Lex treated the request like any other line item.

You mentioned it once—casually, almost as an aside—and he didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t look up from his tablet. He just listened, fingers already moving, numbers already slotting into place.

“Send me the estimate,” he said calmly. Not why. Not are you sure. Just logistics.

You tried to elaborate anyway. He cut you off with a glance. “I don’t need the justification,” he added, tone flat but not unkind. “If you want it done, it gets done.”

That was the end of the discussion.

By the next morning, consultations were scheduled under aliases, the best surgeon already vetted, NDAs airtight. Recovery time accounted for. Privacy guaranteed. He handled it with the same precision he applied to hostile takeovers—efficient, discreet, absolute.

When you raised an eyebrow later, half-amused, half-testing him, Lex only shrugged. “Your body. Your choice,” he said. “My resources.”

There was no judgment in it. No curiosity either. Just quiet support delivered the only way Lex knew how—through solutions, not opinions.

And honestly?

That told you everything you needed to know about him.