Lucinda could feel her butt cheeks shaking—violently. She could feel her entire being internally screaming. She wanted to find a way to escape the mansion as soon as possible, but Molly had plans today.
Molly's eyes were practically welded to her, determined to prevent any catastrophic crimes such as tarnishing Lex Luthor's outrageously expensive golden fork.
Lucinda could barely breathe, terrified that even the air she exhaled might somehow poison whatever Lex Luthor happened to inhale. She hadn't brushed her teeth since last night—an act of caution, in her mind, not neglect. After all, with her luck, even mint fumes might be considered sabotage.
Her ancestors were practically forming a spiritual conga line behind her, whispering nonsense like:
"Iha! Run! Escape! Find Clark Kent and cling to him like the plot armor he is!"
Yes, Clark would help her. Definitely. Farmboy Savior would never abandon a damsel in socks.
But she couldn't do that. Reason #1: She'd already sworn to the heavens, the writers' room, and the entire CW network that she wouldn't meddle with the main characters to avoid ruining anything. Reason #2: Molly was currently working her to the bones.
Because what do you mean she was being trained to become a wine cellar manager?
What even is that? A sommeli—soksokmelyay? A grape librarian? A bottle babysitter?!
Molly explained, far too cheerfully, that the Luthor mansion didn't keep many female staff. It was just Molly, Lucinda, and the young maid from last night. The rest were bodyguards—large, silent, musclebound men who looked like they bench-pressed problems for fun.
By talking to Molly and spotting a calendar near the kitchen door, Lucinda was now 1000% certain she wasn't just in Smallville…
She was in 2001. If her memories still serves her right, she's only in Season 1.
Definitely screwed!
Lucinda was now deep in the Luthor wine cellar—a place so elegant she was convinced angels did the interior design.
The cellar stretched longer than her entire barangay street back home, lined with floor-to-ceiling racks made of polished mahogany so dark it gleamed like chocolate. Soft golden lights illuminated each bottle like they were ancient relics. The temperature was perfectly cool, scented faintly of oak, aged grapes, and the ghost of Lex's expensive taste.
She paused in front of a vintage bottle. Château Margaux 1990 — valued at more than her entire life insurance.
Nearby were bottles of 1996 Screaming Eagle, '95 Petrus, '90 Penfolds Grange, and a whole row of French wines older than her birth certificate.
"This is too fancy," she whispered. "I'm going to break something and owe Lex Luthor all of my internal organs and soul."
She gently wiped the dusty bottle of Château Margaux, she could see and feel her hands trembling.
If she remembered correctly, Season 1 had eight episodes that aired in 2001.
"It could be either Pilot, Metamorphosis, Hothead, X-Ray, Cool, Hourglass, Craving, Jitters, or Rogue," she muttered, wiping the bottle like it was a sacred artifact.
"Hmm… Metamorphosis," she tapped the bottle lightly with her nails—tak, tak, tak.
Suddenly, a voice behind her echoed. Low. Smooth. Billionaire-tinted.
"Metamorphosis and wines do share the same concept of transformation."
Lucinda levitated. Her soul briefly departed her body to go file a complaint in heaven.
The wine bottle nearly slipped from her hands as she yelped.
"POTANGINANG SHET!"
She somehow caught the bottle, hugged it like a newborn child, and slowly—slowly—turned around.
Lex stood by the cellar door, hands in his pockets, expression amused enough to be dangerous.
He smirked. "I've been to the Philippines a couple of times. I'm certain you just cursed me in two languages."
Lucinda blinked before her lips curled into a panicked grin. "I-It was not for you, Mr. Luthor…"
A lie so flimsy even Clark's super-hearing would've rolled its eyes.
Lex only shrugged, completely unbothered, and began walking toward her with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who had never tripped on uneven flooring in his entire life. Lucinda, however, nearly short-circuited. What was Lex doing here anyway?! Why was he approaching her like a side quest she wasn't emotionally prepared for?
If she could only speed-run out of the room like Clark on laundry day, she would. Lex was one of the main characters—one wrong extra line of dialogue from her and the entire canon might implode.
Lex stopped beside her and opened one of the glass cabinets with the reverence of a priest at a holy altar. He pulled out a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé 1996, the kind of champagne that probably cost more than her annual rent… if she had rent… or a home.
"Since you're already the wine cellar manager," Lex said, handing her the bottle like it was a newborn royal heir, "keep in mind that this is my favorite—Château Margaux Premier Grand Cru Classé."
Lucinda nodded frantically, gripping the bottle like it might detonate if she blinked too fast.
"Y-Yes, Mr. Luthor. I will… very carefully… keep that in mind."
Molly, watching from across the room, narrowed her eyes with the vigilance of a hawk who paid taxes on time. She was clearly making sure Lucinda didn't drop, smudge, or breathe too aggressively near the legendary liquid gold.
Lucinda could only wish Lex would leave after that—but of course, he wouldn't. The universe loved watching her suffer. Judging by the way he lingered, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the cellar like a detective in a wine-themed crime drama, he was here for one thing.
Interrogation.
The same brand of interrogation he frequently inflicted on Clark, usually about how Clark survived with no scratch after Lex hit him with his expensive car.
"So, tell me, Miss Delos Santos," he began.
Lucinda instinctively braced herself against the nearest solid object—which, unfortunately, was the very expensive bottle of wine she was supposed to be cleaning. If she dropped this, she would either die from shame or from Molly's bare hands.
Lex continued studying the bottles in front of him, like her impending doom was merely background noise. "Do you happen to be an illegal immigrant?"
Of course he would ask that, Lucinda thought, mentally throwing a table.
"I expect you understand why I ran a background check on you…"
Of course he would, she thought again, this time adding dramatic lightning in her imagination.
Lex finally turned his gaze to her—sharp, curious, annoyingly perceptive. "And I've discovered you have no records at all anywhere in Canada, let alone in Smallville."
Lucinda mentally screamed—again—but this time, she was ready. She'd spent all of last night anticipating every possible questions Lex would ask and this one—this specific one—was in her top three nightmares.
She inhaled shakily and went for the nuclear option.
"I… I was being trafficked," she muttered.
Lex's brows twitched. A tiny movement, almost invisible, but to Lucinda it might as well have been a thunderclap. That was her cue to push the lie before she chickened out.
"I was lucky enough to escape," she continued, each word feeling like she was digging her own grave with a spoon. "I was scared to go to the police. I thought they might have… you know… insiders who'd turn me back to the syndicates."
She wrung her hands for effect, summoning the most tragic expression she could muster. "A-And then I read about you in the newspaper. So… here I am now."
Behind Lex, in her mind's eye, Lucinda could clearly see her ancestors materializing—some weeping, some shaking their heads, one definitely lighting a cigarette in stressed disappointment.
Lex exhaled slowly, and the change in his expression was subtle but unmistakable. Suspicion faded, replaced by something far more unsettling on a Luthor's face:
Concern.
"So, you expect me to hide you from the authorities?" Lex asked, voice low, analytical—classic Lex mid-investigation mode.
Lucinda, having rehearsed this lie like it was an Oscar monologue, nodded with full conviction.
"Just one look at you, I know you're a good person, Mr. Luthor," she said with a gentle, painfully sincere smile.
And it was sincere. Deep down, she truly believed Lex wasn't born to be the villain everyone painted him as. He was shaped into it. Molded. Marinated in daddy issues and trauma.
Which was exactly why she planned to flee before he ever reached "supervillain marination peak."
To her shock, a tiny smile tugged at his lips. Not a smirk. An actual, human smile. Warm. Soft.
Lucinda nearly combusted on the spot.
"Well then. Have a good day, Miss Delos Santos," Lex said as he stepped back, tone unexpectedly gentle.
She bowed so fast and so deep she nearly head-butted the shelf behind her.
The second he disappeared from sight, she finally released the breath she didn't realize she had been holding—careful, of course, not to breathe too strongly on the expensive wines, which probably cost more than her entire family line.