The implication hung between us—had I been coordinating with Miles?
Planning this deception?
"Lucas, I had no idea he was coming tonight?—"
"Enough." The single word, spoken with quiet finality, silenced me. "My father is in the hospital. That's my priority right now."
He exited the car without another word, leaving me sitting there with the wreckage of trust scattered around me. I watched him walk toward the hospital entrance—Lucas Turner, untouchable and controlled, the man who had whispered vulnerabilities against my skin just days ago.
I followed at a distance, my heart breaking with each step. At the information desk, he obtained Richard's room number with quiet efficiency, not acknowledging my presence.
We rode the elevator in suffocating silence.
When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Miles was there, pacing the corridor. His face showed genuine worry, his usually perfect appearance disheveled. "Dad!" He moved toward us, then noticed me.
“Savannah? Thanks for coming."
"Meeting ended early," Miles explained, refocusing on Lucas. "I was able to catch a late flight back instead of staying overnight. Grandpa's awake and arguing with the nurses about the food, which the doctor says is a good sign."
"I'll see him now," Lucas said. He turned to me, his expression politely distant.
"Thank you for the ride, Savannah. I can manage from here."
The dismissal was professional, courteous, and devastating.
Miles looked confused, glancing between us.
"Of course," I managed. "I hope Richard recovers quickly."
Lucas nodded once, then walked toward his father's room, effectively erasing me from the equation.
Miles hesitated, clearly puzzled.
"Thanks for helping out," he said. "I wasn't sure if you'd be able to reach him before the flight."
Another layer of misunderstanding.
"It worked out," I said simply. "I should go."
As I walked back to the elevator, I heard Miles fall into step beside his father, their voices fading as they approached Richard's room.
Father and son, united by blood and genuine concern, while I remained on the outside—an interloper who had betrayed the trust of the man I was falling in love with.
In my car, I finally let the tears come.
Not delicate, photogenic tears, but ugly, gasping sobs that left me struggling to breathe.
I'd lied not because the truth was terrible, but because it forced me to confront something I'd been avoiding: I was caught between two Turner men, standing at the intersection of their complicated relationship.
I'd lied because admitting Miles's continued presence in my life meant acknowledging the ethical quicksand I'd been sinking into for weeks.
And my deception had possibly destroyed the most significant connection I'd ever experienced.
By the time I reached home, exhaustion had replaced the tears. My phone sat silent on the coffee table—no messages from Lucas.
He was with his family, where he belonged, dealing with my betrayal later, or perhaps not at all.
My phone buzzed. Zoe's name, not Lucas's.
