Lois went home to change. Anywhere Luthor was going to take her would require more than just her business clothing. She slipped into a red number. It wasn't a designer dress as she'd owned it before her marriage, but it was meant to impress.

Oliver whistled when he saw her. "Where are you going?"

"A business dinner."

"I hope it's with a woman because any man you're with isn't going to be able to think straight with you in that getup." It may have been a sweet thing to say if he'd meant it as a compliment. She heard it as yet another criticism.

She rolled her eyes as she exchanged her nude heels from work for a dressier gold pair. It was true the neckline may not have strictly been up to her neck, but it was far from immodest. "It does happen to be with a man, but being that he loathes me, I don't think he's going to have trouble keeping his eyes where they belong. And I don't appreciate you implying that I dress slutty."

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "That isn't what I said."

"Good because I'm not the one that has trouble remaining faithful in this relationship." She shouldn't have said it, but there it was. She could blame the stress of the day, but maybe she wasn't as over it as she'd hoped.

Oliver thankfully chose to ignore it as he asked. "Do I know him?"

He knew her too well. She had been purposely trying to avoid mentioning who it was. "Clark Luthor."

"Lois!" he said, eyes bulging.

"Do you really think he intends to murder me between appetizers and the main course? If he'd wanted either of us dead, he could have done it by now. I do admit that he must be up to something, and I intend to find out what that something is."

He had more to say to her no doubt, but she went out the door before he could form a response.

sss

Despite what Ollie may have thought, she wasn't stupid. She was carrying the kryptonite in her gold-colored clutch.

He texted her the location, the Ace of Clubs. The scene of her engagement party and salt in a wound. Had he done that on purpose or was it just because it was the swankiest place in the city?

He was waiting for her at the elevator. His lips curved upward. "Nice dress."

The way he said it made her wonder if she wasn't wrong in wearing it as Oliver suggested. Did it look as if she were trying to snag his attention? She wasn't. "Going up?" she said as she pushed the button.

He grinned lasciviously and gestured for her to go in first as if he were a gentleman. The ride up was awkward. The small space crackled with tension and not the good kind.

"Table for two," he told the maitre d' when they reached the top.

"Do you have reserva-oh, Mr. Luthor, of course. Come right this way."

It was so sad that it wasn't even about him being wealthier than King Midas. The man trembled. He was afraid of him, and for good reason. Didn't that bother him at all? It didn't seem to as he was seated next to the window with the best view of the city.

"I'll bring you a bottle of our finest pinot noir on the house," he said before disappearing.

"Don't you ever get tired of all the people licking your boots because of your name? Do you like seeing the fear in their eyes?"

"People didn't look at me with half the fear they did since your impromptu press conference. Thanks for that by the way."

"You kill people, Clark. How do you expect them to look at you?"

He shrugged as if it was in the same category of a bad habit as chewing his nails. "You should be used to it. Your father's a general, isn't he?"

She was surprised he remembered that detail about her. It was hardly a secret and he no doubt looked at all the backgrounds of his employees carefully before he hired them, but it still caught her off guard. She recovered quickly. "There's a big difference between going to war and killing people just because they happened to catch a glimpse of your secret identity or on mere whims."

"It's not so secret anymore, is it?"

"I suppose not."

"And that's why I invited you here." He paused long enough for the waiter to finish pouring their glasses of wine that was as black as promised much like the heart of the man in front of her. "People have the wrong idea about Ultraman."

"They do, do they? Okay, I'll bite. What part do they have wrong: the womanizing, the corporate corruption, or the killing?"

"You never give me any slack, do you?"

"And let you hang me with it? Nope. Not a chance." She took a drink. It was good wine with its berry taste even if there was not good company with it.

"Ultraman was never my creation. It was my father's and now that he's gone missing, it's the perfect opportunity to reinvent him."

"Reinvent him? Is that why you asked me here to see if I would write positive puff pieces for Ultraman? I hate to break it to you, buddy, but there isn't enough wine in the world to ply me with for something like that."

"But I could use it to ply you for other things?" he said, his gaze lowering.

She rolled her eyes. Did he think this was being flirtatious or charming? He was completely sleazy. "Listen up, rich boy, money doesn't always buy you everything you want. It's bad enough you're using Luthormedia as a mouthpiece to sing the praises of the Luthor family, but you'll kill the last vestiges of respect that people once had for the Daily Planet if you turn it into an Ultraman propaganda machine too."

"So what do you suggest then?" he asked as he swirled the wine in his cup, smelling it, before taking a sip. He was such a wine snob.

"I suggest that you stop trying to figure out how you can present yourself as a good person and figure out how you can actually be one." She stood up to go.

"Leaving already?"

"Yeah, eating with you makes me lose my appetite. And besides, if I sit with you much longer, I may slug you and lose my job."

He laughed. It was a nice laugh if it hadn't been coming from Luthor's mouth. "You are one-of-a-kind, Lane. Well, you know, except for the other you."

He knew how to grab her interest. She wanted to ask more about this other her, but she refused to be drawn in. "Good night, Mr. Luthor."

"Good night, Ms. Lane," he said after her retreating form.

She fumed in the elevator. How dare he think that she would help him try to pull the wool over the eyes of Metropolis by painting him as some kind of hero.

The thought had crossed her mind that night she'd been kidnapped that maybe she hadn't been looking at Clark closely enough. Maybe there was more to him than what was on the surface. She was having that thought again. Perhaps down deep there was a kernel of goodness waiting to be planted in the right soil, but what could be done now? Give him to a different set of parents? That ship had done sailed, and his character and ideas of morality were already set. He was just toying with her and she knew it, but why did it pain her so much?