It had been hours since the cellar incident—hours since Lex almost caught her committing emotional and geographical fraud—and now Molly had dropped a new bomb on her.
"Clean. Lex's. Office. While. He's. Inside. Because you know, he still doesn't trust you yet."
Oh, of course. Now, what could possibly go wrong? Well, considering her luck: ✨Everything✨
But she prayed to every ancestral spirit within a five-generation radius that nothing would.
"Why are you still standing there?" Molly asked without even lifting her head. She was seated at the kitchen counter, reading what looked like the Dead Sea Scrolls but was actually a very aggressive grocery list. "Go get your job done."
Lucinda twirled the feather duster like it was a white flag. "W-Why don't we go together, Molly? I—I'm new. I might, you know… break a vase. Or a table. Or Mr. Luthor's entire future. I need supervision."
"I can't leave this," Molly huffed, waving the list. "Mr. Lionel Luthor will be here tomorrow. I need to prepare the groceries for him."
"Aren't the chefs supposed to do that?"
Molly's lips thinned into a dangerous line. "Mr. Lex Luthor doesn't trust anyone with his food aside from me. I suppose you know why?"
Lucinda blinked. Then gave the slow, guilty nod of someone who knew exactly why.
Ah yes. Because she, in her infinite idiocy, had told Molly that she "read" about Lex's and Lionel's toxic father-son drama in newspapers. Newspapers, of all things. Where else?
But did she correct it? No. She blamed sensationalist journalism of the Daily Planet because that's where all the blame SHOULD go. Capslock for extra intense points.
With zero choice left, she trudged toward Lex's office—feather duster trembling, knees weak, slippers squeaking. Unfortunately, since the Smallville DVDs never gave her a house tour, she took a wrong turn.
Then another.
And another.
Until she was standing at a random door thinking, This feels office-y, and opened it but it's locked.
She moved next door, but also locked. Then finally, the third door—which she shut faster than Barry Allen doing errands. It was a broom closet that looked scarier than the Phantom Zone. Not a chance, ghosts!
Fourth door—Also locked.
Fifth door—definitely locked, but somehow smelled like money laundering.
By the sixth door, she was ready to file a missing person report for herself, wiping an imaginary tears for plus drama points. And then she found a staircase. A narrow, stone-lined, very crypt-vibes staircase.
Lucinda paused, eyeing the eerie atmosphere lingering around there. "Well… that's definitely not in the DVDs," she whispered. But did she retreat? Definetely not!
Her survival instincts are absolutely nonfunctional—because let's be real, every fan would take the chance of house-touring Lex Luthor's mansion, c'mon!
And so she went down.
And down.
And then finally halted when she found herself in an underground hallway. Long. Narrow. Echoey. Lit by old sconces that flickered suspiciously, like they were judging her life choices.
It looked like a maze specifically designed for tax evasion and family secrets.
She turned to the left, right, behind, then back in front. "Nice, Lucinda. You got yourself completely lost you son of a gun!"
She tried random doors again but all of them are locked until one creaked open only to reveal a room full of antique trunks that probably contained the souls of Lionel's enemies.
But for some weird reason, she was not panicking— "Of course not. I am Filipino, I am resilient," her eye twitched as she continued walking for what felt like three presidential terms.
Every hallway looked the same—long, dim, expensive, and suspiciously villain-coded. She swore one of the abstract portraits blinked at her. She tried another door. Locked. Next door. Locked. Third door. Storage full of antique vases that probably cost more than her entire bloodstream.
Lucinda ended up clutching her chest, probably cursing in multiple dialects. She started feeling nauseous due to the scent of... hopelessness.
She tried retracing her steps but ended up in another corridor she didn't recognize—narrower, colder, and with a faint hum like secret billionaire machinery was hiding behind the walls.
That's when it hit her. The story her grandmother used to tell when she was little.
"If you get lost and can't find your way out, turn your clothes inside-out. The engkantos will release you."
Well… Lex's mansion was definitely enchanted. Or cursed. Or just built for nosey people like herself so it might work.
"It's worth a shot."
With a determined nod, Lucinda grabbed the hem of her borrowed shirt and started pulling it over her head. She kicked off her oversized slippers, hair flying, half-blind in her shirt as she wrestled it off.
"If this works, I'll personally asked mom to bury me alive beside grandma when I get home," she mumbled now reaching for her pants.
She had one leg out when a voice behind her calmly said.
"…Should I ask what you're doing, Miss Delos Santos?"
Lucinda screetched and flailed so hard she hopped on one leg, nearly yeeting herself into a shelf of priceless artifacts, good thing she was able spun around... half-dressed, shirt inside-out around her neck like a malfunctioning scarf, pants hanging off one ankle.
And there stood Lex, hands twitching in his pockets, completely confused. Never in his entire life had he encountered such stupidity, he could barely move.
Although he looked genuinely concerned, he's caught between basic human decency of helping and the very real legal implications of assisting a half-undressed woman in his underground hallway.
Lex blinked and looked the other way.
The moment Lucinda found refuge from a nearby wall, she immediately fixed her pants and clothes, then turned to Lex.
"Mr. L-Luthor," she squeaked. "I—I can explain."
Lex blinked at the cobweb on the ceiling, "I would appreciate that."
She swallowed. "I… got lost."
"And your solution," Lex continued, utterly straight-faced, glancing at her to make sure she already looked... lookable—"was to undress?"
"It's a Filipino thing!" Lucinda sputtered. "If you're lost, you turn your clothes inside-out so the… uh… forest spirits release you!"
A long silence followed, you could hear symphonies in the background.
Lex closed his eyes like he needed divine understanding. His lips twitched—once, twice—then neutral again.
"Miss Delos Santos," he said with admirable composure, "you are in a mansion. Not the Canadian boreal forest."
Lucinda wanted to vanish. Not magically—physically. Into the floor. Preferably six feet under.
Lex exhaled through his nose—the kind of weary, managerial sigh reserved for tax audits and whatever this situation counted as.
"If you're done," he said, tone clipped but oddly patient, "follow me. My office is upstairs."
He turned on his heel, took two dignified steps, then paused mid-stride. Without fully facing her, he glanced back over his shoulder, the edge of trauma because of Lucinda's show still tugging at his voice.
"And Miss Delos Santos…?"
"Y-Yes, sir?"
"No more rituals," he murmured, clearing his throat like he was suppressing a cough or a laugh—or both. "At least not on company time."
Lucinda could only press her lips together, mortified, clutching the feather duster. Her clothes were still gloriously, unapologetically inside-out: seams waving, care tags flapping, and the neckline sitting just a little too awkwardly to pretend it was fashion.
Not like Lex would care.
Would he?
Lex said nothing as she trailed behind him up the staircase, but the silence had weight—mostly the weight of his self-control. Or perhaps, the woman had been making him feel uncomfortable since he met her.
Meanwhile, Lucinda, being a deranged fan masquerading as a maid, died a little inside when he pushed open the double doors to his office with both arms. Like some kind of bald, billionaire Moses parting the Red Sea of mahogany.
She could have sworn everything went in slow-mo with background music so villain-coded she could faint.
Lex was still in his usual gray sweatshirt—casual, minimalistic, and unfairly flattering. Lucinda had never realized how attractive Lex looked outside the dramatic lighting and villain soundtrack of DVDs. Maybe it was the 2001 air? Or maybe because he's Michael Rosenbaum.
Yeah! Maybe that's it.