Lucinda stared at the wall of expensive wines before her as she carefully dusted each bottle like they were fragile museum artifacts. Technically, Lex had already told her to stop doing household chores since she was now his business partner. But technically, Lucinda also needed her salary to keep existing, and buy new clothes, so here she was—fondling Cabernet Sauvignons.
Unfortunately, she had no idea why Lex was following her around the house. Perhaps, he wanted to make sure Lucinda ain't lifting anything for fun.
And speaking of the bald devil himself—there he was, sitting on the couch near the door, one leg crossed over the other, reading a newspaper like he owned the century. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.
He'd been silent the entire hour, but every thirty seconds he glanced up to observe her. As if trying to determine whether she would suddenly bench-press the furniture next.
After the incident earlier, Lex had only asked her one thing:
"How did you throw that meteor-infected man like he weighed less than my coat?"
Lucinda had no answer. She'd even tried lifting Lex's Porsche earlier to prove her innocence. Spoiler: it didn't even wiggle. Not even an offended creak.
So logically, her conclusion was: luck. Very violent luck. She glanced up—and immediately caught Lex staring at her again.
"I told you, Lex, I don't know how I got that super strength," Lucinda said defensively.
Lex lowered the newspaper, brow lifting with aristocratic disappointment. "I wasn't worried about that, Lucy. I was worried about where you were cleaning."
Lucinda blinked then looked at her hand only to see it dusting the air. "Oh," she muttered.
"Ease up," Lex said, raising his paper again. "I'm not doubting you."
Lucinda sighed and moved closer until she stopped beside him. "I've also been to ask you something," she hesitated—then took a seat.
"If you're asking about what happened to that man," Lex said, not looking up, "I still don't have the results, but I was alerted he's not dead."
"No, it's not that," Lucinda shook her head, frowning. "Something else is bothering me."
That finally made Lex lift his gaze. "Yes?"
Lucinda swallowed, deadly serious. "Who is the first Canadian prime minister?"
Lex's face contorted like he'd been personally wronged. "Lucy… what is this about?"
"Just answer all my questions, Lex. Please..." she placed the duster beside her like she was preparing for an academic duel. The determination in her eyes could not be negotiated with.
Lex sighed—the sigh of a billionaire who knew resistance was futile. "Sir John A. Macdonald."
Lucinda nodded firmly. "Who is the founding father of the United States?"
"George Washington," Lex said, reciting it with textbook precision. "First president. Served 1789 to 1797. Lucy, why—"
"And now…" Lucinda leaned even closer, sending Lex's pulse into a small, confused tap dance. "My final test."
She inhaled dramatically. "If the derivative of 4x³ – 7x² + 12 is multiplied by the integral of 6x – 9 from 0 to 3, what is the resulting value?"
Lex didn't even blink. The man didn't reach for a pen. Didn't tilt his head. Didn't hum. Didn't even do that dramatic genius stare-into-the-void thing.
He just… answered.
"1,332."
Lucinda's jaw dropped so fast she almost inhaled the duster. "Woah," she slapped a hand over her mouth.
"Why? Was I wrong?" Lex asked, perfectly calm, perfectly collected, perfectly infuriating, because he knows he's correct.
"I don't know," Lucinda admitted, eyes widening. "I don't even know the answer to that. But the confidence is very… confident. So I'm sure it's correct."
Lex stared at her with a slowly deepening crease in his brow. "Now will you please tell me what that interrogation was for?"
Lucinda inhaled, cheeks puffing before she exhaled like she was preparing for a confession in court. "I was worried that… because I existed in a time I'm not supposed to exist, I might have changed something."
Lex blinked. "Changed… what?"
She winced. "Your intellect."
Lex's brows drew together, his expression landing somewhere between concern and this conversation escalated unexpectedly.
He didn't say a word—he simply waited, patient and uncomfortably attentive.
"Look," Lucinda continued, wringing her hands, "you're known to be a genius and incredibly cautious even in my time."
A boldfaced lie—but absolutely necessary for the act.
"So I couldn't believe," she stressed, pointing at him with an accusatory wag, "that you approached a very obviously dangerous, radioactive man earlier. That's not the Lex Luthor I know. I nearly had a heart attack!"
Lex's expression finally melted, the tension easing from his shoulders. The faintest, warmest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "He looks incredibly in need for help in my line of sight. But that won't happen again, Lucy."
"We never know, Lex," she muttered, shaking her head like she'd seen all possible futures and half of them were disasters involving him walking straight into danger.
He exhaled softly. "Fair enough."
Lucinda crossed her arms. "But why were you even back so early? I thought you said you'd be back by noon?"
Lex leaned back, sighing as he loosened his posture at last. "The person I was supposed to meet didn't show up."
Then, as if remembering something, he tilted slightly to the side and reached for a paper bag resting beside the couch. It was neatly folded, sealed with a small label from an upscale boutique downtown—one Lucinda had definitely seen but never entered because a single item probably cost the equivalent of one month of her salary.
"And," Lex added quietly, his tone deceptively casual, "I brought you this."
He lifted the bag with both hands and placed it in front of her—almost ceremonially—before sitting up straight again. There was the tiniest flicker of anticipation in his eyes, barely noticeable unless one was staring directly at him.
Lucinda blinked at the bag… then at him… then at the bag again.
"I… don't know why," Lex muttered, thumb rubbing the back of his neck in a movement so uncharacteristically awkward that Lucinda almost checked for impostors, "but I got excited to give it to you."
Lucinda blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability flickering through his usually unreadable expression. Still, she cleared her throat, reached into the paper bag, and took a peek.
Clothes. Not just clothes—but actual, age-appropriate outfits. Something a normal twenty-two-year-old woman would wear, not the tragic orphan aesthetic she'd been stuck with.
A fitted white top. A casual jacket. Jeans that were definitely not bought from a clearance bin in 1993. Soft pastels. Comfortable fabrics. Her size. Her style. Her… everything.
Her lips thinned, not from annoyance—just overwhelmed disbelief. "Lex… you don't have to—"
"It'll be deducted from your salary," he cut in smoothly, as if swatting away the very notion of gratitude before it could materialize.
Lucinda froze. Grimaced. Squinted. Then exhaled through her nose like a disappointed mother.
"Of course," she muttered, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "How silly of me to forget the generosity of capitalism."
Lex didn't dignify that with a response—just made a face like someone had played jazz music out of tune near his wine collection.
"And also, I got you this," he reached to the side and pulled out another paper bag, setting it on his lap with a soft rustle. This one looked newer, cleaner, and very much expensive in this time.
"This is on me," he added calmly. "No salary deductions."
Lucinda blinked, suspicious of this sudden charity. She placed the first paper bag beside her and accepted the new one. Inside was a pristine box of a Sony Ericsson T68i, the kind of phone that, in its prime, could make someone feel like an undercover agent.
Lucinda stared. "You bought me a phone?"
Lex exhaled softly through his nose. "I'll be leaving for Scotland early tomorrow. I'm staying there for three days," he paused, fingertips tapping once on the armrest. "My father will be there, so I can't take you."
Lucinda lifted her head immediately, but didn't say anything.
Lex shrugged lightly, his gaze drifting away as though the blank wall before him now held an ancient riddle worth decoding. "My father already knows you," he said, voice low, almost careful. "He's always been… particular about the people around me. Too particular. And I'd rather he didn't turn that scrutiny on you again," he nodded to the phone. "So, I need you to use that to contact me in case anything happens."
Lucinda frowned. "Something like what?"
"Anything," his tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes weren't. They flicked to her hands—the same hands that had tossed a grown man like he was a vending machine she was mildly annoyed at.
Then he lifted a brow. "Because what if you suddenly start lifting all the furniture in this house? As your business partner, I demand to know."
Lucinda narrowed her eyes. "Oh, but what if I lie and don't tell you?"
Lex leaned back, that unsettlingly perceptive half-smile curling on his lips. "I get the feeling you've been lying from the very beginning, Lucy."
Lucinda immediately coughed on nothing. Air. Pride. Destiny. Who knew.
Lex watched her silently, amused. Then, in a tone that carried far more weight than it should have, he said:
"But… I'll wait for you to come to me."
Slowly, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Warm. Steady. Too sincere for a man who was supposed to be on the road to future villainy.
"Whenever you're ready."
And just like that, Lex stood up, straightened his coat, and stepped out of the wine cellar without another word—leaving Lucinda frozen on the spot.
She stared at the door he'd disappeared through, chewing the inside of her cheek.
"Those sounded like lines he said to Clark," she thought grimly.
At this rate… if she prolonged her lies any further… She might actually become one of the reasons Lex turned into a villain.