Lucinda settled into the guest room after dinner—guest being a polite fiction, considering Lex had quietly reassigned it as her permanent residence. Apparently, he'd decided it would be too traumatic for her to remain in the original room after the whole near-death-by-meteor-mutant incident. Never mind that the room had already been repaired, reinforced, and probably blessed by a priest she didn't see.
Naturally, Molly and Jess had opinions.
Endless, merciless opinions.
They teased her all through dinner, exchanging looks, nudging each other, stage-whispering about favoritism. And honestly? Lucinda couldn't even blame them. Out of the three housemaids, she was the only one upgraded to luxury trauma housing.
Their conclusion was obvious: Lex Luthor had feelings.
Lucinda, however, knew better. Much, much better.
She'd seen the way he looked at her—not dreamy, not flustered, not yearning. No, Lex looked at her the way one looked at a math problem that refused to balance. Fascinated. Analytical. Mildly concerned it might explode.
Scientific curiosity. That was all.
And if she was being truly honest with herself, there was also the faint, infuriating sense that Lex treated her like a child. Not openly. Not condescendingly. But in that careful way people reserved for someone they thought might accidentally break the timeline if left unsupervised.
Probably because she said she was from 2023.
"I mean," she muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin, "that's better."
She nodded to herself, as if this conclusion had been peer-reviewed.
She glanced at her phone resting on the bedside table—the new bedside table, mind you, because even the furniture in this room felt like it had been approved by a committee. She'd been waiting for Lex's text all evening.
Because apparently, after casually announcing that he was going to show her something that might be the key to sending her home, he had promptly vanished.
No updates. No instructions. No "hey, don't fall asleep, reality-altering revelation incoming."
It had been since noon.
"And I even wore the prettiest clothes he bought," Lucinda muttered, flopping backward onto the bed. "I even did a little makeup. Courtesy of Jess."
She rolled her eyes—then froze.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Lip gloss.
"Oh no. Oh no," she hissed, scrambling upright and wiping it off with the heel of her palm, successfully smearing it across her cheek instead.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, horrified.
"Get a grip, Lucinda," she groaned, slapping both cheeks lightly. "You are not a Victorian maiden awaiting her suitor. You are a time-displaced adult with a severe genre awareness problem."
She exhaled sharply. "You probably just need fresh air."
Decision made, she grabbed her phone and marched toward the door.
Her room, unfortunately, was located far from Jess's and Molly's quarters, which were tucked safely near the staff lounge—where noise, light, and people existed. The hallway leading to the guest rooms was longer. Wider. Quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
Too deliberate.
The lights cast long shadows that stretched across the polished floor like they were reaching for her ankles. The silence pressed in, thick and judgmental.
Because who knew—this could be the exact moment that the ghost child in the lab she never saw again decided to show up here. Maybe it would cartwheel out of the shadows.
Maybe it would do the splits. Maybe it would perform the latest TikTok dance and twerks aggressively. Lucinda mentally prepared herself to scream... or probably give a round of applause. Depending upon the performance.
She shook the thought away just in time to spot Edgar standing at the far end of the hallway, posture straight, expression calm, very much alive and—thankfully—non-twerking.
"Miss Bryce," Edgar said, approaching her halfway with the kind of politeness that suggested he'd been specifically instructed not to let her evaporate into danger.
"Ed, what are you still doing here?" Lucinda asked, instantly concerned. "It's not your shift, right?"
Edgar grinned. "Mr. Luthor personally assigned me to stay near your room. Just in case."
Just in case what? she wondered. Spontaneous combustion? Plot escalation?
Lucinda was about to ask where Lex had disappeared to—preferably in a tone that did not sound like she cared—when a familiar figure stepped into her line of vision behind Edgar.
Clark "Chiseled" Kent.
He was wearing, once again, the sacred outfit: blue plaid shirt, red jacket, gray jeans. The man owned exactly one outfit in different emotional states. He looked anxious, too, which immediately made Lucinda's stomach drop. Clark Kent did not show up late at night unless something had gone very wrong or very Kryptonite-related.
"Clark," Lucinda said quickly as he approached, "what brings you here this late?"
Edgar turned, smiled at Clark with professional friendliness, and received a small nod in return. Then Clark's attention snapped fully to Lucinda.
"Lucy, can I talk to you?" Clark asked.
"Of course," Lucinda replied, turning to Edgar.
Edgar took the hint immediately. "I'll be nearby," he said pointedly. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"
"As if I could," Lucinda muttered, watching him walk off. She turned back to Clark. "Okay. What's going on?"
Clark didn't answer right away. Instead, he stared at her for a full two seconds—long enough for Lucinda to start wondering if she had spinach on her teeth, or worse, ruined destiny on her face.
Then, slowly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. Lucinda's brain blue-screened.
Her eyes dropped to his hand. Clark's eyes followed. They both stared at it like it had appeared on its own and was now deeply inappropriate.
Clark frowned slightly, blinking as if trying to focus through static.
"Uh," Lucinda prompted carefully, "what is this about again, Clark?"
Clark pulled his hand back like it had shocked him and let out a long breath. "Last night," he said slowly, "when I put my hand on your shoulder… I felt something."
Lucinda's lips thinned. Her mind—being profoundly uncooperative—immediately sprinted through several wildly inappropriate interpretations. None of them were suitable for polite conversation. All of them involved boundaries she had not agreed to cross, sign, or even acknowledge.
"Please be more specific, Clark," she said, blinking slowly. "I do have imagination problems and I'd rather not poke around it."
Clark blinked back at her, clearly thrown, but he powered through anyway. "When I touched you last night, it almost felt like I got… subtly electrocuted," he admitted, swallowing. "Not painful. Just—wrong. And before that… I couldn't really pinpoint it, but since you came to Smallville, my abilities have started… dwindling."
Lucinda stared at him.
"So," she said carefully, placing a hand over her chest in mock offense, "this is my fault?"
"No—no," Clark said quickly, hands lifting as if she were about to explode. "That's not what I meant. I just think—maybe since you're from another universe, my abilities react around you differently. I didn't mind it at first. But last night, it was already strangely, noticeably different."
He sounded logical. Reasonable. Scientific, even. Lucinda was still offended.
Clark stepped closer, instinctively lowering his voice. The proximity was… a lot. He was a little taller than Lex, broader too—already unfairly jacked since Season One.
Lucinda tilted her head back—way back—to meet his eyes, her neck protesting like it had just filed a formal complaint. With her five-foot-nothing frame and Clark's six-foot-three farm-boy build, any unsuspecting onlooker would assume she's being harassed.
She resisted the urge to take a step back purely for optics.
"So," Clark said, his voice firm but anxious, "I need your help, Lucy."
Lucinda blinked. "Help… with what exactly? Because if this is about lifting tractors with feelings, I'm unqualified."
"You know the future," Clark said almost immediately, like he'd been rehearsing it. "And I want to know my future."
That… was not where she expected this to go.
Clark rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting briefly down the hall as if his destiny might be eavesdropping. "Things are starting to change and it's driving me crazy. My abilities—they're not acting right. Sometimes they're weaker, sometimes they're… off. And I'm scared I'm gonna end up hurting someone."
Lucinda stared at him, concern replacing her earlier panic. Internally, however, her brain screams mayday! Mayday! And a couple of curses in 183 dialects.
Clark's abilities weren't supposed to start malfunctioning until much later—solar flares, Season 3, Episode 5, very dramatic lighting, much angst. Not now. And definitely not because of her.
But now, it's definitely because of her.
"You'll be fine, Clark," she said gently, choosing her words correctly. Then she whispered. "You're not from this planet. Changes are… normal. Your abilities will fluctuate. You literally just got X-ray vision—your body is clearly still figuring things out."
So am I damn, she added silently.
Clark frowned. "But what if it's not normal? What if it's because of you?"
Lucinda winced. "Well," she said, placing a hand on her chest, "rude—but also possibly accurate. I am different. From another universe, yeah? So maybe your powers are reacting to that. I don't know how, but it's the only logical and intellectual reason I could think of."
Clark stared at her. "Well, yes. That's possible. I do react strangely to some things that aren't from this world."
"See?" Lucinda raised her brows.
"But, Lucy," Clark pressed, stepping closer again—sir, please, my neck—"I need to know what will happen to me."
Lucinda exhaled slowly. If she didn't give him something, he would keep coming back. Asking questions. Spiraling. Possibly ruining her carefully curated plan of keeping Lex's attention away from Clark and firmly on her instead to save their friendship.
"Fine," she sighed. "But I can't go into details."
She raised a finger between them. Clark nodded immediately, like he'd just been sworn into a secret society.
"You're going to develop more abilities," she said carefully. "Again—no details. But you're not going to hurt anyone. In fact, you're going to save people. A lot of them."
Clark's shoulders slowly relaxed, like someone had just turned down the gravity setting. The tension drained from his posture, though confusion still lingered on his face.
"Alright, I'll take your word for it," he said finally. "Because... My gut says I can."
Lucinda smiled softly. "Don't worry, Clark. Everything will fall into place."
Clark nodded, a little reassured—until a familiar voice sliced through the moment.
"Well," Lex drawled from the end of the hallway, "what could my good friend Clark be doing here at such a late hour?"
Clark visibly startled, like a teenager caught sneaking out past curfew. Lucinda, however, simply smiled. Lying had become muscle memory at this point. Yeah! Bring the hell on!
"Oh," she said lightly, turning toward Lex, "if it isn't the landlord. I've been waiting for you, Mr. Lex Luthor, sir."
Lex fought the urge to smile—and failed a little—as his eyes flicked over her. She was dressed nicely. Too nicely. That did things to his focus he did not appreciate.
"I'm sorry, Lucy," he said smoothly. "An urgent call from a business partner that I had to attend to."
Lucinda made a face. "Rude of capitalism, honestly."
Lex stepped closer, then glanced at Clark. "And Clark?"
Lucinda didn't even blink. "He came by to ask about last night's assailant. He finally had free time after quarterback training."
Clark hesitated—then caught on, nodding quickly. "Y-Yeah. Just checking if everything's okay. Since the guy wasn't caught, I heard."
Lex studied him for a moment, that familiar smirk forming—the one that meant he already knew Clark was lying but chose to shrug it off.
"I see," Lex said pleasantly. "I'm surprised how quickly you two got along."
Lucinda giggled, tapping Clark lightly on the arm, the gesture casual—almost practiced.
"He's not hard to get along with," she said breezily. "As a matter of fact, he's here to ask if I could visit Mrs. Kent sometimes. I did save her, after all."
Yes, Lucinda! More lies, more chances of winning! The more, the merrier you little shit.
Her tone was joking. Her timing was impeccable. Unfortunately, the words never really made it to Lex.
They entered through his left ear, nodded politely at his brain, and exited through the right without stopping.
His attention dipped instead—brief, sharp, unmistakable—landing on the exact spot where Lucinda's fingers brushed Clark's sleeve. It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it. But Clark didn't.
Almost immediately, he slung an arm around Lex's shoulder with exaggerated ease, stepping away from Lucinda.
"And my dad actually wants me to check on her personally," Clark added, grin wide and unapologetic.
Lex turned his head slowly, smirking up at him. The smile was polite. The eyes were not. "Of course, he would," Lex said mildly. "Mr. Kent has always been… thorough."
He gave Clark's back a firm, friendly pat—territorial in the way only Lex could make sound courteous.
"He might also be thinking I'm plotting something unspeakable involving Lucy," Lex continued, amused. "It is getting late. Should I drive you home?"
Clark raised both hands, already retreating. "Brought Dad's car. I'm good."
He waved once, quick and easy, and disappeared down the hallway with the same uncanny quiet he always carried with him—leaving behind an uncomfortable amount of silence.
Lucinda and Lex stood there.
Two seconds passed.
Exactly two.
Then Lex spoke.
"What do you see when you look at Clark?" he asked casually, hands sliding into his pockets, gaze still fixed on the corridor where Clark had vanished—as if the boy might reappear mid-sentence like an unwanted sequel.
"I see a six-foot-three-inch man," Lucinda replied solemnly. "Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. Excellent bone structure. Strong potential to block sunlight."
Lex let out a short laugh despite himself and finally turned to face her. "I meant psychologically, Lucy."
She blinked, genuinely considering it. "Well. Psychologically, he appears… unchallenged. Mentally stable. Emotionally repressed in a very wholesome, Kansas way."
Lex winced. "That was not reassuring."
Lucinda shrugged. "You asked. I delivered."
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his scalp. "Sometimes I wonder if building a time machine for you is worth my time and money."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh? Why's that?"
"Because," he said mildly, gesturing at her like a failed experiment, "knowledge may have… deteriorated in the future."
She gasped. "Excuse me. I am extremely knowledgeable."
"About coffee-tea hybrids and hair flips," Lex said. "Yes."
Lucinda narrowed her eyes. "Do you want a fight?"
"I'd rather not," he replied calmly. "I might get charged with child abuse."
Her jaw dropped. "HEY—!"
He didn't wait for her rebuttal. Lex turned on his heel and walked off, hands already back in his pockets, utterly satisfied with himself.
"Ay abaaa!" Lucinda groaned, immediately following him down the corridor. She was prepared to deliver a passionate speech about respect, ageism, and the emotional damage of being verbally bodied by a billionaire—
—right up until she realized he hadn't turned toward his office.
He turned into his bedroom and Lucinda followed him in on autopilot. It took exactly three seconds for her brain to reboot.
Oh shi—
She froze just inside the doorway, eyes darting around the room. Dark, minimal, immaculately arranged—very Lex. The bed was perfectly made. The lighting soft. Intimidatingly tasteful.
Lex, meanwhile, continued walking for another step before stopping. Then, very slowly, he turned around.
"Oh," he said, feigning mild surprise. "Lucy. I didn't realize you were joining me."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again—like a browser tab desperately trying to load an excuse on dial-up.
"Well—I—I thought w-we weren't done talking yet because—the—you—" Lucinda gestured vaguely between the two of them, then toward the hallway, then back at him, as if her hands might assemble a sentence faster than her mouth. "You're still supposed to show me the key, right?"
Lex's lips curved slowly, the kind of smirk that suggested he was enjoying this far too much. He leaned closer, lowering his head slightly, voice slipping into that maddeningly patient tone usually reserved for explaining chess to beginners.
"Yes," he said mildly. "Provided it isn't too late at night."
"Too late at night," Lucinda echoed flatly, making a face, clearly mocking. "You could have mentioned that before walking out."
She pivoted toward the door, one hand already on the knob, pride reasserting itself with a dramatic exit.
"Lucy."
The way he said it stopped her cold.
Her fingers tightened around the doorknob. She turned back slowly. "Yes?"
Lex didn't move, hands still inside his pockets. He just looked at her—really looked—expression unreadable, eyes sharp but curious, like he was lining up a question he already suspected the answer to.
"If you had to choose," he said evenly, "between me and Clark… who would it be?"
Lucinda's face pinched immediately. Of all the questions. Of all the possible, reasonable, scientifically relevant questions.
Because why would he even ask that?
She hesitated for exactly half a second—long enough to calculate risk, fallout, and future plot derailment—then sighed.
"Obviously, I'm choosing you," she said simply. "Over anybody."
And Clark have people who truly loves and cares for him.
Lex's brow lifted. "Why?"
She smiled, easy and unguarded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Because who wouldn't choose you, Lex?" she said lightly. "You're basically an overachiever's dream package. Brilliant. Polite. Thoughtful. Protective of people you care about. Ridiculously wealthy. Generous. And, unfortunately for everyone else—good-looking. Excessively so. Honestly, it feels unfair."
She chuckled, light and careless, already turning back toward the door as if the answer meant nothing at all—as if she hadn't just handed him something fragile and dangerous.
Behind her, Lex didn't speak.
He stood there, unmoving, listening as her footsteps faded down the hallway, each one softer than the last until the sound was swallowed whole by the mansion's vast, waiting silence. The air felt different afterward—thinner somehow, like something essential had just slipped through his fingers.
Lex exhaled slowly.
He knew she might have been joking. Lucinda joked when she was nervous. She joked when she was confused. She even joked even when she's injured.
And yet—Her words lingered.
They settled somewhere deep in his chest, quiet and warm, easing something he hadn't realized was clenched so tightly. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if he could leave this place—out from his father's reach—perhaps in the future. To where Lucinda truly exists.
Would he be happy? Would he be free?
That was when the voices came.
"Do you think she'll still stand by you when she finds out the truth, Lex?"
Lionel's voice echoed in his mind—smooth, measured, cruelly calm. Not spoken aloud, but remembered so vividly it might as well have been.
Lex's jaw tightened.
Another voice followed, softer, breaking apart at the edges.
"Please… please don't do this…"
A woman's voice. Crying. Begging. The sound of helplessness stretched thin by fear.
Lex's breath hitched.
"You'll only end up killing her like you did to her, son." Lionel's mocking laughter went louder this time.
He turned away from the door and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as though pressure alone could silence the noise in his head. His room—normally immaculate, controlled—felt suddenly too large, too empty.
"I won't," he murmured under his breath, unsure who he was arguing with. His father. His memories. Himself. "I'm not gonna let that happen again, dad. Not when I finally have my way out."