No.
I knew the truth of what existed between us—had felt it from that first night when neither of us knew the other's name or connection. What we'd found was genuine, unexpected, unprecedented in my experience.
"This isn't about you, Miles," I said, keeping my voice level despite the anger beginning to simmer beneath my calm exterior.
"It never was."
"Bullshit." He spat the word with venom I hadn't heard from him before.
"Everything's always been about me with you. Proving you're better. Proving I don't measure up. Taking what's mine when I show the slightest interest in it."
"That's not fair," Savannah interjected, stepping forward.
"I'm not property to be claimed or taken. I made my own choices."
Miles laughed, the sound bitter.
"Did you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you traded up to a more powerful model. Same package, just older and richer."
I felt her stiffen beside me, saw the flash of hurt and anger cross her features. But before she could respond, the library door opened fully, revealing my father.
Richard Turner at eighty-one remained imposing despite his recent health scare—silver-haired, straight-backed, observing the scene before him.
"I should have known family lunch would devolve into drama," he said, moving into the room with the careful steps of a man recently discharged from the hospital.
"Some things never change."
The interruption shifted the energy in the room, providing a momentary reprieve from the mounting tension between Miles and me.
My father settled into his favorite armchair—the same one where he'd sat decades ago, telling me that my mother had left, that I needed to be stronger, that emotion was weakness in a world that rewarded control.
"Don't stop on my account." He gestured between us.
"This confrontation is years overdue."
Miles straightened, uncomfortable under his grandfather's scrutiny. The complex dynamics of three generations of Turner men filled the room like smoke, suffocating in its intensity.
"You knew about this?" Miles asked his grandfather.
"I suspected." My father's gaze moved to Savannah, assessing her with the same calculating look he'd given every potential business connection throughout his career.
"The hospital made it rather obvious. Lucas doesn’t allow people to drive him to and from airports out of professional courtesy."
Savannah met his gaze without flinching—one of the many things I admired about her. She wouldn't be intimidated, not even by the patriarch of the Turner family.
"Mr. Turner," she acknowledged, her voice steady.
"I'm sorry your family gathering has been disrupted."
"Don't apologize for existing, young lady." My father waved away her words.
"It's about time someone disrupted this family. We've been drowning in polite fiction for years now.”
The statement, so unlike my father's usual careful diplomacy, caught me off guard. Illness had apparently loosened his tongue, stripped away some of the rigid control he'd maintained throughout my childhood.
Miles moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a generous measure of scotch despite the early hour.
"So that's it? Everyone's just accepting this... this travesty? This betrayal?"
