Lex had always considered his wife’s medical degrees an excellent investment.

Impeccable academic records. Years of training. A reputation that preceded her into practically every hospital she entered.

The public liked to insist that her intelligence was wasted on a man like him, that she should spend her time saving lives rather than attending corporate dinners and political functions.

Lex disagreed.

He simply believed her talents were useful in more ways than one.

And that belief became particularly relevant during a dinner attended by senators, members of the House, the President, and the First Lady.

The evening had been proceeding exactly as expected.

Politicians discussed legislation over expensive wine. Businessmen exchanged carefully worded promises. Lex sat beside his wife, listening to a senator explain an economic proposal that would inevitably require several revisions before it became remotely practical.

Then the First Lady began choking.

At first, nobody noticed.

The conversation continued around the table, the orchestra played softly, and several guests remained too occupied with their discussions to recognize the danger.

His wife noticed immediately.

Before the First Lady could even draw enough attention to herself to interrupt the room, Lex’s wife was already out of her chair.

She reached the First Lady, assessed the situation, and immediately began the Heimlich maneuver.

The room fell silent.

Someone called for medical assistance. A security officer moved forward, only to stop when it became clear that the First Lady was already receiving help.

Then, after several tense moments, the obstruction was dislodged.

The First Lady could breathe again.

And Lex’s wife calmly ensured that she remained stable until further assistance arrived.

The dinner never truly recovered.

By the following morning, the story was everywhere.

Photographs showed Mrs. Luthor standing beside the First Lady while medical personnel attended to her. Headlines praised the doctor’s quick thinking, her professional composure, and the fact that she had recognized the emergency before most of the room realized anything was wrong.

Television commentators discussed her qualifications.

Newspapers published summaries of her academic achievements.

Suddenly, the same people who had questioned why a respected physician would marry Lex Luthor were discussing her as one of the most impressive guests at the dinner.

Lex found the entire development rather satisfying.

He had known his wife was brilliant.

He simply appreciated seeing the rest of the country catch up.

Then the letters began arriving.

The first came from the President himself, expressing gratitude for his wife’s actions and asking whether Lex might be interested in discussing several potential business opportunities.

The second was more specific.

The third included an invitation to meet privately with members of the administration.

Lex read every letter at his desk, his expression growing increasingly pleased.

His assistant, who had spent years watching Lex negotiate with people who considered themselves untouchable, could hardly believe how quickly the situation had developed.

Lex merely set the latest letter aside.

“Get back to them. Arrange a meeting.”

His assistant nodded, still looking at the correspondence.

Lex leaned back in his chair.

One dinner.

One medical emergency.

One demonstration of his wife’s expertise.

And suddenly, the President of the United States wanted to do business with him.

The public could debate the merits of his marriage all they liked.

Lex had never needed their approval.

But he did enjoy being proven right.

His wife had saved a life, earned the President’s gratitude, and opened a door that millions of dollars couldn’t have opened quite so effortlessly.

And Lex had never been foolish enough to underestimate his wife.