The woman who chose safety over possibility, control over connection.
Either way, she was the woman I needed to become again. The woman who survived on her own terms, who didn't need the devastating complexity Lucas Turner had introduced into my life.
I texted him as I walked back to the office:
Can we meet tonight? My place, 8 p.m.
His response came almost immediately:
I'll be there. Everything okay?
I didn't reply.
Didn't trust myself not to reveal too much, not to weaken before I'd even begun.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and deadlines, the routine numbing me against the growing dread of what lay ahead.
By the time I left the office, a strange calm had settled over me—the artificial tranquility that comes with absolute certainty of purpose.
I went through a checklist of preparations at my apartment: shower, blow-dry, minimal makeup, and a simple blue dress.
Nothing provocative, nothing that might undermine my resolve.
I cleared away any evidence of our previous encounters—the wine glasses we'd shared, the book he'd been reading, the spare toothbrush in my bathroom.
Erasing him systematically, as if that could make what I was about to do any easier.
At precisely eight, my doorbell rang. My heart lurched painfully against my ribs as I moved to answer, rehearsing the speech I'd prepared.
Calm. Logical. Final.
He stood there in dark jeans and a gray cashmere sweater, less formal than I'd ever seen him. The casual attire should have diminished his authoritative presence. Instead, it only emphasized the man beneath the CEO persona—the man I'd glimpsed yesterday in those moments of exquisite tenderness.
"Savannah." He stepped inside, bending to kiss me. I turned my face slightly, his lips landing on my cheek instead of mymouth. A small rejection that made his eyes narrow with sudden awareness.
"We need to talk," I said, the cliché burning my tongue.
"Clearly." He didn't move further into the apartment, didn't remove his coat. Read the situation with the same precision he brought to everything.
"What's happened since this morning?"
"Nothing happened." I moved to the living room, needing the symbolic protection of furniture between us.
"I just... had time to think."
"About?"
"About us. About what we're doing. About the impossibility of it all." The prepared speech dissolved, leaving only raw truth. "Lucas, we're kidding ourselves. This can't work—not long term. The professional complications alone?—"
"Can be managed," he cut in, his voice calm, reasonable. "As can the personal ones."
"Can they?" I challenged, something fierce rising in me.
"What happens when Miles finds out? When your board discovers you're sleeping with a marketing consultant half your age? When my clients learn I've been involved with the father of my ex? We'd both be professionally destroyed."
"Those are logistics. Challenges to be overcome." He hadn't moved from his position near the door and was watching me with the careful assessment of a man evaluating a volatile situation. "Not insurmountable obstacles."
"They're symptoms of a larger problem," I insisted. "We come from different worlds, different generations. We want different things?—"
