Lex hated hypocrisy.

Especially when it was competent.

He realized what you were doing halfway through the conversation—too late to stop it, too early to pretend he hadn’t noticed. The timing was perfect. The information placed just so. The innocent expression layered over something sharp and intentional.

His own tactics. Reflected back at him.

You watched him clock it in real time—the tightening of his jaw, the fractional pause where his mind recalibrated. Lex prided himself on being the smartest person in the room, the one pulling strings so fine no one else felt the tension.

And here you were.

Pulling one right back.

“You planned this,” he said calmly, but there was heat under it now, irritation he couldn’t fully sand down. Not because you’d crossed him—but because you’d done it well. Because you hadn’t begged, hadn’t postured, hadn’t played innocent.

You’d played him.

God, he couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand that flash of admiration curling under the anger. Couldn’t stand that he wanted to argue just to keep you talking, to see how far you’d push it. You weren’t reckless. You were deliberate. Calculated. A mirror he hadn’t asked for.

Lex leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes sharp with something dangerous and grudgingly impressed.

“Careful,” he warned softly.

Not because you’d made a mistake.

But because you were proving—very clearly—that you knew exactly how dirty the game was.

And you were more than willing to play.