Lex did not understand this purchase.

He understood investments. Assets. Companies. Real estate. Technology. Political leverage. Those were things that made sense. Things that had purpose.

This—

He looked down at the open box on the table again, expression flat, analytical, like he was trying to solve a problem that refused to become logical.

Six-inch heels.

Red bottoms. Clear sides. Structurally impractical. Questionable ankle support. No tactical advantage whatsoever.

He picked one up, turning it slightly in his hand like examining a piece of unfamiliar technology.

“…You’re not a stripper,” he said finally.

A pause.

His thumb pressed lightly against the arch of the shoe, testing the balance, the engineering, the design.

“…So explain to me why you need something that looks like a workplace hazard.”

He set the shoe back in the box with precise care, like it was fragile or possibly dangerous, then looked back at her with that same sharp, calculating stare.

“You already have shoes,” he continued. “Many shoes. Practical shoes. Designer shoes. Shoes appropriate for public appearances, charity events, business dinners—”

He gestured once toward the box.

“These are not any of those.”

A pause.

Then he adjusted his cuff, still looking at the heels like they had personally offended his sense of logic.

“…Are they at least comfortable?”