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If Janet Lynn Drake was born a boy, her name would have been Elijah Matthews Drake as her parents have told her, lamentingly, many times. Instead, she was named after the nurse who delivered her. Instead, she was born an unremarkable girl.
Janet is plain-faced with no exceptional features to “enhance” with makeup. Her hair is curly, but impossible to tame, and it’s too dark to be blonde and too light to be brown. At 21 and far past puberty, she’s not getting any curvier either.
Her grades were average in high school and she’s her third year into getting the expected business degree.
Despite the Drake family being one of the older families in Gotham and having all of the prestige that comes with it, they’re not especially rich like the Waynes and they’re not a founding family either. In fact, they’re rather poor comparatively, due to a series of bad investments by her parents and their misplaced trust in a malicious financial advisor.
Again, unremarkable.
(The most remarkable thing she’s done her whole life left three years ago and she’s admittedly still a little in love with him.)
And it’s easy being unremarkable. To not cause any eyes or any rumors, no mentions behind her back and only being identified as a Drake – the poor things, Gotham’s elite whispers, unlucky and destitute, I hear they’re going to lose their manor – and not Janet. She’d live her whole life anonymously if she could.
Right now, though, at the annual GothCorp charity gala, she can’t be just another unlucky Drake or, God forbid, unremarkable Janet. But it’s difficult stepping out of the shadows, she finds, as she sits near one of the refreshment tables with a flute of champagne in her hands.
Janet can see her parents trying their hardest, talking up their only daughter and only chance, to Isaac Connaway of all people. He’s a recent divorcee, sure, but he was also in his 70s and has a habit of touching women without their consent. He probably prefers the bachelor life, if he can even be called a bachelor.
“Is it that bad of a party?”
Janet looks up at the man who interrupted her musings. He’s handsome with short, cropped black hair and around her age. He’s holding a plate of cranberry crostinis and a drop of the cranberry sauce has fallen on the lapel of his white suit jacket. Mildly endearing, she supposes, but whoever decided to have brightly-colored, drippy refreshments at an all-white attire gala should jump off a building.
“It’s a nice gala,” she says diplomatically. “Mr. Boyle did a fine job organizing it.”
He sets the plate down on the table next to them and wipes his hands on a napkin he swipes off it, perfectly placed utensils clattering noisily as they fall out of place. “But you’re not enjoying yourself, so it can’t be that nice,” he says, with the slightest of accent. It’s too faint to place, but she doesn’t think it’s from any part of Gotham, even the poorer parts.
“What makes you think I’m not enjoying myself, Mr…?”
“Jack.”
“Janet Drake.”
“And I can tell you’re not enjoying yourself, Ms. Drake, because if you were, you wouldn’t be sitting here by yourself.”
“Maybe I’m just resting my feet from a long night of dancing,” Janet gestures to the center of the room, where couples were dancing, waltzing even.
Jack looks over to the dance floor as well and hums thoughtfully. He extends a hand to her, smiling amusedly, “Well, if your feet are well-rested, would you do me the honor of being your latest dance partner?”
“No, but you can do me the honor of being my first.”
It becomes clear soon after they start dancing that Jack isn’t well-versed in it. He keeps glancing down at their feet, though he tries to be subtle about it, and, by trying not to step on her feet, he keeps an awkward distance from her. She doesn’t entirely mind, having a bad dancer as a partner is better than one that’s too close or touchy.
“I can lead, if it won’t hurt your ego too much,” she teases.
“No, no, go ahead. My ego’s already hurt from my two left feet anyway.”
They adjust to the change in dancing without any further words. Janet tries to desperately think of something to say. Finally, she lands on, “Have you been in Gotham long?”
Jack looks put off by the question and she curses herself inwardly. “No, I guess not,” he answers with his brows drawn slightly together. “I immigrated here recently to start my own company, Ito Co. And you?”
Janet blinks in surprise. Ito Co. has been the talk of the business world for the past year; she’s heard it could be a serious contender against Wayne Pharmaceuticals if it gets the investors it needs. Looking at Jack though, she doubts he’ll be getting any. Gotham’s elite doesn’t like… outsiders.
She assesses Jack with the perspective of this newfound knowledge. He’s handsome, as said before, and nice enough from what she can tell. His intentions seem romantic, or at least sexual. He might do.
“My family and I have lived in Gotham our whole lives.”
“Roots here?”
“Some of the oldest,” she laughs, though she isn’t really finding anything funny at the moment. “Most of the people here have old roots too or they’re from a different city. It’s nice to see a new face.”
“It’s nice to see your face too,” Jack grins and Janet playfully hits his arm in reproach.
Janet giggles her best, most endearing giggle, “You know that’s not what I mean.”
They continue chatting, safe topics only. Janet tells Jack that she’s still attending university and that her parents retired young, though she stretched the truth there. Her parents never worked to begin with, living off of generational wealth and her now-deceased grandmother’s investments. She wishes they worked, maybe they wouldn’t be on the verge of losing Drake Manor then. She wishes their backs were breaking. She smiles pleasantly at Jack all the while.
Jack tells Janet that he set up base in Gotham because he figured with crime, comes injuries and his company specializes in medical equipment so there’d be no shortage of demand. He wanted to be a doctor when he was a kid, he has no siblings, and his parents are also retired (though at an acceptably older age than Janet’s parents).
Their conversation comes to a cease when the lights dim and a spotlight is shun on Ferris Boyle, beginning his usual speech about GothCorp’s latest mission and innovation to aid humanity. As Boyle starts listing off charities and thanking those who donated the most to what, Janet turns to Jack.
“I should find my parents,” she whispers to him, feeling a little like her high school self.
“Of course,” Jack nods and hesitates before continuing, “Before you go, could I give you my number?”
“Oh! Yes, absolutely. Do you have something to write with?”
Jack takes a moment to check his pockets, procuring a felt-tip pen and his blue pocket square. Janet tucks the square into her purse and pauses when she sees her handkerchief.
“Here,” Janet folds the handkerchief and tucks it in Jack’s breast pocket. “So you don’t look like a complete idiot.”
“Thank you,” he looks genuinely touched. “Uh– call me and I hope to see you again soon.”