I glanced at him, surprised by the candor. Their coffee meeting the week before had gone well, according to Savannah—awkward but necessary, a conversation that had given them both closure. She'd been deliberately vague about specifics, respecting Miles's privacy, but something in her had seemed lighter afterward, as if a final weight had been lifted.
"She does look happy," I agreed, allowing myself a moment of pure, uncalculated joy. "I hope I'm part of the reason."
"You are." Miles sipped his champagne, watching her over the rim of his glass.
"Though I'm still getting used to the idea of you two together. It's... unconventional."
"That's one word for it."
"The board is starting to notice," he continued, voice dropping. "The way you look at each other. The fact that you've been arriving together at events. Reynolds mentioned something last week about your 'consulting arrangement' with Alder West."
I'd known this was coming. Had prepared for the inevitable whispers, the speculation, the potential business implications. What I hadn't anticipated was how little I cared about any of it.
"Let them notice," I said, the words coming easily—too easily for a man who'd built an empire on careful calculation and strategic restraint.
Miles raised an eyebrow. "Just like that? No damage control? No prepared statement? No carefully orchestrated rollout of information?"
"Just like that." I finished my scotch, set the glass on a passing waiter's tray.
"I'm tired of shadows, Miles. Tired of half-truths and strategic omissions. I want to build something real with her. That can't happen if we're hiding."
He studied me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—something between surprise and a grudging respect.
"You really love her, don't you?"
"More than I thought possible at this point in my life." The honesty cost me nothing, which was perhaps the most surprising revelation of all.
Vulnerability with my son—once unthinkable—now felt like strength rather than weakness.
Miles nodded slowly, absorbing this. "Then I guess there's only one question left."
"What's that?"
A small, challenging smile played at his lips.
"What are you going to do about it?"
Before I could respond, the room's energy shifted. There was a reverent hush as my father made his entrance, leaning on his cane but otherwise showing remarkable recovery from his recent health crisis. This was his first public appearance since the stroke, a calculated display of Turner resilience.
The crowd parted for him, respectful murmurs following his progress. I moved to meet him, Miles falling into step beside me.
Across the room, I saw Savannah watching, her expression softening as she observed this rare moment of Turner family unity.
"Lucas. Miles." My father nodded to us both, his grip on my arm suggesting he needed support more than he cared to admit.
"Quite the turnout."
"Naturally. The prodigal patriarch returns."
I guided him toward a nearby chair, ignoring his look of annoyance at the implication he needed to sit. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a man half my age," he said dryly. "Unfortunately, that still makes me forty."
Miles laughed, the sound unguarded, genuine.
"Glad to see the stroke didn't affect your sense of humor, Grandpa."
"Takes more than a little brain damage to dull a Turner." My father's gaze moved past us, landing on Savannah, who was making her way toward our small group. "Speaking of sharp minds."
