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“Before we wrap up our performance tonight, would the lovebirds fancy an encore?” You purred into the microphone, voice honeyed but sharp around the edges.
The audience erupted in cheers, mistaking your forced smile for flirtation rather than restraint. You kept your posture composed, but your gaze never left Bruce.
Bruce fucking Wayne sat at the center of the room, surrounded by Gotham’s glittering elites. The candlelight played across his face, cutting shadows over his sharp jaw, glinting off the very pair of diamond cufflinks you gifted him for his birthday. His stoic expression was unreadable, but his eyes… betrayed a flicker of something.
Was it guilt?
Beside him sat Selina Kyle, poised and radiant in a backless purple Versace gown that clung like a second skin. Her amused laughter chimed softly above the music, one black manicured hand resting possessively on Bruce’s arm. The diamond on her ring finger caught the candlelight, refracting it into a thousand shards that stabbed straight through your heart.
You didn’t want to admit it, but damn it. Bruce looked good tonight. Too good. He was dressed in a tailored black suit with crisp collar from Armani, the same exquisite good that made you clench with need.
You forced yourself to look away before you could drown in the sight.
There you are, standing on the stage at The Ocelot, the spotlight was hot against your skin, bathing you in a pale glow that highlighted the black crystal-studded dress wrapped around your sinful curves. The fabric shimmered when you moved, every sparkle deliberate, every sway of your hips a weapon.
If Bruce Wayne was going to flaunt his engagement in public, then you would remind him of what he missed out on.
Because Bruce Wayne always had a thing for black.
You guessed it, you were the ex.
The ex of two years, before he inevitably broke up with you one night, telling you that he had fallen out of love.
Worst of all, it was through a single text.
The next thing you know, the explosive headlines of Prince of Gotham Bruce Wayne engaged to Animal Rights Activist Selina Kyle were plastered across every front page and media format.
The wedding would be in three months.
Two days later, your belongings were shipped back through the courier from Wayne Manor, neatly boxed and labeled like a transaction completed.
Bloodthirsty reporters hounded you everywhere for two months, begging you for an opinion about your ex and his fiancée. But you gave them nothing but silence.
Two months later, your manager sat you down, avoiding eye contact, and informed you that Selina Kyle had requested you to perform at their engagement party at The Ocelot.
The same fucking place you met Bruce Wayne two years ago.
You nearly strangled your manager to death for accepting this booking, until she told you that bad press is still good press, it’ll boost your career to greater heights.
As if you needed that shit.
Your career as a singer-songwriter was your passion, not a money-making machine. Dating Bruce Wayne was just a bonus, not a necessity.
But the relationship between you and Bruce was genuine.
You actually loved him, hell, you even poured your heart into him; skipping major red carpet events because he valued privacy more than anything; never answered any interview questions about him; even after the breakup, you refused to speak badly about him despite your label’s pressure.
Your friends called you a fool, too devoted to a man who won’t do the same to you.
Were you really just a fool for opening your heart to him?
“Encore! Encore! Encore!”
The chant rippled through the ballroom like thunder, snapping you out of the dreamlike haze you had fallen into. The audience’s cheers blurred into a low hum, but Bruce’s expression remained stone-cold, blue-grey eyes clouded with a restrained emotion, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Was it remorse? Misery?
Frankly, you loved the company.
“Alright, alright,” you chuckled into the microphone, velvety-smooth voice teasing as the noise quieted down. “One more before we end the night, folks.” Your eyes flitted to Selina, who gave a gracious nod and a catlike smile.
You gave her a playful wink before gripping the mic with red manicured hands. “I wrote this song about love during my tour in Maryland, and tonight I would like to dedicate this to the wonderful Mr. and Mrs. Wayne.”
Applause exploded beneath the stage, the sound filling every inch of the gilded room. You could practically feel the glimmer of chandeliers reflecting off the polished marble, off the champagne glasses, off the diamond on Selina’s finger that sparkled brighter than the rest.
Rae, your pianist and best friend, started the opening with a flick of her slender fingers, her touch gliding across the keys like silk. The guitarists followed, strings humming with a sensual energy, while the drummer let his sticks dance lightly, building the rhythm like a slow heartbeat.
Your band kicked into the opening notes of a hypnotic and sultry number. It slithered through the air like smoke curling around candle flames, seeping into every space between you and him.
Your lips parted. The first note left your throat like a sigh you had been holding for years.
“You could be my silver spring
Blue-green colours flashing
I would be your only dream
Your shining autumn ocean crashing
And did you say that she was pretty
And did you say that she loves you?
Baby, I don't want to know”
You sang like you were confessing a sin, every syllable dripping with sorrow. Camera flashes around you and the engaged couple, a thousand sparks reflecting off the crystals of your dress. The melody rose and fell as your voice tethering at the edge of heartbreak and restraint.
You shifted your weight on your heels, inhaled deeply, and let the pain lace itself into the next verse.
“I'll begin not to love you
Turn around, see me running
I'll say I loved you years ago
Tell myself you never loved me, no
And did you say that she was pretty
And did you say that she loves you?
Baby, I don't want to know”
You zeroed in on Bruce, gaze flickered with ambiguity as you pierce daggers through him. You saw it. The tautness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into fists on the white tablecloth, the veins popped out along his wrist. The same hands that once tenderly cupped your face now clasped in silence.
Was this the voice of a heartbreak?
“Oh no
And can you tell me was it worth it?
Baby, I don't want to know”
Your mind slipped backwards, the music fading in a trice as you were engulfed in the memory of the night you met him two years ago.
You stood right here in another sinful red dress, basking in the spotlight, as if you always belonged there, never fidgeting away from the attention. The audience was spellbound as you sang your heart out. You were like a songbird, tugging the crowd deeper into the abyss of your presence.
When you went to the dressing room after the lights dimmed, it was repleted with thousands of red roses, filling the air with fragrant blooms, much to your surprise.
A single ivory card perched among them, delicate handwriting scrawled across the front:
You were absolutely on fire tonight. Dinner with me next Saturday @ 7?
There was a series of numbers written neatly on the back without a signature.
“Courtesy of Mr. Wayne.” Your manager’s voice was brimming with disbelief.
“Mr. Wayne?” You echoed, staring at the note with skepticism. You weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry. The prince of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne, was interested in you.
Your manager nudged you eagerly, whispering that you would be a fool not to go.
And you did.
You expected him to be boisterous, arrogant even, the kind of man who would fill every room with a fragile ego. After all, he was Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, and you had no idea how long it would take before he tired of your company, or you of his. Yet when the night finally came, it unfolded nothing like you had pictured.
The dinner was… captivating.
He chose a restaurant tucked along the harbour, where the skyline glittered against the water like fallen stars. He listened to you more than he spoke, and when the waitress stumbled and nearly spilled the wine on him, Bruce immediately rose, steadying the glass and offering a reassuring smile to the flustered young lady. Later, he left a tip so generous the staff nearly tripped over themselves thanking him.
He wasn’t what the gossip columns painted him to be.
When he walked into any room, everyone’s head turned, every conversations paused, people rose from their seats to greet him, orbiting around his gravity.
He was like a paradox wrapped in Armani, too large for life, too haunted to fully belong in it.
Chaos detonated when you two made it official, every headline ran wild with speculation, dissecting your past and career. Your label eventually released a statement, politely asking everyone to respect your privacy as you two navigated the relationship together.
But through the smoke and mirrors, you always saw him, the real him. The one who could stand on the edge of the city and still wonder if he did enough. He was a man who still carried a compassionate heart, despite the darkness that annexed him.
That night when he confessed to you about his secret identity, you didn’t flinch. You remembered the sound of rain tapping against the apartment windows, his mind swarmed with the thought of you walking away from everything.
But you didn’t. Instead, you enveloped him in a tight hug. You believed that he was what Gotham needed—vengeance and justice.
All of your friends thought that you could finally tie him down, the wild bachelor no more. They called you Mrs. Wayne long before he ever proposed. You brushed it off with a smile, but deep down you accepted it.
You visited his parents’ grave more than once, standing beside him as he placed fresh lilies on their headstone. He did the same to yours, mingling in their company during the holidays. Even Alfred had grown fond of you.
The gossip columns predicted the billionaire and his songbird would get married in three years, but life could be cruel when you least expected it.
“Time cast a spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you
But you would not let me”
The breakup was indeed brutal. You isolated yourself in the room for weeks, curtains drawn tight, reeking of stale air. Refusing to answer the endless messages from your friends and family. Front pages of Bruce and Selina’s engagement photoshoot at Robinson Park were scattered across the floor, ruthlessly mocking at your mental state.
You’ll be damned if you ever talk about your feelings to them.
Your phone screen became your torment. You must have reread that message a hundred times, the words ingrained into your skull like a scar you couldn’t scrubbed clean.
I’m sorry, I can’t take this anymore.
Seven words, thirty characters, thirty-nine letters.
You swore you could hear the sound of your heart shattering.
Days bled into weeks, the outside world went on without a care, leaving you hollow with heartache. You even forgot what sunlight or human laughter felt like.
Until Rae showed up with an axe to smash down your bedroom door.
She pulled you into her arms without a word, letting you weep uncontrollably on the ground until your lungs burned, her own tears dampening your hair.
That night, she sat on the cold floor, passing a bottle of vodka between the two of you, spooning melted rocky road ice cream straight from the tub in silence.
How could he have cheated on you with her?
Was this an oversight?
Was he been unfaithful all along?
You couldn’t bring yourself to hate Selina, no matter how much your friends despise her. You just couldn’t. She was radiant with the feline confidence that could make anyone feel small. You never wanted to perceive her as the villain in your story.
Oh, the fucking irony.
You would fall for her too if you were Bruce.
Maybe you weren’t the perfect match for him.
Maybe she understood his mission more than you.
Maybe that was it.
“Time cast a spell on you
but you won't forget me
I know I could've loved you
but you would not let me
I'll follow you down 'til the sound
of my voice will haunt you
You'll never get away from the sound
of the woman that loves you”
Your voice soared above the music, low and velvety at first, then rising with each lyric, thick with emotion.
The band behind you swelled simultaneously—the bass pulsing like a heartbeat; the guitar wailing in melancholy harmony; the drummer building toward something inevitable.
Your gaze digressed to the couple again. Bruce sat there, jaw clenched even tighter than before, eyes locked onto you with dread burning behind them. Selina leaned back in her chair, lips curved in the faintest trace of amusement. But you spotted her hand stilled on the tablecloth.
“I'll follow you down 'til the sound
of my voice will haunt you"
Rae caught your eye from the piano bench with a knowing smirk, her demeanour twinkling with concern. She knew you well enough to recognise the shift in your posture, or the way your grip tightened around the microphone, the subtle rise of your shoulders as the band rolled into the song’s final bridge.
You wanted him to hear this from you.
You wanted him to hurt more than anything.
You wanted to cast a spell on him.
You wanted him to never forget you.
Your voice rose, filling every corner of The Ocelot.
“Was I just a fool?
You'll never get away from the sound
of the woman that loves you”
Bruce looked haunted.
“Was I such a fool?”
Rae’s grin deepened as she played, her fingers dancing across the keys, matching your energy perfectly. Your bandmates joined in around you, voices layering behind yours until the sound became a wave.
“I'll follow you down til' the sound
of my voice will haunt you
Give me just a chance
You'll never get away from the sound
of the woman that loves you"
The line rolled off your tongue like a spell laced with venom and resentment. You reiterated it again, louder this time, each word a knife turned sharply in the wound.
“Never get away. Never get away. Never… get away”
The chant built with the music, your voice cutting through the ballroom like silk over glass. The crowd leaned forward as they sensed the invisible tension between the three of you.
Bruce’s composure faltered, fists twitched against the tablecloth. Selina’s eyes shifted to him, her smile thinning ever so slightly, and the air between them shifted.
He heard you.
He felt it.
The spell was working.
“You could be my silver spring
My blue-green colours flashing”
You held that final note until it dissolved into the air, before lowering the mic slowly. The crowd burst out in applause instantly, but you couldn't hear any of it. You were too busy watching Bruce Wayne frozen among the chaos, his face cracked just enough for you to witness what you’ve been waiting for in his eyes.
Remorse.
That was closure for you.
You dipped your head when you could feel the tears burning. A bitter smile ghosted your lips as you turned away from the crowd. You knew what the headlines would say tomorrow. Fresh Ex of Bruce Wayne Performs at His Engagement Party in Ocelot. But you couldn’t care less about it.
You felt lightheaded as Rae pulled you through the maze of corridors, her hands clasped tightly around your waist. The muffled echo of applause still reverberated faintly through the velvet curtains, like a fading dream. Every step sent shivers up your legs, your body caught somewhere between adrenaline and heartbreak.
Rae pushed open the door to the dressing room, and the intoxicating scent of sweetness hit you before you even stepped inside, twisting in your chest like daggers.
The space was awash in the deep crimson of roses. Dozens upon dozens of them blooming in crystal vases, their petals rich and velvety under the dim glow of the vanity bulbs. The floor was littered with fallen petals, like drops of spilled blood against the marble tiles.
Just like how it was two years ago.
Rae gasped softly, her eyes darting across the lavish display. “Holy shit.”
You could barely hear her when your gaze had already locked onto the thick ivory card perched against the largest bouquet. The familiar handwriting was frustratingly unmistakable.
I’m sorry.
Two words, nine characters, seven letters
It made you sick to your stomach.
“May I have a word?”
You froze. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The timbre of that voice was carved into your bones, haunting you like the echo of a forgotten melody.
Bruce fucking Wayne.
Rae’s head snapped toward him, then back to you, implicitly asking for permission to intervene. The concern scored across her face said it all. You could tell she would gladly shoot him in the head if you gave her the signal. But you inhaled shakily and nodded for her to leave.
“Fine,” she grumbled under her breath, brushing past him with a death glare. “If you make her cry, I’ll kill you.” The door clicked shut behind her.
You turned slowly, leaning back on the dresser, crossing your arms. “What do you want?”
You had enough of his games.
He didn’t answer immediately. His posture was tense, hands buried in his pockets as if he were trying to hold his whole world together inside them. The silence lengthened between you, fragmented only by the faint rustle of roses and the buzz of the overhead lights.
“You look… breathtaking tonight, sweetheart.”
That word sparked your fight or flight instincts.
“Don’t you dare call me that! Fuck you!” you seethed between words, nostrils flared with fury with your finger pointing at him. “First the cheating, then the breakup, now I’m here singing for hours to you and your fiancée at your fucking engagement party!”
He flinched at your words, but you were not done.
“Have I not suffered enough from your fucking audacity?!”
“I’m very sorry, I owe you an explanation about this—”
“I don’t need your fucking explanation! I need you to get the fuck out of my sight!” Your hand moved before your mind could catch up. The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek rang through the room. His head turned sharply, a flash of red blooming where you struck him.
Neither of you spoke for an eternity, you could hear your own uneven breathing, intermingling with the faint hum of the vanity lights.
His eyes gradually found yours, but then you saw a flicker of the man you once loved.
The man who would trace bat symbols across your skin.
The man who would dance with you under the pale moonlight.
The man who would whisper sweet promises into your hair.
“I should’ve killed you the moment you sent me that text.” You took a step back, hissing at his stricken face. “How could you cheat on me with her?”
You could smell his cologne now, the same one that used to linger on your sheets, the one that once felt like home, now blending with the roses.
God damn it.
“I assume you still live at the same place,” you said flatly, gesturing at the blooms around you. “I’ll send all of these to the manor, considering this my wedding gift to your fiancée. Don’t ever contact me or my team again, Bruce. Or I’ll do anything to get a restraining order against you.”
You grabbed your purse from the counter and swung the door open before your words could sink in.
The hallway lights spilled harshly into the room, too bright after the hazy golden warmth of the vanity bulbs. Rae was waiting just outside, arms crossed against the wall, her eyes inspecting your face the second you stepped out.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You needed to get out of here.
“Hey, babe.” She whispered, her posture softened the moment she saw the way your shoulders started to shake, but you didn’t let her finish.
You threw yourself into her arms, clutching her like a saviour, tears soaking into her shoulder as sobs tore through you.
Everything you held back for the past three months, on that stage, in that dressing room spilling out all at once.
You gasped for air, chest growing tighter with each passing second. “I can’t breathe— Just get me out of here— Please—”.
The air was starting to feel heavier around you.
Your vision spinning until you could see stars bursting behind your eyelids, colours bleeding together into a dizzying swirl of white and gold.
You could feel your heart jumping out of your throat.
Your knees threatened to give way.
You were having a panic attack.
Shit.
“Breathe, babe. You’re okay, breathe with me,” Rae hushed, holding your frame steady before you fell, wrapping her arms tighter around you, and found the back of your neck.
“It’s okay, babe. Breathe with me. In… out, that’s it. You’re doing great. Keep breathing with me.” She pressed her forehead to yours, her breath brushing against your lips as she inhaled and exhaled deeply, coaxing you to follow her rhythm.
You clung to her like oxygen itself, fists gripping the back of her coat tightly, letting the synchronised breathing pull you back from the edge inch by inch. You could feel hot flushes spreading across your face, the sting of tears cooling on your skin.
You just wanted to go home.
“You’re okay, keep breathing babe. Let’s go home, okay?”
Then you heard the faintest rustle of movement behind you.
“Wait—” Bruce tried to call for you, but Rae stopped him before he could even move.
She spun around with a finger pointing at his face, wrath igniting in her eyes. “No!”
That single word stopped him dead. She tightened her hold around you, and with a firm tug, dragged you farther down the hall. The distance between you and Bruce widened into something unbridgeable.
You didn’t look back, you just couldn’t.
If you had, you would’ve seen him standing in the doorway, surrounded by the roses meant to win your forgiveness. His head hung low as he pressed a hand against the dresser to steady himself. The soft light caught the tear that slid down his cheek, glimmering like a tiny shard of sorrow before blooming into the collar of his suit.
You just wanted him to be haunted by you for the rest of his life.
And you were right.
He would never get away from the sound of yours who loved him.
Bruce Wayne quietly called off the engagement one week before the wedding.