Lucinda swallowed. Not once. Not twice. She swallowed like her throat was buffering.
She thought about it—once, twice, three times—then lost count somewhere around ten within the span of a single, catastrophic minute.
Her mind sprinted, tripped, got back up, ran in circles, and briefly stopped to panic before continuing at full speed again.
She had a very short attention span. Might as well make the most of it while it lasted.
Because no matter how she rearranged the facts, no matter how she squinted at the memory of canon like it might change out of pity, nothing this crucial was supposed to be happening in Season One. Episode Five.
Everything had been simple until the ending.
Clark fought Sean. Sean froze things. Clark threw him into a lake. Sean froze. End of episode. Roll credits. Emotional lesson learned. No limousines involved.
But now— "But now," Lucinda muttered to the tinted windshield, nails halfway to destruction, "why am I inside Lex Luthor's limousine… on the way to Metropolis?"
The glass, unhelpfully, offered no answers.
She had told herself she was prepared for deviations. She expected butterfly effects.
But every time the story veered even an inch off the original plot, her brain performed the same routine: panic, mental collapse, brief existential crisis, then a dramatic internal resurrection fueled by denial and stubbornness.
Currently, she was in the collapse phase.
She hugged herself with one arm, curled sideways on the leather seat like a distressed gargoyle, chewing on her nails and muttering under her breath—most of it definitely not suitable for network television.
Rated SPG. Censored.
Lex watched all of this over the top edge of his newspaper. He blinked once. Then again. Sighed quietly. Turned the page.
At this point, he had stopped trying to map the internal geography of Lucinda's mind. He had accepted—peacefully, even—that whatever was happening in there was a full-scale psychological battle, and she was bravely losing and winning it at the same time.
"Lucy?" he finally said, not looking at her.
Lucinda tilted her head toward him without moving the rest of her body, still gnawing on her nails.
"Yes, boss?" she replied immediately.
Lex startled just enough to glance at her. "Still Lex, Lucy," he sighed, amusement sneaking into his voice, "what is it now? I already told you—I'm not going to cut you open and run experiments on you whatsoever." He returned to the paper. "I'm fairly certain there's nothing in there to see anyway."
"Wow," Lucinda grimaced. "Classic. I was just… concerned," she finally straightened, gesturing dramatically at herself.
At the burgundy, wine-dark dress clinging to her like it had signed a legally binding contract. The glitter-flecked fabric caught the low lighting of the limo, shimmering with every breath she took. The delicate straps, the deep V-neckline, the carefully sculpted ruching that hugged her waist and hips with almost malicious intent—And the cutouts, with slipper heels. And let's not forget the cute, messy bun.
She paused to glare at her heels. "Why," she demanded, pointing at them, "am I wearing this?"
Then she pointed at her face. "And this makeup. Lex. Smoky. Crimson. I know I lied about being trafficked, but really?" She squinted at him. "Are you planning to sell me? Is that the twist?"
Lucinda wasn't able to say anything more. Her brain, traitorous and dramatic as ever, immediately began feeding her scenarios—each one worse than the last. Illegal artifacts. Alien tech. Something cursed. Something that glowed. Something that glowed and screamed. Whatever it was, Lex wanted it badly enough to drag her into Metropolis dressed like a walking scandal.
That alone was suspicious.
She was so lost in her spiral that she didn't notice the limousine slowing down, the hum of the engine softening, the world outside shifting gears—until the car came to a smooth stop.
They were parked in front of a towering vintage structure that looked less like a building and more like a declaration of wealth. The façade was carved stone and aged marble, its columns thick and imposing, lined with wrought-iron balconies and tall arched windows glowing gold from within.
The architecture screamed old money, the kind that had survived wars, scandals, and at least three secret murders. Ivy clung to the sides as if even nature had decided this place was important enough to stay loyal.
"This looks like somewhere people lose their souls voluntarily," Lucinda muttered. Lex heard it and shook his head.
Edgar was already outside, opening the limousine door with practiced precision. Lex stepped out first, composed and immaculate, as if this were merely another Tuesday morning instead of whatever ominous nonsense this clearly was.
He turned back and extended his hand to her. Lucinda stared at it. Not because she didn't know what to do—but because the sun hit him just right on the scalp, catching the sharp lines of his face, the polished cufflinks, the infuriating calm confidence radiating off him.
She wanted to look at his face properly, but the glare made it impossible, and her sunglasses—tragically confiscated—were nowhere to be found. Lex said it was inappropriate.
Damn it, Lex. If you want to make me blind, just say it. She mentally scoffed.
She reached for his hand slowly, almost cautiously, and he guided her out with an ease that suggested he'd done this a thousand times before. Only then did she inhale properly.
His perfume hit her all at once—warm, expensive, understated. It smelled like power, bad decisions, and at least three offshore accounts.
Smells like… billion dollars, goddamn, she thought, steadying herself.
The moment they stepped forward, the atmosphere shifted. Cameras flashed. Voices murmured. Photographers crowded near the entrance, calling out names including Lex's.
Their lenses snapping like insects with expensive hobbies. Wealthy patrons flowed in clusters—men in tailored suits, women draped in jewels that probably had their own security details. Conversations hummed with practiced elegance, laughter sharp and rehearsed.
Lex didn't even flinch.
He gently placed her hand around his arm, grounding her, anchoring her to him, and led her forward as if this world had been built for his stride alone. Lucinda matched his pace easily. Walking in long dresses and heels had never been her weakness—years of pageants had seen to that. Miss Barangay training did not go to waste.
Inside, the building revealed its true excess.
The ceilings soared, painted with faded frescoes that depicted mythological scenes—gods, monsters, and tragic lovers frozen mid-fate. Crystal chandeliers bathed the hall in warm light, reflecting off polished marble floors and gold-trimmed walls. Velvet drapes framed tall windows, and the air smelled faintly of wine, old paper, and secrets that had been bought and sold.
Lucinda gasped before she could stop herself.
Despite having seen historic buildings back in her world, this was different. Everyone inside was dressed elegantly, impeccably. But Lucinda—Lucinda was something else entirely. She carried herself with an arrogance and self-confidence that should be illegal in Metropolis.
A pair of young women drifted toward Lex almost immediately, their laughter light, rehearsed—polished to sound effortless. They spoke to him with practiced ease, voices pitched just low enough to suggest familiarity. Every few seconds, one of them would glance at Lucinda, whisper something into the other's ear, and dissolve into giggles behind manicured hands.
Lucinda watched this with the flat, patient expression of someone enduring an inconvenience. Not jealousy—no, absolutely not. This was irritation. The kind reserved for buzzing flies, slow internet connections, and people who thought whispering made them prettier.
She smiled once—tight, surgical, the kind of smile reserved for customer service representatives and people actively suppressing felony charges. Her fingers flexed at her side, already running a very polite mental exercise: gently, tastefully relocating their hair from their scalps and redistributing it onto Lex's head. He would look magnificent. Regal. Like a billionaire shampoo commercial.
Lucinda knew this for a fact. She had seen Michael Rosenbaum with long hair in Sorority Boys (2002). This was not jealousy. This was empirical evidence.
She took one step forward. Lex caught it instantly. His hand slid around her waist with impeccable timing, firm but calm, pinning her to his side before she could commit a felony for educational purposes.
He leaned in, voice low and amused. "Lucy," he murmured, "I admire the restraint. Truly. But let's not traumatize the guests."
She exhaled through her nose, eyes never leaving the women as they finally excused themselves, still giggling as they retreated.
Lucinda blinked at him, smile pristine, posture saintly. "I'm not that kind of person, Lex," she said, waving a hand as if dismissing the very concept of violence. "I would never hurt someone."
Lex regarded her for a second too long. Then, calmly, "you did hurl a meteorite-infected man days ago—"
"—on purpose," Lucinda said right away. "I would never hurt someone on purpose," she repeated. "And in my defense," she said carefully, "I was saving you."
Lex nodded. "Or course," then he led her toward their table—front row, discreetly ostentatious. He pulled out her chair with smooth precision and more or less shepherded her into it before she could decide to flee, fight, or suddenly chant curse spells.
After all, she's Lucinda.
Once she was seated, Lex turned fully toward her, hands settling on her shoulders—steady, grounding, annoyingly effective. "We're not here to make a scene," he said gently, eyes intent. "We're here for the auction."
Lucinda raised a thumb in crisp acknowledgment. "Copy that, Boss Lex Luthor, sir."
Lex visibly flinched. Just a little.
"Lex," he corrected quietly, a breath leaving him as if the name carried weight. "Lex would be fine, Lucy. It always has been."
Lucinda smiled—soft, agreeable, and entirely deceptive. There was a shine in her eyes that suggested compliance in theory, rebellion in practice.
The auction began without ceremony. The host's voice glided smoothly across the room, ushering forward one item after another: oil paintings with tortured backstories, vases that looked one careless elbow away from bankruptcy, sculptures whose meaning required either a degree or a trust fund.
Applause followed each sale.
Numbers climbed. People smiled like predators in tailored suits.
Lucinda waited for Lex to bid. He never did.
He sat still, composed, eyes sharp but distant, watching as if none of it mattered. One item sold. Then another. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty.
She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. "Lex," she whispered, nudging his arm. "How long do you plan on staring into the void? Because it's starting to feel personal."
"I only came here for one thing," he replied, gaze fixed forward.
Before she could ask, the lights dimmed slightly.
The host straightened, her tone shifting—subtly, but unmistakably. "Our final item for the evening," she announced, "is a rare object discovered by geologists two days after the meteor shower."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
A cart was wheeled onto the stage, draped in deep red leather. The fabric looked too heavy, too deliberate, like it was meant to contain more than dust and age. The attendant paused, then slowly pulled the cover away.
A small jewelry box sat beneath it.
Lucinda recognized it instantly.
A familiar lead box, she swear she had seen before.
Lex's voice dropped. "That's it."
She leaned forward, curiosity prickling—ready to comment on how underwhelming it looked, how it barely justified the suspense—until the attendant opened the box.
The sound hit her first. A thin, piercing ring sliced through her skull, sharp and intimate, as if it had been waiting specifically for her. Lucinda gasped, both hands flying to her ears. The room tilted. Her vision blurred at the edges, the world stretching and warping like glass under pressure.
Lex turned sharply. "Lucy?"
She couldn't answer. Her breath came uneven, her body folding inward as pain bloomed behind her eyes—ancient, wrong, and familiar in a way she could not explain.
Lex stood instantly. He didn't have any idea what's going on but he knows they have to leave there fast.
"Three million," he said, raising his paddle, his voice controlled but tight.
"Three point two," an older man countered without hesitation.
"Four million," Lex countered.
The ringing in Lucinda's ears intensified. Her fingers dug into her temples. A woman in emerald velvet dress near them noticed and checked on Lucinda, concern etched across her face.
"Miss, are you okay? Are you having a migraine?" the woman asked, voice carefully modulated.
Lucinda did not answer. She physically could not. Every attempt to open her eyes resulted in the same violent rebellion from her senses—the walls bent inward as if the building were breathing, the chandeliers warping into elongated spirals, the floor tilting beneath her feet though she was seated.
It felt less like dizziness and more like reality itself had lost its structural integrity. Her stomach lurched. Sound arrived late, muffled, as though she were submerged underwater.
Lex shifted closer, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder—firm, grounding, unmistakably real. His thumb pressed lightly, a silent reassurance anchoring her to the present.
"Lucy," he exhaled, low enough that only she could hear. There was restraint in his voice, but not calm. "Please bear with me for a while."
The room continued its slow, nauseating rotation. Lucinda's fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, knuckles whitening as she focused on the pressure of Lex's hand, the only thing that didn't seem to distort.
"Four point five," the man said again.
This time, his tone carried amusement.
Lex looked up sharply. The number lingered in the air, meaningless yet calculated, like a code spoken too loudly on purpose. The man's thin smile widened just enough to be noticed.
His eyes flicked toward Lex, catching the brief flicker of confusion before it could be masked—and he savored it.
The deep lines on his face shifted as he murmured, almost to himself, "So… Lionel's son is capable of feeling puzzled."
It was not admiration. It was confirmation.
Beside him, a guard in a pristine black suit stepped forward. He leaned down, shielding his mouth with practiced discretion as he whispered into the old man's ear.
"The helicopter is here, sir."
The man did not look away from Lex.
His gaze lingered, slow and invasive, dissecting him piece by piece—measuring his posture, his silence, the way his hand remained firmly on the woman beside him. Another smirk tugged at his lips, sharper this time.
Lex's jaw tensed. Lucinda was pale now—too pale. Her lips trembled. Whatever this was, it was getting worse.
"Ten million," Lex said, his voice cutting cleanly through the murmur of the room.
He didn't look away from the stage. Didn't glance at the crowd. Didn't even check Lucinda—because his hand was still on her shoulder, and that was enough.
"Make it higher if anyone bids," he added coolly, as though discussing a minor adjustment rather than detonating the auction.
Silence answered him.
Not the polite kind. The stunned, almost reverent kind.
Heads turned. Breaths stalled. The number seemed to echo longer than it should have, hanging above the velvet seats like a challenge no one was foolish enough to accept.
No one did.
Not even the old man.
He leaned back slightly, studying Lex with open interest now. The item on the stage had already lost its importance; Lex's composure had become the real spectacle. A slow smile touched the man's lips—not because he'd lost, but because he'd witnessed something far more entertaining than ownership.
Around them, unease spread.
Lucinda's low groan cut through the stillness, fragile and unmistakably real. A few guests shifted in their seats.
Others frowned openly, whispering behind gloved hands. This was no longer a game of wealth—it was a room watching a woman in visible pain, and continuing to bid suddenly felt less like luxury and more like cruelty.
Besides, only a handful of people present could even touch ten million. Let alone exceed it.
The host hesitated, glancing toward Lucinda, then back to Lex, then to the audience—searching for resistance that never came.
She cleared her throat. "Sold," she finally declared, bringing the gavel down with a decisive crack.
Lex didn't wait for applause. He was already moving, one arm around Lucinda as she struggled to stay upright. By the time they reached the doors, she was barely conscious. He lifted her without hesitation, carrying her out as whispers chased them down the steps.
The item followed soon after—sealed inside a larger lead container, escorted with care that bordered on reverence.
Edgar froze when he saw her. "Mr. Luthor—"
"Hospital. Now," Lex ordered.
The limousine sped away, leaving behind a crowd full of questions.
From the shadows near the far wall, the woman in emerald velvet watched the taillights slip into the night, red streaks dissolving into the dark like a promise already breaking itself.
She did not move.
The fabric of her gown caught the low light, velvet drinking it in, emerald darkening to something almost black at the edges. Her posture was relaxed—too relaxed for someone who had just witnessed a disruption of that magnitude. No surprise crossed her features. No irritation. Only quiet calculation.
Amused, perhaps. Almost wistful.
She tilted her head slightly, as if listening for an echo only she could hear, fingers curling idly around the stem of her glass. The room behind her buzzed back to life—whispers resuming, servants moving, the auction resetting itself—but she remained detached from it all, eyes fixed on the empty stretch of road beyond the windows.
"Well," she murmured at last, folding her arms, her voice barely louder than the hum of distant engines, "I never thought I'd meet another traveler this fast."