Lana Lang is the daughter of a wealthy business man. She's also just been uprooted from her life in Metropolis and dropped, haphazardly, into the completely unfamiliar world of Smallville. Though she welcomes the change, she must find a way to fit in with the less-privileged side of civilization. And then there's the handsome, intriguingly perfect boy who lives just down the road. What happens when her feelings for Clark interfere with not only her relationship with doting boyfriend Jason, but also her father's business deals? And can Lana survive in a world where knowing to much could equal one's life?

-- -- --

The Millionaire's Daughter
by The Volvo.

It was small. And quaint. And from the six or seven blocks she'd seen of it so far, it was boring. But for a town of little over two thousand and with a name of Smallville, she held little hopes for it. So far, it was living up to her expectations.

And her father had described the manor as "huge, with a bathroom for every bedroom," so she held her breath. Supposedly, some mad, filthy rich old scientist had lived there, filling it with odds and ends and strange artifacts no one would want. Lana imagined statues of cats and cows and whatever else a raving old man from a hick town could get his hands on.

But that could – and would – all be taken care of. No cats. No cows. No statues. Just a home, which was more than Lana had ever had. Only mansions or estates. Never a home, not even when her mother had been alive. Lana wanted a home, not just a place to sleep and eat at.

Their chauffeured car pulled down a long cement lane; the gates on either side of the entrance had a curly S wrought into the iron. Lewis, on the seat beside her, grimaced and muttered something about changing them. Lana simply sighed and gazed out at the new place.

The grass was abnormally green, definitely watered on a regular basis. Even as she watched, timed sprinklers rose from the ground like little soldiers and began spouting water across the lawn. There was a great cement circle drive up ahead that curved around an extravagant fountain, the base of which was carved with monuments to Zeus, Hera, and Hercules; around the circle drive were plants and flowers and trees of varieties she'd never seen and some she had—roses, lilies, orchids, dogwoods and fruit trees. Every single one of them pruned and watered daily.

And then there was the house. Or castle, more accurately termed. It was made of a dull gray stone with black accents at every corner; the windows were high and stained red and purple, the large double doors a dark, shiny wood. Lana inwardly groaned. She could already imagine it: cold hardwood, silent, stainless steel, and dust. Inches upon inches of dust. And statues of cats.

The long car had rolled to a halt under a huge permanent awning and she could see, through the dark tinted glass, the driver rounding the front fender, on his way to open her door. Before he could, she pulled the lever herself and pushed the door away, swinging her long, tan legs over the seat and planting her heeled sandals on the concrete below. She adjusted the skirt of her sundress so that it was covering her thighs, but it still barely came to her knees; the golden skin there glowed in the tiny bit of sun that caught it before she stood up and stepped further into the shade. She folded her unneeded sunglasses in her hand and turned to face her father, who was surveying the property.

"Needs some work," he muttered, looking at the fountain (which Lana now noticed was old and crumbling in places) and the gates at the end of the drive. She rolled her eyes and walked past the driver, who was now holding the huge mahogany door open for her.

Her breath caught in her throat; despite being large, open, and nearly empty, she'd been entirely wrong about the interior of this behemoth. It was beautiful, with striking ancient artifacts placed in strategic places, accented with huge vases of white lilies – and everything was clean. There wasn't a bit of dust anywhere. She knew a group of maids had been cleaning it feverously over the past day or two, but she was still amazed that such an old castle could be so sparkling.

Lewis followed close behind, and after that the driver brought in their bags. He turned to Lana, two of her suitcases tucked neatly under his arms and one in each hand. "Which room will be yours, Miss Lang?"

She frowned, and then looked towards the staircase, where rooms lay unexplored. She turned to him, and smiled.

"It's alright, Tobias. I'll take them myself once I find a room to my liking."

He nodded quickly and placed her bags neatly in a corner near the staircase; Lewis grimaced at her.

"He could have taken them, Lana."

"But I didn't want him to."

He sighed and shook his head as Tobias returned with half of his bags; Lewis pointed up the staircase and Tobias took off, juggling the bags easily as he climbed. Lana took one last look around and moved to follow him, but stopped when Lewis called her back.

"We'll be eating in the dining hall at five, Lana."

She turned, her expression contemplative. "If I'm hungry I'll be down."

He stared sternly at her. "Five o'clock, sharp," and he turned down the opposite hallway, disappearing from sight.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she couldn't decide which way to turn; there was a hall to her left, one to her right, and one leading straight ahead and towards yet another staircase. She closed her eyes and turned left, beginning her venture into the old Swann manor.

-- -- --

Chloe nearly bounced up and down on the passenger seat as she attempted to peer past the hedges and the iron gates. She craned her neck, her eyes wide, and bit her lip as she tried to catch a glimpse of the new inhabitants of the old manor on the outskirts of Smallville. So far all either one of them had seen was a long black limo, and Clark refused to peer through the walls to see who or how many were calling the castle home.

He rolled his eyes. "They aren't celebrities, Chloe; stop acting all paparazzo."

Chloe turned on him, grinning. "If they bought the Swann mansion, then they have to be something, Clark. No one can just buy a multi-million dollar mansion and move in on a whim. That takes a piggybank the size of Alaska."

"Yeah, they're rich. Can we go now?"

"You can't tell me you aren't the least bit interested in your new neighborhood millionaires."

Clark chuckled. "Quite frankly, I can," he said, and he stepped on the gas, causing the old truck to surge forward. "And put on your seatbelt," he sniggered, as Chloe straightened herself from bracing her body against the dash.

"Thanks for the warning," she muttered darkly, and pulled the belt over her shoulder.

Clark grinned at the windshield and continued down the road, back towards the farm. "So, are you and Pete going to that party down at the gorge tonight?"

Chloe raised her eyebrows and turned in her seat, adjusting the seatbelt so it was under her arm rather then rubbing against her neck. "Yeah. Why?"

"Nothing, just . . . be careful."

Chloe rolled her eyes and giggled. "It's alright, Clark; I don't like Schnapps and Pete can't hold liquor or lie worth a crap, so we'll both be sober-cabs tonight."

Clark furrowed his eyebrows. He knew Chloe and Pete wouldn't get drunk at a party they had to drive home from, but he still didn't like the idea of them going to a drinking party, period. Too many chances for trouble. Too many chances that someone would get stupid.

"Just tell me that you'll leave at the first sign of trouble," he side, casting her a sidelong glance. She sighed, and nodded, putting her hands up.

"Yes, officer. No booze, no bad stuff, no fun." She grinned at him. "The first sign of trouble, and we're both out like those flannel shirts you wear."

He made a face at her as they pulled to a stop in front of the barn. Chloe gathered all her "journalistic necessities" off the seat beside her – namely a notebook, a pen, a laptop, a pack of double-stuff Oreos, a six-pack of Mountain Dew and two vanilla Frappiccinos – and hopped out of the truck; on the opposite side, Clark stepped down lithely and rounded the fender.

"My shirts are comfortable," he said, pouting slightly as they stepped into the barn. It was nice enough outside that they were going to work in the loft, rather than stay cooped up in the living room.

"I bet," Chloe said, smirking. "That'd explain why you've been wearing them for seven years straight. Who introduced you to flannel, anyways?"

"My dad."

"He should be shot for that – no offense."

Clark laughed and followed Chloe up the stairs before plopping down on the couch beside her. She set up her laptop and organized the treats around them; she helped herself to a Dew and cracked open the Oreos.

"So, we start from the beginning." She turned to Clark. "What's the beginning?"

Clark grimaced, and snatched a cookie form the package. "Can't we make stuff up? With your writing and my over-active imagination we could create a bestseller."

Chloe grinned, and shook her head. "Nice try. Just . . . start with freshman year. What do you remember most?"

Ever since their honors-writing class had been given the task to write an "extrememly detailed and vivid account" of a memorable time in their lives, spanning at least two years, Clark had been dreading doing it. His life already sounded like fiction. But writing it down on paper and handing it in for a grade wasn't acceptable, and although his teacher would definitely give him an A, she'd probably make sure he was being properly medicated.

"I remember. . . being forced, roped, and tortured into writing the lunch menu for the Torch."

Chloe tossed an Oreo at his flashing smile and he caught it in his mouth.

"No, seriously," he began again. "I remember the identity crisis everyone goes through." He glanced hopelessly at her.

"Okay, identity crisis, check. Everyone is doing the identity crisis thing. At least try to be original, Clark, or you're wasting my time."

He sighed and leaned into the cushions. "Then you come up with something. You were there for all of it."

She raised her eyebrows. "Not all of it, but I'll let that slide." She turned back to her computer and began typing up an outline. "Now, as we can't include the Loeb Bridge incident, the freak-lightning strikes, the defeat of the bee-queen, or any abnormally alien material, we'll start with . . . hmm. Your life really is boring when you get past all the super-powered stuff."

Clark rolled his eyes and commandeered the laptop. "My Incredibly Boring Life As The Farmer's Son," he said as he pounded out each word. "There. Now help me make farming sound intriguing."

"Yes, sir," she said with a grin, as she began to punch out words on the keys. Clark reached for a soda and leaned back again, watching as Chloe quickly and efficiently typed one long paragraph of outlining. His thoughts wondered as he guzzled the citrus drink; he was finding that, now they had left, he was swept back in that day on Loeb Bridge . . .

It was cool; not too cold, since it was still September, but cool enough that the tawny jacket he was wearing didn't seem suspicious to anyone else. Of course, he didn't need it. It was all a guise, to try and blend in more. After all, that's what everyone was after, wasn't it? Trying to fit in?

Clark just had a harder time of it.

He was leaning over the railing on the bridge, watching the calm water of the river below. It was odd, how nature always had a balance; Clark's mind couldn't keep still, switching from thought to worry to concern . . . and yet everything around him was clear, calm, and easy-going.

Except the massive truck rumbling his way.

Clark turned in the nick of time; the huge carrier truck blew a wheel, causing it to swerve and squeal right towards him. He barely had time to put his hands up and protect himself before the truck had hit him with bone-shattering force and sent them both flying over the edge and into the cold water below.

After that his adrenaline took over; he couldn't clearly remember anything until he was sitting on the shore of the river, wrapped in a blanket, emergency crews swarming around him and the driver of the truck, who sported a gash across his left cheek and wide eyes.

"I hit you," he said, staring at Clark. Clark shook his head.


"Didn't I hit you?" The driver looked back towards the truck, the rear end of which was just barely poking up out of the water. "Hit you at sixty per hour."

"No, sir, you must be mistaken." Clark's mind worked at incredible speeds, just like his legs. "You missed me and I jumped in and pulled you from the truck . . ."

"There." Chloe pushed the laptop towards him. "All done."

Clark blinked and looked down at the screen. There, formatted neatly and easy to read, was his entire paper planned out, broken down by paragraphs.

"How can I ever thank you enough, Chlo," he said, sitting up and setting his can aside. She giggled.

"The word 'carpooling' comes to mind, and I don't mean in that old Dodge."

"Right, Chloe," he said, saving the outline and shutting down the computer. "I'll give you a piggyback ride the next time we're looking to expose my secret. How does Wednesday work for you?"


Clark shook his head and neatly piled all the supplies together. "When is Pete picking you up?"

"Five. So until then, I challenge you to slap-jack." She pulled a deck of cards out of her purse and waved them around. "Aces and deuces wild, three's are black holes, and," she said, grinning, "no super-powers."

Clark cocked an eyebrow. "I don't need super-powers to beat you at cards, Chlo."

"Them's fightin' words, Kent."

-- -- --

Six hundred and forty-seven stairs later and Lana had finally lugged her last bag up to her newly chosen bedroom. She closed the door behind her and panted slightly, looking around the wide, open room with the clear-glassed window on the west wall and a fireplace on the west. She'd seen enough stain-glassed during her ventures that she'd almost grown tired of the way the light shining through them turned the rooms red and purple that the last thing she wanted was to wake up every morning to it. So she found one of the very few rooms without and set up camp. Her bags were sitting beside the huge bed, waiting to be unpacked. She slipped off her heels and opened the first one.

Once she had slipped into a pair of snug-fitting jeans and a vintage Rolling Stones tee, she beginning truly unpacking; in one bag were sheets and pillowcases; she could do without a duvet for now, as there was a fluffy white down blanket on the bed already, which smelled like gardenias. She inhaled this scent as she made the bed up with deep purple sheets; it reminded her of her mother.

As she was arranging framed photographs on the mantle of the fireplace, her phone, which lay on the bed next to a half-empty suitcase, began to buzz quietly. She crossed in half a second and answered it quickly, barely glancing at the caller ID. "Hello?" she said, her voice louder than usual.


She sighed, and smiled. "Yeah. I'm so sorry . . . I couldn't answer my phone in front of Dad unless I wanted it taken away. You know how he is . . . it's not polite to use phones in public."

"I've always said your dad was uptight, Lana."

"Yeah, whenever you weren't sucking up to him and trying to get that scholarship." She giggled. "I miss you."

The deep voice on the other end hummed in agreement. "Less than I've missed you, I guarantee. I could always come and sweep you away, back to Metropolis."

"Jason, Dad would absolutely murder you."

"But I'd still look cute either way." She could hear his grin.

"Eh . . . the blood could be a real turn off."

She plopped down onto her bed, toying with a corner of the duvet. "So how is the cow town?" he asked. She shrugged, looking into the pit of the empty fireplace.

"I've seen seventeen cows, three bulls, four squirrels, a duck, and nothing has compared to you." She sighed. "Then again, I haven't sampled the local fare . . . I hear farmers' sons are usually brawny… tan… and gorgeous."

"Well, didn't I tell you my ancestors were farmers?"

Lana laughed, then frowned. "This is going to be hard."

"I know."

Lana felt the wave of tears swelling up. "You know I—"

"Love me? Yeah. I do. I also know that if it were your choice you'd run away and come back and live with me. If you'd had any say in the matter, you never would have left in the first place."

"You know me so well."

He sighed, then chuckled. "Lana, I have to go. Father's calling a meeting for everyone to meet the new associate," he said. "You know, lawyers and their meetings."

"Grown-up stuff."

"Exactly. Love you."

"You, too," she said, and pushed the end button before wiping away the stray tear on her cheek. She stood up, tossing her phone back down onto the bed, and looked back at the mantle.

Pictures of friends at junior prom, candids of her and Amy, her best friend from Excelsior. And photo upon photo of Jason, his arms wrapped around Lana's waist, his smile matching hers in both brightness and happiness.

It didn't even feel like he was older anymore, although she was still in high school and he was in his third year of college and starting at his father's law firm. But the age difference hadn't ever mattered; they were simply numbers.

Her father didn't mind the difference anymore, not after finding out that Jason's father was none other than the inheritor of the Teague fortune, one that amassed several billion dollars and two large estates—not to mention he was lawyer to the high-paying cases and had never lost one yet. That alone allowed Lewis Lang to respect them. He could care less if Jason was four years older. He had more money, too.

She glanced at the clock. 4:45, and she had nowhere near the appetite she'd need to sit through dinner with her father tonight.

-- -- --

"You hit that three!"

"I did not, you know it."

"Clark, I watched you with my own eyes! You hit that three—you hit a black hole!" She smiled smugly and held out her hand. "Hand over the cards, shooter."

Clark sighed—no point in arguing with Chloe when she had three Mountain Dews and ten Oreos in her. He tossed the cards down and she scooped them up, stacking them neatly and adding them to her hand. She quickly counted them, then summed up the dismal stack still left to turn over. It was obvious she would win. There was no way around it now.

"Say it."

Clark grinned and shook his head. "Nope." His lips popped loudly on the "p".

"Say it!"

"Say what, exactly?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Kent! Say, 'Clark Kent wears ladies' hosiery!'"

Clark giggled. "Who says 'hosiery' anymore?"

"Your mom! Now say it!"

"Clark Kent . . . wears ladies' hosiery." When Chloe grinned in victory, he added, "And loves every minute of it."

Chloe pumped her fist for effect and glanced down at her phone. "Damn, Pete's gonna be here any minute." She gathered her bag and her "necessities" and stood up. "Good beating you, Kent. I'll be waiting for my piggyback ride on Wednesday," she said, winking as she crossed to the steps. He waved her off and swept up the cookie crumbs from the top of his trunk.

"Oh, and find out if you can get any dirt on the new mystery neighbors!" Chloe's voice floated through the open loft window.

"Okay, stalker," he called back down to her. He heard her laugh as the sound of Pete's car rumbled up the lane.

"Hey Clark!" Pete yelled. Clark stepped over to the window and waved hello and goodbye before Chloe climbed into the passenger seat and they sped off towards town.

He sat back down on the couch, almost wishing they had invited him. He had nothing to do; his mom and dad were in the house and, as much as he loved them, they weren't exactly big on just having fun. Usually hanging out included deep discussion with them, and they weren't exactly against having the same discussion twice.

So he was stuck in his loft, with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs. Or write his paper. Chloe's laptop sat feet away on the trunk, left behind so he could use it.

Or he could welcome the new family to town. Which didn't sound like such a bad idea; it was a very Kent thing to do, and if his mom didn't object, he could take one of the freshly baked pies she'd prepared for the Talon's bakery.

He didn't have anything else to do, anyways.

-- -- --

I do not own Smallville, Clark Kent, Lana Lang, Chloe Sullivan, or any other recognizable characters. I do own, however, a life-size cardboard stand-up of Edward Cullen (trufax). I intend to attain a life-size cardboard stand-up of Tom Welling, as well, but I'm afraid he's too tall for my low-ceilinged bedroom. =) I mean, the boy's six-foot-five, for chrissakes.

Author's Note.
Um, I don't really have anything note-worthy to put here, but then again I never really do. Ha. I'm lazy and unimportant, just say it.

Oh, I guess I could say that I have seven or so chapters of this written, so me falling extremely behind in updating isn't too much of a worry, but it's still possible. Today is the first time I've written on it in about three months, so. . . yeah. But I'm getting mroe motivated to finish my stories. That was one of my New Year's Resolutions. ;)

Enjoy, peeps. And please, please please please, revieeeeeew. Thankya! Next chapter up soon, keep an eye out.