Since Lucinda's encounter with Lex back at his office, she had not shown her face in the mansion again. Which, if she were being honest with herself, was impressive in its own way—she had effectively turned into a very expensive ghost. One confined to a bedroom with imported furniture and a stubborn refusal to face reality.
For the first time in her life, her emotions refused to line up neatly. Confusion did not politely wait its turn behind fear. Anxiety barged in alongside guilt, depression followed shortly after, and fear—fear simply made itself at home. All at once. No warning. No exit strategy damn.
She still could not wrap her head around what had happened in the hospital. The way everything blurred. The way her strength responded before her mind could. The word maybe clung to her thoughts like a bad punchline.
Maybe she had killed Sean. And wasn't that a terrifying thing? To not even know for sure.
Because what if she really had? What if her hands—her intentions—had crossed a line she could never uncross, even if she never meant to step over it? It was almost absurd in a cruel way.
She had never planned to hurt anyone. And yet here she was, lying on the floor of a billionaire's mansion, contemplating accidental homicide like it was an item on a to-do list she'd forgotten to check off.
Sean had gone berserk.
Clark had said it plainly, firmly. He had assured her—again and again—that she had done the right thing. If she hadn't stopped Sean, more people would have died. Innocent people.
That logic was sound. Sensible. Responsibly so, and Lucinda understood it.
She just didn't feel it.
What lingered wasn't relief or justification, but the image of Sean's body—the moment she struck him, the way his form reacted, the split second where everything irrevocably changed. Her mind replayed it with cruel precision, as if determined to make sure she never forgot.
Her jaw clenched. She drew her knees tighter to her chest and buried her face against them, as though folding herself small enough might somehow make the thoughts miss her. She sat wedged between her bed and the bedside table, a narrow, awkward space that left no room to stretch out—no room to breathe properly.
It felt fitting.
Molly knocked first. Soft, tentative. Jess followed, louder, more concerned. Lucinda listened to their voices through the door, registering the worry in their tones while stubbornly refusing to answer. If she opened the door, she might cry. Or explain. Or joke about it in a way that made it worse.
So she stayed silent. Outside, concern took on a different shape.
"She still didn't come out?" Lex asked.
Molly nodded, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I think it would be best to give her some time, Mr. Luthor," she said gently. "She's clearly in shock. She only just woke up after collapsing from exhaustion in Metropolis. Whatever happened in that hospital… it must have taken a tremendous toll on her."
Lex exhaled slowly and rubbed at the edge of his brow. It was not irritation—it was calculation stalling against helplessness. After a moment, he nodded. He knew when pressing further would accomplish nothing.
He had already tried Clark.
Clark, frustratingly calm and infuriatingly vague, had given him answers that technically answered nothing. They were clean. Too clean. The kind of explanations that passed on the surface but dissolved under scrutiny.
Lex had also reviewed the hospital's CCTV footage himself. Every angle. Every timestamp. And yet the recordings cut off abruptly—well before the blackout, before the generators failed. A coincidence, perhaps. Or a carefully timed erasure.
When Molly finally left him alone, Lex sank back into his swivel chair, letting it turn slowly as he stared at nothing in particular.
He knew they were hiding something. Both of them.
Their alibis aligned. Their stories matched. But Lex Luthor had built an empire on the understanding that consistency did not equal truth.
And something—something fundamental—did not add up.
By four in the afternoon, Lex had accomplished nothing. No new answers. No contradictions he could pin down. Just the same invisible wall he kept circling, convinced there had to be a door somewhere.
He was just about to rise from his chair when a knock cut through the silence. One of the guards stepped inside. "Someone's here to see you, Mr. Luthor."
Lex glanced up. A nod was all the permission needed. His security never allowed surprises—only vetted inconveniences.
Then a woman entered. She was dressed in green velvet, an A-line silhouette that belonged to another era, tailored to perfection. Emeralds caught the light at her throat, her fingers, her heels, even the clasp of her purse. A Gainsborough hat crowned her dark hair, tilted with intention rather than affectation. Her makeup was precise—pale, structured, reminiscent of Victorian portraits filtered through late-twentieth-century glamour.
She looked only around Lex's age.
"Good day, Mr. Luthor," she said smoothly.
Lex's gaze sharpened, his lips curving into a polite smirk. "Good day to you as well. Have we met before?"
"Not formally," she replied, smiling. "But you did see me in Metropolis. At the auction."
Recognition clicked into place. "Ah," Lex said lightly. "The woman who approached my friend."
"Yes," she confirmed. "That was me." She inclined her head. "Elizabeth Swann."
Her name landed with weight. "And I'm here," she continued without pause, "to speak with you about what occurred at Smallville Medical Center. Specifically regarding Lucy Bryce."
She reached into her purse and produced a folded newspaper, opening it with careful precision before holding it up between them.
Lex's brows twitched.
LUCY BRYCE, CLOSE ASSOCIATE OF LEX LUTHOR, TESTIFIES IN SMALLVILLE MEDICAL CENTER MYSTERY.
His jaw tightened, though his posture remained relaxed.
"I was under the impression," Lex said evenly, "that I had already ensured this story wouldn't circulate publicly, Miss Swann."
Elizabeth's smile deepened. "Not publicly," she agreed. "But some circles don't rely on headlines."
Lex studied her now—not the dress, not the jewels, but the calm certainty behind her eyes. Elizabeth Patricia Swann. Daughter of Dr. Virgil Swann. A woman Lex knew but had never crossed his mind until now.
"And what exactly are you hoping to gain from this visit?" Lex asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.
"I'd like to speak with your friend," Elizabeth replied. "That's all."
"For what purpose?"
She tapped the newspaper, directly on the word Mystery. "I want an answer."
Lex let out a quiet breath, almost amused. "And you believe I'll simply hand her over because you're curious?"
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in calculation. The air in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable. The guard behind her shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how small the space felt.
"Unless," Elizabeth said casually, "you're content to let her stay locked in her room and die in vain. She had not come out to eat nor drink, didn't she?"
The words were delivered with unsettling ease, completely mismatched with her elegant composure. What unsettled Lex more was not the implication but the precision.
He hadn't told anyone that Lucinda had barricaded herself in her room. No one knew except for Molly, Jess, and Clark. And yet Elizabeth spoke as if she'd been standing just outside Lucinda's door.
"Calm yourself, Mr. Luthor," Elizabeth said lightly, almost kindly. "I'm not your enemy. I only want answers."
She blinked once and when her eyes opened again, something in them shifted—no change in color, no dramatic flourish, just a subtle dimming.
"And you want them too," she continued, her voice lowering. "You want to know what really happened back there." She paused. "Don't you, Lex?"
The way she said his name—uninvited, intimate—sent a chill crawling up his spine. Lex had been threatened before. Manipulated. Studied. This felt different. This felt like being recognized.
He didn't respond, but his jaw tightened, his mind already racing through possibilities. Surveillance? Informants? Guesswork sharpened by privilege?
Elizabeth smiled, evidently entertained by Lex's silence.
"Just one word," she said smoothly, as though offering a parlor trick rather than a psychological ambush. "I can bring her out of that room faster than she hid herself away."
Nothing about this made sense to Lex. Not her confidence. Not her certainty. Not the fact that, despite every instinct screaming don't, his feet were already moving.
He walked past Elizabeth without a word, his stride clipped and purposeful. After a half-second pause, just long enough to look pleased, she followed. The guard trailed them as well, posture stiff, clearly prepared for anything from social impropriety to supernatural nonsense.
They stopped outside Lucinda's door.
Lex gestured toward it with a sharp, almost theatrical shrug. "Well?" he said. "Go on, Miss Swann. If you can summon her out, I'll let you talk to her."
Elizabeth smiled—elegant, assured, like someone about to win a bet she never doubted.
She stepped forward and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Nothing.
Elizabeth exhaled a soft sigh, as if inconvenienced by the laws of reality. She didn't want to say it loud most especially in Lex's presence but things had gotten urgent.
So she leaned slightly closer to the door and said, in the most casual tone imaginable— "Lucy Bryce," she called. "You don't know me yet, but I'm here to talk to you about Detective Comics."
Lex's brows shot up. That was several words. And none of them made no sense even more. He barely had time to process that thought when rapid footsteps scrambled toward the door from inside.
There was a sharp rustle, something clattered over, and then the door flew open.
Lucinda stood there, hair disheveled, eyes puffy and red, expression somewhere between grief, suspicion, and unrestrained outrage.
"…Y-You said Detective Comics?"