—over my company, my emotions, my desires.
Yet here I was, waiting for a woman who had cracked that foundation with a single night, with green eyes that saw too much, with a defiance that matched my own.
The subtle chime of the security system broke through my thoughts. I checked the monitor discreetly mounted behind a bookshelf panel—Savannah stood at the private elevator entrance, her face tilted up toward the camera.
