"We could wait until?—"
"No." Her voice was soft but determined.
"No more waiting. No more secrets."
I nodded, respecting her resolve even as dread pooled in my stomach. In the over twenty years of navigating complexnegotiations and high-stakes business deals, I'd never felt this kind of apprehension.
Strange, that facing my own son could unnerve me more than billion-dollar acquisitions or hostile takeovers.
"I texted Miles," she said, breaking our silence as I cut the engine.
"Told him I'd be here. He seemed... surprised."
"Understandable." I kept my tone neutral, masking the storm building inside me.
"He assumes our paths rarely cross these days."
She turned to me then, those green eyes searching mine.
"Are you sure about this, Lucas? Really sure?"
I didn't need to ask what she meant. Was I sure about us? Sure enough to upend the already complicated relationship with my son? Sure enough to face the consequences, personal and professional, of what we were about to reveal?
"Yes." No hesitation. No qualification. Just certainty.
She exhaled, a small smile touching her lips.
"Then let's go in."
The house was exactly as I remembered—oppressively pristine, filled with museum-quality art and furniture too valuable to actually use.
My father's domain, preserved like a mausoleum to wealth and status.
The chandelier in the foyer still caught the light in prisms that danced across marble floors.
The staircase still curved with imperious grandeur.
The silence still held that particular quality of empty wealth—thick, expectant, judging.
Rodriguez, the houseman who'd served my father for thirty years, greeted us with the perfect blend of formality and familiarity.
"Mr. Turner. Miss Blake." His eyes betrayed nothing of what he might think about our arrival together.
"Your father is resting before lunch. Mr. Miles is in the library."
The library. Of course.
I nodded my thanks, guiding Savannah with a light touch at the small of her back. We moved through the house in silence, past the dining room where countless uncomfortable family dinners had unfolded, past the sitting room where my mother had told me she was leaving, past the study where it sometimes felt like my father had mapped out my life.
Every step triggered memories I'd spent decades suppressing. Every room held ghosts I'd tried to outrun.
The library door stood ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I paused, steeling myself. Savannah's hand found mine, squeezing gently, offering strength rather than seeking it.
The reversal wasn't lost on me.
For a man who'd built his life on power and control, accepting support from someone else was perhaps the most significant surrender I'd yet made.
I pushed the door open to find Miles standing at the window, hands in his pockets, staring out at the garden.
