Lex did not leave meetings.

He ended them.

There was a difference.

He stood at the head of the table, mid-sentence, outlining a restructuring plan that would shift millions of dollars and several careers in the span of a quarter. The board was listening—carefully, intently, exactly as they should be.

Then his assistant entered.

Unscheduled.

That alone was enough to irritate him.

Lex stopped speaking, eyes flicking toward the door, calculating the disruption before it even reached him.

“…This had better be critical,” he said.

A pause.

His assistant leaned in, voice low, controlled, but urgent enough to matter.

The room didn’t hear the words.

But Lex did.

Car accident. Hospital. Severe.

He didn’t move at first.

Didn’t react the way most people would.

He just stood there, processing, filing the information into place with everything else he knew—history, timelines, decisions, consequences.

Ex-wife.

First wife.

A variable he had already accounted for, once.

And apparently, not finished with.

Lex straightened slightly, adjusting his cuff like he always did before making a decision.

“…We’re done here,” he said.

No explanation.

No apology.

No room for argument.

He turned, already walking toward the door before anyone could respond, leaving a table full of executives sitting in stunned silence.

Because for all his calculations, all his logic, all his insistence on control—

Some things didn’t get delegated.

And some people—

Even former ones—

Didn’t get ignored.