But the thought of Lucas arriving home exhausted from travel, only to discover his father was in the hospital, decided for me.
"Of course. Text me his flight details."
"Thank you." The relief in Miles's voice was palpable. "I know this is awkward, given everything, but?—"
"It's fine, Miles. Family comes first."
After hanging up, I stared at my phone, already regretting my choice of words. Family. That's what Miles and I used to be, or were supposed to become.
Now I was sleeping with his father while maintaining friendly contact with him—a situation so ethically tangled I couldn't even begin to unravel it.
I needed to tell Lucas I'd be meeting him, but explaining why without revealing Miles had called me seemed impossible.
Lucas knew we occasionally discussed the Westlake project, but this was deeply personal.
How could I explain that Miles felt comfortable enough to call me about family emergencies?
I opted for vagueness, sending a technically truthful text:
I'll pick you up at SFO tonight. Terminal 3 at 8. We need to talk.
His response came quickly:
A surprise. I like it. See you then, little fox.
The endearment that usually warmed me now sat like lead in my stomach. I was already lying by omission, and I hadn't even seen him yet.
Throughout the day, I received periodic updates from Miles—Richard was stable, grumpy about the hospital food, and demanding to go home.
Normal texts from someone keeping me informed about a family member I cared about.
Except Lucas didn't know about any of them.
By evening, I'd convinced myself that my approach was reasonable. I would tell Lucas about his father first, then explain how I'd found out.
The fact that Miles had been the messenger was secondary—what mattered was getting Lucas to the hospital
When Lucas appeared in the arrivals area, my heart did its usual stuttering dance.
Even after a cross-country flight, he looked impeccable—charcoal suit, silver hair perfectly styled, that commanding presence that made people step aside without realizing why.
But I could see the fatigue around his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders.
"This is a pleasant surprise," he said, pressing a brief kiss to my cheek. "Though your mysterious text had me intrigued all day."
"Let's get to the car," I said, avoiding his searching gaze. "We can talk privately there."
His expression shifted, registering my tension. "Savannah? What's wrong?"
"The car first."
Once we were sealed in my Audi, I turned to face him, studying the strong lines of his profile. How had I gotten myself into this impossible situation?
"Lucas, I need to tell you something difficult." I took a breath. "Your father had a minor stroke last night. He's stable at San Francisco General. I'm taking you there now."
The transformation was instant—the mask I recognized from our early business meetings sliding into place—Lucas Turner, CEO, who never revealed vulnerability.
But I caught the flicker of fear in his eyes before he banished it.
