Lex stared at the shopping bag like it had personally offended him.

He didn’t raise his voice—he never did—but the disbelief was sharp enough to cut. “Fuck do you mean,” he said slowly, eyes lifting to her face, “you’re still shopping at Target and Walmart?”

She blinked. Once. Unrepentant.

Lex straightened, incredulous now, pacing a step like this was a systems failure he hadn’t anticipated. “You’re married to me,” he continued, gesturing vaguely at the penthouse, the city, the entire absurd scale of his life. “There are flags on this building. There are governments that answer my calls.”

He stopped in front of her. Pointed toward the door. “Get your ass to Dior.”

Not because she needed permission. Not because he was embarrassed. But because, in his mind, this was a logistical error. A misalignment between access and behavior. An inefficiency.

“You can buy basics wherever you want,” he added, already calmer, already reframing. “But if you’re going to enjoy retail therapy, at least do it properly.”

She smirked. He caught it.

Lex sighed, rubbing his temple. “I married someone with taste,” he muttered. “Please stop acting like this is a budget problem.”

And then—because he was still Lex—his phone was already in his hand, assistant on the line, Dior alerted.

Problem identified. Solution deployed.