The conversation didn’t happen over champagne or candlelight.

It happened at the long table in Luthor’s private study, contracts replaced with tablets, the city humming far below like a reminder of scale. Marriage, to Lex, was not a pause in operations—it was a merger. One he took seriously.

He didn’t soften his tone, but he did soften his posture, turning fully toward her instead of half-facing a screen. That alone said more than most vows ever could.

“We’re married now,” he said plainly. “Which means finances stop being assumed and start being explicit.”

Accounts were listed. Assets disclosed. What was shared, what remained individual, where autonomy was non-negotiable. He didn’t hide anything. Didn’t sugarcoat either. This was trust, Lex-style—total transparency backed by capability.

“If you want something funded, say so,” he continued. “If you want independence, that’s respected. If you want joint decisions, we make them together. I won’t guess.”

It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense.

But it was honest. Intentional. Protective in a way that didn’t diminish her, only clarified where she stood—secure, informed, and impossible to overlook.

When he finished, he closed the tablet and finally met her eyes.

“This,” Lex said, calm and absolute, “is how I take care of what’s mine. And how I make sure you’re never caught off guard.”

Marriage, with Lex, wasn’t about fairy tales.

It was about knowing exactly where you stood—and knowing the ground beneath you would never give way.