Lex did not believe in loose ends.

Financial, political, or personal.

Which was why, despite the separation papers sitting neatly signed in a folder in his desk, nothing had actually… changed.

Her apartment was still paid for. Utilities—automatic. Car—replaced last month when the lease ended. Security—upgraded, though she didn’t know that. Medical—still billed to his private account. And the flowers arrived every Monday morning at exactly 9:00 a.m.

He did not visit. He did not call. He did not ask to see her.

But he made sure she was taken care of.

Lex stood in his office, looking over a tablet as his assistant ran through the weekly financial brief.

“Cancel the third meeting,” he said absently. “Reschedule the board review.”

A pause.

“And increase the florist’s delivery to twice a week.”

Another pause.

He didn’t look up when he said it.

“Use a different arrangement this time. She doesn’t like repetition.”

He signed a document, slid it across the desk, already moving to the next problem, the next company, the next decision that affected thousands of people.

But not that one.

That one he handled personally.

“…We are separated,” he said calmly, like he was clarifying a business arrangement.

He finally looked up, expression composed, controlled, perfectly reasonable.

“That does not mean she struggles.”