The Madison Street development represented nearly eight months of strategic planning, of carefully cultivated relationships with city officials and community leaders.
Yet all I could think about was whether Savannah preferred Italian or French cuisine for tonight's dinner.
"We should run additional projections," I said, interrupting whatever Wilson had been explaining. "Conservative estimates based on a six-month delay in full occupancy. And I want contingency plans for supply chain disruptions."
My executive team exchanged glances—concern, confusion, perhaps a touch of alarm. I was never this cautious, neverthis hesitant. Lucas Turner didn't hedge bets; he made decisive moves based on thorough analysis and gut instinct honed through decades of successful ventures.
Lucas Turner didn't get distracted during critical investment meetings by thoughts of a woman half his age.
"Of course," Wilson agreed, though his furrowed brow betrayed his confusion. "I'll have those to you by Wednesday."
"Tomorrow," I corrected, an edge entering my voice. "I want them tomorrow morning."
The sharpness in my tone silenced whatever objections might have been forming. Good. I needed to reassert control—over this meeting, over my company, over myself. Needed to separate the man who had held Savannah through the night from the man who commanded this boardroom.
"If there's nothing else?" I rose, effectively ending the meeting fifteen minutes early—another unprecedented move. "Wilson, walk with me."
We moved through the corridors of Turner Holdings in silence, the CFO matching my longer strides with visible effort.
Only when we reached my office, doors closed behind us, did he speak.
"Is everything all right, Lucas?"
The use of my first name—rare in business contexts—underscored the unusual nature of his concern. Wilson had been with me for fifteen years, had weathered economic downturns and risky ventures without question. Had never seen me wavering in my decision-making.
"Fine," I said shortly, moving to the window that dominated one wall of my office. "I just want to be thorough."
"You're always thorough," he countered carefully. "But today you seemed..."
"Seemed what, exactly?" The challenge in my voice would normally have ended the conversation. Wilson, however, had earned the right to occasional candor.
"Distracted," he said simply. "I've never seen you lose the thread of a financial discussion before. Not once in fifteen years."
I didn't immediately respond, considering how much to reveal. Wilson was discreet, loyal to a fault. But this wasn't about business strategy or market conditions—areas where his counsel was invaluable. This was personal. Messy. Potentially damaging.
"I have a lot on my mind," I finally said. "The Westlake project, Miles's increasing involvement in operations, Catherine's latest attempt to restructure the trust fund agreement."
All true, if not the actual source of my distraction.
Wilson nodded, accepting the explanation without further probing.
"Should I reschedule this afternoon's site visit? Give you some time to catch up?"
The site visit—Westlake's model unit unveiling. Where I would see Savannah again, in a professional context, for the first time since she'd left my penthouse. Where Miles would undoubtedly be present, playing the role of project manager with the same superficial competence he brought to all his responsibilities.
Where Savannah and I would have to pretend we were nothing more than potential business associates.
"No," I said, already dreading and anticipating the encounter in equal measure. "That stays on the schedule."
"Very well." Wilson moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, Lucas... I've never known you to make a wrong decision when it mattered. Your instincts are what built this company."
The vote of confidence, offered without knowledge of the actual situation, landed like a weight rather than a reassurance. If Wilson knew what those instincts were currently driving me toward, his faith might waver considerably.
Once alone, I checked my phone—a habit I'd developed only in the past three days, since Savannah had entered my life properly.
No messages from her, which was both a relief and a disappointment.
She'd be at lunch with Miles now, maintaining the pretense of professional interest in the Westlake project.
