The event was predictable — glittering lights, clinking glasses, and the endless hum of people desperate to be seen with him. Lex moved through the crowd like a blade through silk, smiling just enough to seem human, speaking just long enough to seem interested. Every handshake, every laugh, every compliment was a transaction. He could almost calculate the value of each in real time. But amid the rehearsed admiration, something — someone — broke the pattern.

They stood near the edge of the ballroom, a quiet island in a sea of sycophants. No wide eyes, no nervous laughter, no attempt to intercept his path. They didn’t look impressed. That alone was enough to catch his attention. He watched as they turned away from him mid-conversation with someone else, clearly uninterested in his orbit, and for the first time that evening, Lex felt something that might almost be called curiosity.

He adjusted his cufflink, excused himself from a senator’s droning praise, and crossed the room. The crowd seemed to part instinctively as he approached. “You seem to have missed the memo,” he said, voice smooth, dry amusement threading through it. “Everyone else here appears to think proximity to me is a privilege. And yet… here you are. Not even pretending.” His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “So tell me—are you brave, disinterested, or just waiting for a better offer?”