The Metropolitan Museum of Art's East Wing glowed under recessed lighting that made marble look like cooled lava, soft and dangerous all at once.

Lex moved through it all like he owned the building. Which, technically, a subsidiary of his did—LuthorCorp had underwritten the restoration of the wing two years prior, back when the world still believed his sentence would stick. Prison had been a brief inconvenience, 265 years reduced to eighteen months after appeals, character witnesses, and one very generous donation to the right judicial PAC. He wore a charcoal suit cut sharp enough to draw blood, no tie, collar open just enough to show the pale column of his throat. At thirty-eight, he carried the years with the careless arrogance of a man who believed time owed him interest.

You walked beside him, arm lightly looped through his, fingers resting on the wool of his sleeve like you were anchoring yourself against a tide. No designer gown tonight—just a simple black silk slip dress that skimmed your body like liquid shadow, heels low enough to be practical but high enough to make your calves flex when you moved. Your hair was down. No diamonds at your throat. Just you. And that, Lex thought with a flicker of something almost tender, was precisely why the room kept staring.

A year ago you'd been a stranger in a Midtown coffee shop, arguing with a barista over oat milk ratios. He'd been there killing time before a deposition, still wearing the invisible weight of ankle monitors and probation. You'd glanced up, met his eyes and asked if the seat across from him was taken. No recognition. No performance. Just a woman who wanted to sit down.

Now here you were, thirty-three to his thirty-eight. He didn't care that you came from nothing—parents in a quiet suburb, student loans still lingering like ghosts, a job in digital archives that paid just enough to keep the lights on. If anything, it fascinated him. You were real in a way nothing else in his orbit ever had been.

The first barb came from a woman in emerald velvet, mid-forties, wine glass tilted like a weapon. She stepped into your path with the practiced ease of someone who'd rehearsed this.

"So you're the one," she said, voice honey over razor wire. "The girl who's decided billionaires get a free pass on war crimes if they buy you dinner."

Lex felt your fingers tighten on his arm. He kept his face neutral but inside something cold and precise clicked into place.

"Excuse me?" you said softly. Not aggressive. Just confused.

The woman smiled wider. "Oh, honey. You think dating Lex Luthor makes you interesting? It makes you complicit. He bankrolled half the metahuman black sites before Superman shut them down. And now you're here, playing arm candy at a museum he probably paid to rename after himself."

A small circle formed—phones discreetly angled, whispers spreading like damp rot. He stepped forward half a pace, body angled to shield you without making it obvious. "Careful," he said, voice low, almost amused. "Defamation still carries damages in this jurisdiction. I'd hate to ruin your evening with paperwork."

The woman laughed; sharp and performative. "Threats now? Classy. Tell me, does she know about the Kandor project? Or is that pillow talk for later?"

Your shoulders stiffened. Lex felt the sudden shallowness of your breathing. He turned his head just enough to catch your profile: lips parted, eyes wide but not panicked. Just... surprised. Like you'd walked into a room expecting sunlight and found knives instead.

"Enough," he said. Not loud. Just final.

The woman opened her mouth again, but Lex's gaze made her hesitate. She stepped back with a little toss of her head, muttering something about "enablers" as the crowd parted for her like water around poison.

Lex guided you toward a quieter alcove, past a vitrine of shattered Kryptonian crystal. He didn't speak until you'd both stopped in front of a small bronze statue.

He turned you gently to face him, hands settling on your upper arms. "You okay, sweetheart?"