Work Text:
TAKE HIM BACK TO EDEN
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
word count: 29.9k
synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce.
warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated
a/n: if this feels a little soap-opera-ish, please blame my recent addiction to those short C and K-dramas. That’s where all the inspiration came from.
The marriage had been decided long before either of you had learned what love was supposed to feel like.
Your parents called it practical—an alliance between old names, old money, and old expectations. You had been young enough to believe that perhaps something warm could grow from something arranged. In the beginning, as kids, you and Bruce were inseparable, and that alone had convinced both families the match was right.
Then Thomas and Martha died.
After that, Bruce became someone else. He was still polite, still impeccable in his manners, but the warmth he once showed you cooled into something distant and untouchable. You told yourself grief needed time.
Time, however, did not soften him. Not even after you were married.
Wayne Manor was vast, echoing, and unbearably quiet. You learned his routines quickly: late mornings, later nights, long absences disguised as board meetings and galas. When he was present, he treated you with the courtesy one reserves for a a business partner. You were his wife in title, in public, in carefully curated photographs. In private, you felt as if you were another obligation that he needed to fulfill.
At night, he came to you.
And damn him for that.
Bruce Wayne touched you with a fiery passion that felt almost cruel, because the only access you ever had to him was through his body while he kept every part of himself that truly mattered locked away. He knew every inch of your skin, every place that made your breath falter and your resolve weaken. He knew exactly how to draw those soft, needy sounds from your lips, how to make you arch into his touch and forget—if only for a moment—how alone you truly were.
Afterward, he would disentangle himself, murmuring something noncommittal—or sometimes saying nothing at all—before retreating behind the cold walls he had built around his heart, leaving you alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person.
In the last three years of marriage you two barely ever slept in the same bed.
Tonight was no different.
The sheets were still warm when he rolled away from you. You lay there, staring at the canopy above the bed, listening to the subtle rustle of fabric as he stood. The air felt colder without his body beside yours. Like always you waited—foolishly—for him to say something. Anything.
Instead, you heard the soft click of cufflinks being gathered from the bedside table.
You drew the blanket up to your chest, the silk cool against overheated skin, and pushed yourself up slightly. Your throat tightened. You had rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you cared to admit. In every version, your pride stayed intact, your voice steady, your heart locked safely away.
But now that the moment had come, the words felt like a knot lodged in your throat, refusing to be undone.
You cleared your throat.
“Bruce… we need to talk,” you said at last. You watched his head turn slightly toward you. “I think we should get a divorce.”
Bruce stilled.
His fingers, halfway through fastening his shirt, slowed—then stopped altogether. For a moment, he didn’t turn around. His back remained to you, broad and rigid, the multitude of faint scars along his skin catching the low lamplight. You wondered, not for the first time, how many parts of him you would never truly know.
Finally, he spoke.
“…A divorce.”
He said the word slowly, as though testing its weight.
“Yes,” you replied quietly.
Your gaze remained fixed on the rumpled sheets, on the faint crease where his body had been moments ago. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him—not when you’d worked so hard to keep your voice steady, to sound composed instead of heartbroken.
“This arrangement—whatever it was meant to be—is nearing three years,” you continued, forcing yourself into the role you had at work. She was someone who could survive this. You imagined you were sitting across from him in a boardroom instead of in his bed. “Both sides of the agreement have been fulfilled. Our businesses share mutual benefit, and I’ll make sure any remaining terms are honoured after we separate. As for personal assets, I’ll transfer any Wayne stock I hold back to you. There’s nothing I want. The proceedings should be smooth.”
It sounded clinical when you said it that way. Like a business transaction instead of the quiet unraveling of a marriage.
Bruce was silent for a beat too long.
“And what does your family think of this?” he asked at last.
You lifted one shoulder in a small, detached shrug. “We are no longer children,” you said evenly. “I’ll handle them.”
Then, after a brief pause, you added, “I’ve already had my lawyer draft the papers.”
That finally made him turn fully toward you.
“They’re ready,” you continued, your fingers curling into the blanket as if it were an anchor. “Sign them when you have a chance.”
Something dark and unreadable crossed his expression. Not anger—not quite. It was more as though a realization struck him. His jaw flexed once.
“You’ve been planning this,” he said.
“Yes.”
There was no apology in your voice, despite the quiet admission.
Bruce studied you then—truly studied you—as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the silent presence who had moved through Wayne Manor for years without complaint. His wife in name. His obligation in practice.
“And if I don’t sign?” he asked quietly.
You finally lifted your eyes to his.
“I see no reason you wouldn’t,” you said evenly. “We’ve been bound long enough to understand the politics involved. The expectations. The image expected of us.” Your voice remained steady, even as something fragile drew tight beneath your ribs. “We can continue to honour the terms our parents agreed upon—sharing company resources and maintaining professional relationships—without being tethered to each other.”
You drew a slow, careful breath.
“At least this way,” you continued, “we’ll both be free. Free to see whoever we want,” you added factually. “Without pretending this is something it isn’t.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened at that.
For the first time that night, something cracked through his composure. You weren’t sure whether it was anger or jealousy—neither made sense, not when he had made it painfully clear he had no interest in you. And yet Bruce had always been possessive of the things he considered his. You supposed that even if you were unwanted, you were still, in some quiet, inescapable way, his.
“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Someone else?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, knuckles paling. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, you wanted to scream the truth at him—that there had never been anyone else. That there had only ever been him. That you had loved him quietly and completely since the two of you had been children.
You swallowed it down and met his gaze steadily.
“If you’re implying I’ve been disloyal in our marriage, Mr. Wayne,” you said coolly, “then you’re mistaken. But a divorce,” you continued, your voice carefully controlled, “would certainly make things easier for you.”
You hated the faint ache that followed the words. Hated how it lodged in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing, testing to see if it still hurt. You forced yourself to breathe through it, to keep the bitterness from seeping into your tone.
Bruce’s brows furrowed, and for a laughable moment, he almost looked confused.
Images surfaced in your mind of all the glossy tabloid photos you’d seen of him with unfamiliar women on his arm. Once, they had felt like an insult. A personal humiliation dressed up as celebrity gossip. Over time, you had learned to numb yourself to them.
They were proof of something you had taken far too long to accept.
Bruce Wayne had never truly been yours.
Not in the ways that mattered.
And if this marriage had been a performance sustained by obligation and expectation—then the kindest thing you could do now was end it. Free both of you from the sham you had tried so desperately to believe in.
You lifted your chin slightly, resolve settling despite your aching heart.
“Letting each other go,” you said quietly, “is the only honest thing left for us.”
His jaw tightened.
Without looking at you, Bruce finished buttoning the remainder of his shirt, movements smooth and decisive. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and detached as it always was when he spoke to you.
“Very well. We can discuss the details in the morning.”
The finality of it struck harder than anger ever could have.
“I gave Alfred the papers,” you said, forcing composure into your voice. “You can review them with your lawyer. See if anything needs adjusting.”
He paused at the door.
For the briefest moment, his hand rested on the handle, fingers stilled, as though he might turn back. Hope—dangerous and unwelcome—flared in your chest.
Then he nodded once before striding out.
The soft click of the door closing behind him echoed through the room, impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Only then did your composure falter.
A shaky breath tore from your chest as your shoulders sagged, the tension you’d been holding dissolving all at once. You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape, blinking hard against the sting gathering behind your eyes.
You should have felt relief.
This was what you had asked for. What you had planned.
But all you felt was the ache. Deep. Persistent. Settled beneath your ribs like something bruised and broken.
His agreement hurt more than his coldness ever had.
You curled inward beneath the blankets, the bed suddenly too large, too empty, and wondered when you had mistaken hope for foolishness—and how much of yourself you had lost in the process.
The second the bedroom door closed behind him, Bruce stopped.
His hand came up to brace against the wall, fingers splaying against the cool wood as a slow, controlled breath left his chest—nothing like the fracture splintering through him beneath the surface. For a moment, he simply stood there with his head bowed, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.
A divorce.
He had not expected this.
Bruce knew the marriage the two of you shared was not warm. From its very bones, it was meant to be a business arrangement—an old practice among families like yours and his. Alliances forged not from affection, but from legacy and stability.
Still, he had never imagined that you were unhappy enough to want out entirely. To sever ties so cleanly.
He had never mistreated you. Not intentionally. He had given you freedom—space when you asked for it, privacy when you wanted it. He had been loyal. He had ensured you lacked nothing, had seen to your comfort, your security, your needs.
Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to do?
And yet—
There were things he had never given you.
Truth, for one.
You didn’t know about Batman. You didn’t know about the bruises hidden beneath tailored suits, or the blood scrubbed from his hands in the dead of night. You didn’t know about the darkness that followed him like a second shadow. He had never wanted you to.
That was how he protected you.
Or so he had told himself.
Bruce closed his eyes, despite what he told himself and how much he tried to distance himself from you. He had loved you long before the marriage ever existed.
You had grown up together. And even back then—when he was too young to understand what the warmth in his chest meant whenever he looked at you—Bruce had loved you.
After his parents died, when the world turned dark and he learned just how cruel and unforgiving it could be, you were the single light that remained in his shadowed life. You were his constant. Proof that not everything he loved had been ripped away.
But grief hollowed him out. Anger took root in places love could no longer reach. He didn’t know how to show you what you meant to him without letting that rage bleed through, so he did the only thing he believed would keep you safe.
He kept his distance.
When you both turned eighteen, you left for college.
You—brilliant as ever—were accepted into Princeton on merit alone. Bruce followed you but he walked a different path, his admission secured not by intellect but by the Wayne name and the weight of its money. He could have earned his place the way you did—he knew that—but at the time, he simply hadn’t cared enough to try.
That summer, between semesters, your parents pressed the issue.
The marriage.
You had both been young. Far too young. But grief and expectation had a way of cornering people into compliance, leaving little room for refusal. You married quietly and quickly, promises spoken like obligations rather than vows, your futures decided in hushed rooms by people who believed they knew best.
For a brief few months afterward, something almost hopeful emerged. The warmth you once shared began, slowly, to return. You chased away the shadows that surrounded him, and Bruce started to feel—just faintly—like the boy he had once been, before loss had hardened him. There were moments when he laughed without effort, when the weight on his chest eased enough to let him breathe.
Then Joe Chill’s hearing for release was announced.
And everything unraveled.
The anger Bruce had kept buried finally clawed its way to the surface, sharp and uncontrollable, and it turned on the one person standing closest to him. On you. The words he hurled were cruel—unforgivable things he didn’t truly mean but could not stop himself from saying. Rage drowned out reason, grief warped into something vicious.
You struck him across the face.
The sound echoed through the room, louder than the gunshots that haunted his dreams.
It snapped him out of it instantly. The fury drained from him all at once, replaced by horror as he saw what he had done. The tears slipping down your face felt like shards of ice driving straight through his heart.
He had hurt you.
The one person he had tried so desperately to protect.
And he had hurt you.
The truth of it had struck him with devastating clarity—just how far he’d fallen, how perilously close he was becoming to the very kind of men he despised. Men who let anger rot them from the inside out. Men who destroyed the people they claimed to love.
That realization was why he disappeared.
Five years.
He let the world believe Bruce Wayne was dead.
When he returned—scarred and remade by violence and discipline—the marriage still existed on paper. You had never divorced him. The bond remained, a legal echo of a life neither of you had truly lived. And when you stood before him again, there were no accusations. No demands. Just a quiet cold acceptance that hurt more than hatred ever could.
For three years, you stayed.
Until tonight.
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, breath heavy, chest tight as he looked back on the weight of every choice he’d made.
He had thought what the two of you shared was enough—that providing for you, giving you everything you could ever want or need, and keeping his distance was somehow kinder than letting his love reach you and risk corrupting you with the darkness he lived in.
But for the first time since the gunshots in that alley, Bruce Wayne realized he could lose you—just not in the way he had always feared. You had slipped through his fingers without him even noticing.
His fingers curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he forced them to relax. Bruce drew in a slow, steadying breath and straightened, his shoulders settling back into place as the familiar mask slid on.
Tomorrow, he would deal with your request.
Tomorrow, he would be the Bruce Wayne Gotham believed he was again.
But tonight, the city needed Batman.
And Batman could not afford to feel.
He turned away from the bedroom door and moved through the quiet halls of the manor, his footsteps soundless against marble flooring. With every step downward, he put more distance between himself and the ache in his chest, further from the woman he was losing.
The platform lowered. Batman rose to meet him.
In the Batcave, the world was simpler. Pain had purpose here. Rage could be sharpened into something useful. The suit waited offering Bruce the chance to take off his true mask and be the man he believed he needed to be.
As he suited up, Bruce locked the thought of you away into a mental compartment he had perfected over years of survival.
Batman would give him the distraction he needed. The city’s violence and its endless demand for justice asked nothing of his heart.
And as the Batmobile roared to life, Bruce told himself this was better.
It was a lie.
Batman moved through Gotham with a brutality that hadn’t surfaced in years. Strikes landed harder. Interrogations ended quicker. His patience wore thin, stretched to the edge of fracture. Thugs noticed. So did the GCPD. Whispers spread through alleyways and across rooftops alike: the Bat was angry tonight.
He barely registered it himself.
Pain had found an outlet—and Gotham was paying the price.
“My, my,” a familiar voice purred from the shadows, silk and amusement woven through every syllable. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Bruce stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Not tonight, Selina.”
She stepped fully into view atop the adjacent rooftop, black leather catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. “What’s got your tail all twisted up?” Selina drawled, her head tilting as she studied him with open curiosity.
His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.
His silence was answer enough. Selina’s gaze lingered, sharp and perceptive, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the coiled violence he hadn’t quite burned off yet.
“Ah,” she murmured, a knowing note creeping into her voice. “That bad.”
He finally turned to face her, his cape shifting with the movement.
“Drop it.”
She smirked, utterly unoffended. “You know I never do.”
A beat passed. Then another.
“You’re usually better at pretending to be emotionless,” she continued, her tone light, though her eyes were anything but. “Tonight? You look like you’re one bad thought away from breaking someone’s jaw because they looked at you wrong.”
His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I’m handling it.”
Selina arched a brow. “Sure you are.”
She stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rooftop. “Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. And last I checked, that never ends well—for anyone.”
Bruce’s gaze hardened, cutting back toward the city that demanded so much of his attention—except tonight, it seemed intent on giving him space he didn’t want.
“It’s none of your concern.”
Selina rolled her eyes, any trace of coyness evaporating in an instant.
“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Bruce,” she snapped. “What’s going on?”
He hesitated.
The pause was small—barely perceptible—but to someone who knew him as well as Selina did, it might as well have been a confession. His jaw flexed, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth before he finally forced them free.
“…She wants a divorce.”
Selina’s expression stilled. Surprise flickered across her face before settling into something more softer. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.
“Well,” she said slowly, exhaling through her nose, “that explains the excessive force.”
He shot her a sharp look.
“I’m serious,” she added, her tone hardening, humour falling away. “…I didn’t think she’d be the one to pull the plug.”
Neither had he.
“She’s already had the papers drawn up,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Gave them to Alfred.”
Selina blinked. “Damn.”
She crossed her arms, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath the armour. It was too uncomfortably perceptive. “And how do you feel about that?”
“I’ll handle it,” he replied automatically.
She snorted. “You always do. Or rather—you bury it under a mask and hope it stops hurting.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “Do you want the divorce?”
Selina already knew the answer to that, after knowing You and Bruce for years she had a good insight on the marriage you two had.
Bruce turned his attention back to Gotham, to the endless sprawl of lights stretching out before him—the city he was trying to fix. Some days, he wasn’t sure if he was failing at that too.
Selina sighed at his silence, already knowing what his answer was. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You know, for someone who prides himself on control, you’re awfully bad at fighting the battles that actually matter.”
Bruce’s hands curled into fists again, the truth pressing uncomfortably close. Because for once, the enemy wasn’t something he could punch. And he had no idea how to stop himself from losing.
“I’m not going to keep her tied down if she’s not happy,” he murmured, the words dragged from him like a concession he wasn’t ready to make.
Selina scoffed, the sound sharp against the night air. “God, you’re impossible.”
She stepped closer, boots silent, eyes hard now.
“Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Bruce,” she said bluntly. “And take it from a woman—if you love her, you don’t just let her go and call it noble.”
His jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand just fine,” Selina shot back. “You think giving her space is protecting her. But from where I’m standing? All she sees is a man who never chose her.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
“She loves you, Bruce,” Selina continued, her voice lower now, edged with something almost gentle. “But love doesn’t survive neglect. It survives effort.”
He looked at her then, something raw flickering beneath the cowl. “I don’t know how to do that without dragging her into my mess.”
Selina’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You don’t have to give her your mask or your war,” she said quietly. “You just have to give her you.”
A beat passed, and Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Batman is who I am,” he said quietly. “This shouldn’t be her burden. She deserves more than my darkness.”
“Fight for her,” Selina urged. “Because if you don’t, someone else will—and you’ll be left wondering when exactly you convinced yourself that letting her walk away was the right thing to do.”
With that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Bruce alone to mull over his thoughts.
You didn’t see Bruce at breakfast the next morning.
The absence was expected—yet it still left a hollow weight in your chest as you took your seat at the long dining table alone. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, spilling pale gold across untouched china and silverware that gleamed far too brightly for the mood you were in.
When you asked Alfred, he hesitated. “Master Wayne had an urgent meeting to attend to,” he said gently.
You swallowed and nodded in acknowledgment. There was no point pressing him; Alfred had always been loyal to Bruce’s silences. Your appetite had vanished entirely, the thought of food turning heavy in your stomach. After a moment, you rose from the table and excused yourself.
Work, at least, would keep your mind occupied.
As Mrs. Wayne—and after his disappearance—you had taken on operations at Wayne Enterprises rather than returning to your family’s firm. Bruce had never shown much interest in the day-to-day management of the company, and so the responsibility had quietly fallen to you. Over the years, you had become the steady spine of the enterprise: overseeing logistics, restructuring departments, smoothing fractures before they ever reached the board.
And now, you knew that role was nearing its end.
With the divorce, it made sense logically, to return to your family’s business. You would no longer be Mrs. Wayne. Titles mattered in rooms like those, even when people pretended they didn’t.
Still, you wouldn’t leave recklessly.
If everything proceeded smoothly, the divorce would be finalized within a month—two at most. That gave you just enough time to ensure a seamless transition. To find someone competent, steady, and capable of holding the company together once you were gone.
Wayne Enterprises deserved better than being left scrambling.
And Bruce—whether he realized it or not—deserved someone who wouldn’t allow his legacy to crumble simply because you were no longer there to hold the reins.
You dressed carefully, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you slid your composure into place the same way you always had, and left the manor with your head held high.
Whatever came next, you would meet it prepared.
Because if this marriage was ending, then it would end cleanly—without collateral damage, without regret, and without giving anyone reason to doubt the woman you had proven yourself to be.
A car waited out front, its dark exterior gleaming beneath the morning light. Your assistant stood by the open door, tablet clutched a little too tightly in her hands. One look at her expression had you pausing mid-step.
“What’s wrong?” you asked.
She hesitated, then exhaled. “I… I thought you should know—Julie is at Wayne Enterprises.” Her mouth tightened as she added, rolling her eyes, “She came to see Bruce.”
Your body went still.
Julie.
The name alone was enough to tighten your chest. She had been a childhood classmate—more Bruce’s friend than yours. In truth, the two of you had never really gotten along, though age had taught you both the subtle art of diplomacy. Even back then, she had always been chasing after Bruce. It was unmistakable that she was in love with him.
The last you’d heard, she’d started a modelling career and moved to Metropolis, tangled in an on-again, off-again relationship with Lex Luthor.
You supposed she was finally back for Bruce.
If not for the arrangement—if not for the contracts and the expectations of parents who treated marriage like a merger—you had always been certain Bruce would have chosen her. You had realized it back in university.
The memory surfaced from years ago.
It had been a late evening, your class had run longer than expected. The corridors were nearly empty as you walked through them, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly.
You slowed, instinct prickling, and peered around the corner to see Julie stepping closer to him, rising onto her toes as she leaned in to kiss him.
The sight made your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face as humiliation flooded through you. You turned away at once, retreating down the corridor before either of them could notice you, before you had to confront what you’d just seen.
Bruce had never known you saw.
You had never told him.
But from that moment on, you realized the truth. That despite the arrangement, Bruce had never truly been yours.
You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then gave a small nod.
“Thank you for telling me,” you said evenly.
Your assistant watched you closely, concern flickering across her face, but you offered her no reaction.
You stepped into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.
Whatever Julie’s presence meant—whatever history was resurfacing—you refused to let it derail you now. You had already chosen to leave him. And if Bruce Wayne was moving on before the ink on the papers had even dried…then you would find a way to move on too.
You arrived just as Bruce appeared to be leaving the building—Julie at his side.
For a fleeting second, your fists balled at your sides before you forced them to relax, smoothing the reaction away as you lifted your chin and stepped out of the car.
Bruce froze the moment he saw you.
“Y/N!”
Julie’s voice was bright. “Hey! Long time no see!” she said warmly, stepping forward for the customary cheek kisses before retreating back to Bruce’s side. “Bruce and I were just going to grab lunch and catch up. You want to come?”
You ignored the knot tightening in your throat and shaped your mouth into something that resembled a smile, shaking your head once. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of work to get done,” you said evenly. “I’m sure we can catch up another time.”
Your gaze slid past her—unavoidable now—and landed on the man who would soon no longer be your husband.
“Bruce,” you said calmly, “I trust you’ve had a chance to review the papers and get them signed?”
Julie’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face as her gaze moved between the two of you.
Bruce hesitated. “Not yet,” he replied. “It’s been a busy morning.”
Your eyes slid back to Julie.
“I can see that,” you murmured, tension threading its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep it even.
“What papers?” Julie asked.
You raised a brow, something cold and brittle settling neatly into place. “Bruce hasn’t told you?”
“Y/N…” Bruce warned quietly.
You didn’t look at him.
“We’re getting a divorce.”
Julie blinked.
“Oh.”
The single syllable hung there—surprised, yet almost hopeful. Julie’s gaze darted to Bruce and then back to you, something unmistakably hungry flickering across her face.
“I—I didn’t know,” she said, her voice deceptively softer now. Her hand fell to Bruce’s arm, almost as if to comfort him.
“That’s understandable,” you replied evenly. Your gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, whose expression had gone entirely to stone. “It was a recent decision.”
Bruce stepped forward at last. “This isn’t the place for this.”
You met his gaze without flinching, then inclined your head with a forced smile. “You’re right. It isn’t.” Turning back to Julie, you offered a polite nod, “Enjoy your lunch.”
There was no accusation in your tone. No bitterness. You refused to let them see the pain beneath your composure. You stepped past them both, heels clicking against the pavement as you headed toward the building.
“God, she’s such a fake bitch,” your assistant muttered under her breath.
You fought the smile that threatened to break through, but a small twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed you anyway.
Behind you, you could feel Bruce’s gaze boring into your back as he watched you disappear into the building.
And when the doors slid shut behind you—sealing you away from the sight of them together—you told yourself one thing with unwavering certainty:
You would not beg for what should have been freely given.
Not love.
Not loyalty.
Not him.
You entered your office to find your usual breakfast waiting for you—coffee and a pastry from your favourite place on 23rd. You sighed softly in contentment as you took a sip. Perfect, like always.
If there was one thing you were certain of, it was this: when you left, you were taking your assistant with you. She went above and beyond for you.
You sighed when you finally got home, the sound slipping out of you before you could stop it. Your head throbbed from staring at a screen for most of the day, numbers and contracts blurring together long after you’d shut your laptop. You’ve been determined to lock in one final deal for the company before you left. The Eden Project had been years in the making, and for the first time, it felt close enough to touch.
You just needed Nexus on board.
Lex Luthor, unfortunately, was being a pain in your ass—and deliberately so. He was circling the deal like a vulture, trying to steal it out from under you. If the project went through, it would mean that abandoned or underused properties owned by Nexus—land poisoned by decades of Gotham’s chemical runoff—would be transferred to Wayne Enterprises. From there, the Eden Project could finally begin: restoring the soil and waterways, rebuilding what had been left to rot, constructing affordable housing, and establishing a new clean water plant.
To you, it felt like the first honest step toward undoing the damage Gotham had been choking on for decades.
Lex Luthor, however, saw those same polluted dumps as cheap acquisitions—perfect places to bury private facilities and questionable labs behind closed doors. You couldn’t fathom how Julie could stand dating a man like him. He rubbed you the wrong way every time your paths crossed. Too arrogant for his own good.
You were halfway through pulling off your heels when you noticed him.
Bruce stood at the top of the banister, half-lit by the low glow of a wall sconce, his posture rigid—as though he’d been waiting there for some time. The sight of him made something in your chest tighten despite your efforts to keep yourself steady.
“You’re home late,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, unreadable.
“I had a lot of work to get done,” you replied, rubbing at the arch of your foot before straightening. “I want the Eden Project locked in before my departure.”
“It’s too dangerous to be out in Gotham at this hour,” he said, his tone firm, his gaze tracking you as you started up the stairs.
You exhaled slowly, exhaustion threading through you. “Gotham is always dangerous,” you replied without turning back. “And like I said, I had work to finish.”
You moved to pass him.
His hand closed around your arm.
The contact stopped you cold.
You looked up at him, surprise flickering across your face before hardening into something guarded. His grip wasn’t rough—but it was firm, unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself as much as he was trying to keep you there.
“Is there something you needed?” you asked quietly.
“Why?” he said.
The single word stopped you.
You raised a brow, feigning calm ignorance even though you knew exactly what he meant. “Why what?”
“The divorce,” he clarified.
You studied him for a moment—really studied him. The tension carved into his shoulders. The way his gaze searched your face, as though he were looking for an answer that might absolve him of his own shortcomings.
You exhaled softly.
“We both know this was a business transaction between our families and nothing more,” you said evenly. “I thought I could handle that. I truly did. But this—” you gestured faintly between the two of you “—isn’t what I want.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. In his mind, the meaning was clear: him. He wasn’t what you wanted.
“So I see,” he said quietly. “And was I such a bad husband that you decided to end it?”
You lifted a brow, the question landing somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.
“Do you think you’ve been a good one?”
The words weren’t cruel. They were simply honest.
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, the silence stretching thin as he searched for something—anything—that might justify him.
“You were never unkind,” you said, your voice softening despite yourself. “But I see no reason to keep us trapped in a loveless marriage. I’m setting us both free, Bruce.”
You hesitated, the truth pressing at your chest before you let it out.
“So you can be with someone you truly want to be with.”
You turned to leave.
You barely made it a step.
He strode forward, and a sharp gasp tore from you as you stumbled back, your back meeting the wall. His arms came down on either side of you, bracketing you in as he leaned close.
His presence stole the air from your chest. You looked up at him in startled disbelief, his body caging you in without ever touching—yet close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
Your fingers twitched, aching to grip his shirt, but you forced them still.
He leaned down, close enough that your traitorous heart stumbled. Your pulse roared in your ears as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, then drifted toward your ear.
“And who said I don’t want you?” he murmured.
It took everything in you to press your palms against his chest and push him back—gently, but firmly. You turned your face away, your gaze dropping to the floor as you swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. You couldn’t look at him. Not when your resolve felt so fragile.
“You want my body, Bruce,” you said softly. “And I need more than that.”
You straightened, drawing your composure back around you like armour.
“Sign the papers, Bruce,” you finished quietly. “So we can start the proceedings.”
Before he could respond—before he could reach for you again—you slipped past him, moving away with a steadiness you did not entirely feel.
Your footsteps echoed softly down the hall, each one carrying you farther from him, farther from the life you had endured and the love you had never been allowed to keep. You didn’t look back.
Bruce remained where he was, frozen in place, watching you go.
Every instinct in him screamed to call your name. To pull you back and promise you everything he had deprived you of for so long.
But he couldn’t.
Because giving you more would mean giving you the truth.
Of who he was.
Of the darkness he carried.
Of the violence that shaped his nights and the war he waged in secret.
And he would be damned before he let that darkness swallow you whole.
Yet even knowing that… he selfishly found he could not bring himself to let you go.
You ignored the paparazzi photos of Bruce and Julie’s lunch from the day before. You refused to stare long enough for envy to take root, for that familiar ache to whisper that you had never been enough. You refused to spiral into self-pity.
Instead, you buried yourself in work—in the Eden Project. You were so close now, you just needed to seal the deal with Nexus and kick Luthor’s arrogant ass to the curb.
You’d planned to spend the entire day sealed away in your office, insulated by schedules, reports, and decisions that didn’t ask anything of your heart. It was almost working—until the door opened.
You looked up.
Bruce stepped inside.
You paused, confusion flickering across your face. In three years, you could count on one hand the number of times he’d set foot in your office.
Your assistant peeked in behind him, mouthing a silent apology. You waved her off. If Bruce wanted to see you, there wasn’t much she could do about it.
“Lucius tells me you have him looking for your replacement,” Bruce said, shutting the door behind him.
He ignored the two chairs set neatly across from your desk and instead moved closer, his presence filling the room in a way that made your spine straighten instinctively.
You leaned back in your chair, wary as you watched him sit on the edge of your desk in front of you as though it belonged to him.
“I do,” you said simply.
“Why?” he asked. “Is it the pay?”
You blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Bruce… have you even looked at the papers?” you asked. “We’re getting a divorce. Once it goes through, all my shares revert to you. I won’t be a Wayne anymore.” You gestured faintly, as if the logic should be obvious. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to stay here while returning to my family’s name.”
“Keep the shares,” he said immediately. “You’ve been the backbone of this company for years. A name change doesn’t erase that. We’re not replacing you.”
You sighed, rubbing at your temple as frustration edged in. “Bruce,” you said patiently, “it’s not proper.”
Something shifted in him then.
In one swift motion, he surged forward—one hand bracing against the arm of your chair, the other gripping the backrest as he caged you in, an echo of the night before. You hated how his mere proximity made your breath hitch. His dark eyes locked onto yours making you painfully aware of the shallow rise and fall of your own breathing.
“You’re not leaving, Y/N,” he said quietly, as though the decision had already been made. “I’ve already told Lucius to stop the search.”
Your eyes narrowed.
You leaned forward in anger, closing the already dangerously close distance until your faces were inches apart. “You can’t do that, Bruce. Once the divorce is finalized, I’m leaving.”
His jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he demanded. “We can renegotiate your contract. I’ll give you a raise. A larger stake in the company. Another office—hell, name any price.”
For a fleeting moment, the desperation beneath his usually controlled exterior slipped through.
You shook your head slowly, something sad and resolute settling into your expression. “What I want isn’t something money can buy, Bruce.” You needed distance—clean, undeniable distance. A clean slate, far from him, so you could finally move on.
He stilled.
“You don’t get to decide this for me,” you said calmly. “Not as my husband. And certainly not as my employer.”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing.
Then he straightened, stepping back just enough to smooth his suit into place. His jaw flexed once, tension rippling beneath the his cold composure, before he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment.
“Very well,” he said evenly. “But as we are still legally married, there are obligations we can’t ignore.”
You tensed. You already knew what was coming.
“Tonight is the gala,” he continued. “Both our presences are required.”
You raised a brow. “We don’t usually attend together.”
He shrugged, deceptively casual. “If you’re insistent on the divorce, we might as well let people see that we’re parting on amicable terms. It avoids rumours.”
You exhaled slowly, resignation settling in. You wanted to stay—wanted to keep working on the Eden Project—but the gala offered something useful. Nexus board members would be there. This could be an opportunity to chat with them individually and sway them to Wayne Enterprises side.
“I’ll meet you there,” you said.
“No need,” Bruce replied without hesitation. “Alfred will drive us together.”
You held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for something to explain his odd behaviour but his face gave nothing away.
“Fine,” you said at last.
Bruce gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. “We’ll leave at seven.”
One thing about being old money in Gotham was the endless procession of galas. Charity dinners, fundraisers, benefit auctions—each one requiring polished smiles, practiced charm, and carefully chosen outfits designed to show that you belonged among Gotham’s elite. These events demanded hours of preparation, a luxury you rarely had. Fortunately, you’d learned long ago how to adapt and prepare around your busy schedule.
That was why you kept a small collection of emergency dresses in your office.
You opened the wardrobe tucked discreetly behind a panelled door, your gaze skimming over the hanging fabrics inside. Most were refined and understated. Creams, ivories, soft neutrals. Dresses that were considered the safe choices, keeping the clean cut billionaire wife appearance you had worked hard to craft.
Mrs. Wayne. The perfect executive wife.
Your gaze caught on something different, tucked into the far corner of the wardrobe.
It was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the other dresses. You remembered buying it on impulse, a rare moment of indulgence, telling yourself you’d wear it someday. A promise you’d never quite been brave enough to keep.
It was still appropriate. Still elegant. But there was no denying it carried a risk your usual choices carefully avoided.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering just short of the fabric.
Soon, you wouldn’t be a Wayne anymore.
The thought settled over you with an unexpected mix of grief and relief. A quiet ache paired with something lighter, freer. Beneath it, something firmer began to take shape—a resolve edged with steel.
You were tired of dressing for expectation. Tired of shaping yourself to fit what was required by your parents, by the Waynes, by a city that thrived on image more than truth.
You wanted—just once—to choose something because you wanted it.
Not for the cameras.
Not for the headlines.
Not for him.
So, in a split-second decision that felt far braver than it should have, you reached forward and pulled the dress free.
The fabric slid into your hands, cool and smooth beneath your fingers, and for the first time in a long while, you felt excitement bloom in your chest for the fact you were dressing for yourself.
By the time your assistant arrived with the hair and makeup team, you were in your dress and heels. You turned as she stepped into the room, and she nearly stumbled to a stop, eyes widening in open shock.
“Goddamn,” she breathed. “You look fucking hot.”
A surprised laugh slipped from you, light and genuine despite everything. “Thank you.”
She circled you once, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Seriously—if Bruce even looks at anyone else with you dressed like this, he’s an idiot.”
You forced a smile, though ignoring the sharp tug beneath your ribs.
You used to like to dress like this before. Long ago when you didn’t have all this expectation piled on you. Yet even then, he had chosen Julie.
That was the truth you’d learned the hard way: Bruce Wayne had never been incapable of desire. He had simply never allowed desire to become love where you were concerned. Men, you’d learned, were remarkably adept at separating the two.
So you let the comment pass without response, turning your attention back to what remained to be done. You allowed the hair and makeup team to guide you into the chair, surrendering to their practiced hands as they set to work.
By the time you stepped outside, dusk had settled over Gotham, the sky bruised purple and gold between the towers. The air was cool against your bare skin, refreshing after being cooped up in your office all day.
Bruce was already there, waiting.
He stood near the front steps, jacket buttoned, posture immaculate as always. If he had ever chosen to, he could have had a very lucrative modelling career
At the sound of your heels clicking against stone, he looked up. Whatever expression he’d been wearing faltered at the sight of you.
His throat bobbed as his dark eyes drank you in with an intensity he failed to mask. Without thinking, his hand rose to his collar, tugging at his tie as if he suddenly found it too tight.
You looked like yourself. Not Mrs. Wayne, the woman molded to fit beside him. But the woman he knew before he left Gotham and began his crusade.
“…You look,” he began, then faltered, his jaw tightening as though the right word had slipped just out of reach. “You look… beautiful.”
There was something unsteady in his voice—just enough to make warmth bloom traitorously in your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you replied evenly, despite the way your heart began to race. Clearing your throat, you stepped closer and reached up to straighten his tie, the silk cool beneath your fingers. You tried not to think about how little space separated you now, or the way his gaze had locked onto you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
When you finished, you moved to step back but his hand found the small of your back instead, keeping you there.
Your breath caught as your eyes snapped up to his. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something. His lips parted, then pressed together again, the unspoken words settling heavily between you. Slowly, his hand fell away.
The sound of an approaching engine broke the spell.
You cleared your throat and stepped back, putting distance between yourself and whatever that moment had been. Headlights swept across the steps as the car pulled to a smooth stop. Alfred emerged at once, opening the rear door with his usual practiced grace.
“Shall we, sir? Madam?”
Bruce straightened, and you could see his walls coming back up. He gestured toward the open door. “After you.”
You hesitated, just for a second, turning back to meet his gaze. If you hadn’t known him as well as you did, you might have missed it—but there was something there. You could’ve sworn it was regret. Or longing swirling in his eyes.
You shook off the thought, dismissing it as wishful thinking.
You broke eye contact first and without another word, you slid into the car.
Bruce followed a moment later, settling into the seat beside you. The door closed with a soft click, and Alfred took his place behind the wheel. As the car pulled away, the glow of Wayne Enterprises receded behind you,
For several moments, neither of you spoke.
Bruce sat beside you, posture rigid. You stared out the window, watching the city unfold—familiar streets, familiar towers—everything suddenly carrying the strange weight of impermanence. After all, who knew if Gotham would still feel like home once the divorce was finalized. You certainly had the money and freedom to choose to leave if you decided.
“Is that a new dress?” he asked at last breaking the silence.
“Mhm. Not really,” you hummed. “I’ve had it hanging in the closet for a while. I just… thought it was finally time to wear it.”
He glanced at you then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“It suits you,” he murmured.
You turned toward him in surprise, the softness of it catching you off guard. Then his phone vibrated.
His attention dropped immediately to the screen, as it lit up his face. You didn’t mean to look, but the name had caught your eye and you felt your heart drop.
Julie Madison.
Your gaze drifted back to the window, the city lights blurring slightly as the car continued on. You let your expression settle back into neutrality, smoothing away the flickers of hurt you refused to acknowledge.
This—this—was why you were leaving.
Not out of anger. Not even because of betrayal. But because of the quiet, relentless reminder that you were never his first choice.
The gala was already in full swing by the time you stepped inside.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall in warm, golden light, their reflections glinting off polished marble floors and silk-clad shoulders. The room hummed with low murmurs and whispered gossip. At the sight of you and Bruce, heads turned almost immediately to watch you two walk in.
Whatever your private problems there was no denying that you two made a striking pair. Both attractive and powerful, the two of you were considered untouchable…if only they all knew.
You moved through the room together, making the customary rounds, and the whispers followed.
Some were appreciative.
Some were disapproving.
Your attire was certainly one of the main points of conversations. A few women looked at you with open admiration, eyes bright with envy or respect. Others smiled tightly, their disapproval thinly veiled behind practiced civility. Compliments were offered freely, as they gushed over the dress asking where you got it, who the designer was, so and so forth. Even the criticism came wrapped in backhanded praise, because no one in the room was foolish enough to be openly unkind. Not when no one dared to incite the wrath of the Waynes.
You accepted it all with easy grace.
Their opinions held no real weight with you. Gotham’s elite were nothing if not fickle, and truly genuine souls were rare among them. You had long since lost any desire to entertain the judgments of people who smiled sweetly to your face, only to stab you in the back the moment you turned away.
Bruce remained at your side as the evening unfolded, his hand a constant, careful presence at the small of your back. Together, you moved through the crowd with practiced ease—greeting donors and board members, pausing for photographs, exchanging pleasantries that meant little to you but was necessary to maintain images. You both played your roles flawlessly.
If Bruce noticed the way people looked at you, he didn’t say a word. But you felt it. The subtle tightening of his hand whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long where it shouldn’t, the slight shift of his stance between you and them, his possessiveness without being overt.
Eventually, he was pulled away by Winston, the CEO of another major energy corporation. You’d been about to follow, intent on polite introductions, when a familiar figure caught your eye across the room.
Andrew.
The CEO of Nexus.
Your focus sharpened instantly. Without hesitation, you angled toward him, weaving smoothly through the clusters of guests.
“Andrew,” you called as you approached, deftly lifting two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and offering him one.
He turned at the sound of his name, surprise flickering briefly across his features before recognition settled in. “Mrs. Wayne.”
You took his hand, your grip firm and assured. “Please,” you said lightly. “Tonight, just Y/N.”
A quiet laugh escaped him as he accepted the glass. “Only if you call me Andrew.”
You smiled. “Deal.”
You angled your body toward a quieter corner near the terrace doors, away from the hum of overlapping conversations and polite laughter. The music was quieter there, the city lights visible through tall panes of glass. Andrew followed without hesitation.
“I’ve been reviewing the Eden proposal again,” he said once you both were out of earshot from the other guests, lowering his voice. “I won’t deny it—it’s a visionary project.”
You waited.
His gaze drifted toward the city beyond the glass, thoughtful. “But the board at Nexus remains… cautious. The cost alone is substantial. The resources required to rehabilitate land that compromised—it’s not insignificant.”
He turned back to you, expression careful now, measured the way men in his position learned to be. “And Gotham isn’t exactly known for rewarding humanitarian efforts. There’s no guaranteed return value. No clean projections.”
You inclined your head slightly, acknowledging the concern, inviting him to continue without interruption.
“In the end,” Andrew said, meeting your eyes again, “Nexus has to be confident it’s securing the best possible deal for the company.”
“I understand that,” you replied calmly. “Eden was never designed to be a quick return. It’s a long play—expensive upfront, slow to show dividends.”
Andrew took a measured sip of his champagne. “That’s exactly the concern. Nexus isn’t a charity.”
“Neither is Wayne Enterprises,” you said evenly. “But we’re also not blind to the cost of doing nothing.”
That caught his attention. He tilted his head slightly, inviting you to continue.
“Those properties Nexus owns?” you said. “They’re liabilities disguised as assets. Every year they sit untouched, they cost you—environmental penalties, insurance premiums, quiet settlements. And even public scrutiny.”
Andrew exhaled. “You’re not wrong.”
You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Eden doesn’t just address the damage. It transfers the risk. Wayne Enterprises absorbs the cleanup costs, the audits, the remediation. Nexus walks away with regulatory goodwill and equity in the redevelopment phase.”
He frowned slightly. “Equity that won’t mature for years.”
“Equity that will,” you countered without missing a beat. “And when it does, it’ll be tied to housing, infrastructure, and clean water—not facilities that raise questions five years down the line.”
Andrew studied you for a long moment, the glass forgotten in his hand. “You’re asking us to bet on patience.”
“I’m asking you to bet on inevitability,” you replied. “Because whether Nexus chooses Eden or not, that land will have to be addressed eventually. “
Andrew sighed. “LexCorp would move faster.”
“Too right on that.” The voice slid into the conversation like oil on water.
You stiffened, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass before you forced them to relax.
“Lex,” you said coolly, the name tasting sour on your tongue.
“Mrs. Wayne,” Lex Luthor drawled, his eyes roaming with open appraisal. “My, you are a vision tonight.”
His gaze lingered far too long, unapologetic and hungry. You resisted the instinctive urge to step back, lifting your chin instead and meeting his look head-on.
“Come to enjoy the view, Mr. Luthor?” you asked flatly.
“I have,” he purred, sending you a smug smile. His attention flicked briefly to Andrew. “I couldn’t help overhearing—Nexus weighing its options.”
Andrew’s expression cooled. “We’re in the middle of a discussion.”
“Of course,” Lex said smoothly. “I simply thought it worth mentioning that LexCorp doesn’t believe in dragging its feet when opportunity presents itself.”
Andrew’s shoulders stiffened beside you. “We were just—“
“—discussing speed,” Lex cut in smoothly, his gaze never leaving your face. “Efficiency. Things Gotham could certainly use more of.” His smile sharpened. “Nexus has an impressive portfolio of land assets. Wasted potential, really. Left to rot for years. I’m surprised it’s taken this long to divest land that continues to cost the company billions.”
“Some would call it restraint,” you said evenly. “After all, Nexus should consider all of its options before committing to a course of action—and choose the one that truly serves the company’s long-term interests.”
Andrew glanced at you, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something closer to gratitude. He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging the support.
Lex laughed softly, the sound smooth and dismissive. “Some would call it fear.”
Andrew shifted beside you, his discomfort plain now. “We were discussing long-term viability.”
“Of course you were,” Lex replied easily. “Eden.” He let the name linger, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Wayne Enterprises does love a legacy project. Very… sentimental.”
Your spine stiffened at the casual familiarity he seemed to have of the project. The details and the name hadn’t been released publicly yet, and the way he said it made your skin prickle.
Lex’s gaze flicked briefly to Andrew. “But sentiment doesn’t clean land faster. It doesn’t quiet regulators. And it certainly doesn’t protect a board when things get messy.”
You turned fully toward him then, your expression cool and unflinching. “And cutting corners doesn’t make consequences disappear,” you said evenly. “It just delays them.”
You made a deliberate choice not to acknowledge the fact that he clearly knew confidential details. Calling it out would only open the door to questions you had no intention of answering. Like questions about who leaked the information, about how secure the internal security of Wayne enterprises really was, or about how Wayne Enterprises could promise to protect and reassure Nexus if it couldn’t even safeguard its own information.
Lex would relish that opening. You would be damned if you would give it to him.
Lex’s eyes gleamed with interest. “You really believe Eden won’t become a money pit?”
“I believe,” you replied calmly, “that burying contamination under concrete is what turned Gotham into a liability in the first place.”
The smile on his face tightened, just slightly.
Lex’s gaze dipped down to your body again. His gaze leering but purposeful. He wanted to make you uncomfortable.
“You’re passionate,” he said smoothly. “I’ll give you that. I can see why Wayne married you.” His lips curved. “Shame to see the marriage ending so soon.”
Your spine went rigid, but your expression remained composed.
“My marriage,” you said calmly, “is not a talking point for business negotiations.”
Lex chuckled softly, entirely unbothered. “Everything is a talking point when it affects stability,” he replied. “Nexus is choosing a partner, after all. Continuity matters.”
Beside you, Andrew shifted, the discomfort written plainly across his face.
“Funny,” you continued, unfazed, your voice cool and precise, “how concern for stability only seems to arise when it suits your narrative.”
Lex’s eyes narrowed just a fraction.
“I’m merely pointing out,” he said evenly, “that if the rumours about you and Bruce’s divorce are true, it could result in a change of leadership—and therefore a change in how this project is handled.”
“And I’m pointing out,” you replied without missing a beat, “that Eden doesn’t hinge on my marital status. It hinges on contracts and mutually agreed-upon terms.” Your gaze held his, unyielding. “Rest assured—Wayne Enterprises, with or without me, will continue to conduct every deal with integrity and honour.”
Lex snorted dismissively, lips parting as he prepared to respond—
—but before he could, an arm slid around your waist.
The scent of the cologne instantly told you who it was as Bruce stepped in close. Close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the solid warmth of him seeping into you. His hand rested easily against you, thumb swiping along your hip in what seemed like his attempt at comfort.
“Is there a problem?” he asked lightly.
His voice calm, deceptively mild but you knew your husband well enough to know he was far from happy. Playboy or not, Bruce Wayne could be viciously sharp when he chose to be.
Lex turned, surprise flickering across his features before his familiar smile snapped back into place. “Bruce. We were just discussing stability.”
Bruce glanced down at you briefly, noting the tight line of your jaw, the unmistakable glare aimed Lex’s way. Then he looked back at the other billionaire, smile never wavering.
“Stability,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. His grin widened just a touch. “Interesting choice…I didn’t realize you’d developed such an appreciation for long-term commitments.”
Lex’s mouth tightened a fraction.
“Any project of this magnitude requires confidence in leadership,” Lex replied smoothly. “Rumours don’t help.”
Bruce gave a soft laugh, the kind that sounded friendly and easy-going to anyone listening—but carried an edge if you knew him well enough.
“Oh, rumours are Gotham’s favourite pastime,” he said lightly. “Right after bribery and blackmail. I’m sure you’re used to it.”
Lex lifted his glass, eyes narrowing just a shade. “I’m simply pointing out that projects of this scale require confidence in leadership. Uncertainty makes investors nervous.”
“Oh, investors are always nervous,” Bruce replied with effortless charm. “That’s why they pay people like us obscene amounts of money—to pretend we’re not.”
He reached out smoothly, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray, and tapped it lightly against Lex’s glass.
“Besides,” Bruce went on, his tone easy, conversational, “if rumours were enough to derail Wayne Enterprises, I’d have been bankrupt by the time I was twenty.”
A ripple of polite laughter spread among a few nearby guests, who took the remark for self-deprecation—a billionaire poking fun at his own tabloid reputation.
Lex, however, didn’t laugh. His eyes sharpened, the humour missing him entirely. “Public perception matters.”
“Of course it does,” Bruce agreed cheerfully, unbothered. “Which is precisely why I’m very selective about who I’m seen aligning with.” His gaze flicked narrowing—pointedly—at Lex. “But if you’re that concerned about Wayne Enterprises, Lex, then allow me to put Andrew at ease.”
Bruce turned to Andrew.
“Wayne Enterprises doesn’t make decisions based on gossip,” Bruce said calmly. “We make them based on contracts, results… and whether the people across the table are actually capable of delivering what they promise.”
He let the words settle, then continued with an easy, almost careless lift of his brow. “And since we’re talking about leadership, I should probably clarify something else.”
He shifted just enough to angle himself subtly between you and Lex—an unspoken line drawn. The message was clear. Off limits.
“Wayne Enterprises isn’t fragile,” Bruce went on, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “It doesn’t hinge on headlines, rumours, or who the tabloids think I’m having dinner with this week.” He paused. “…Or my marital status.”
A few nearby guests chuckled again. Andrew, however, was watching closely now, his interest sharpened.
“Trust me,” Bruce added lightly, lifting his glass and taking an unhurried sip, “if it did, Gotham would’ve eaten me alive years ago.”
He lowered the glass, his gaze never leaving Lex.
“What does matter,” Bruce continued, “is follow-through. Environmental accountability. And not cutting corners just because no one’s watching yet.”
Lex let out a force chuckle. “You’re painting me as careless.”
Bruce shrugged lazily. “I’m painting you as… efficient.” His smile was easy, almost friendly. “It’s just that some of us prefer efficiency that doesn’t come with congressional hearings attached.”
You nearly snorted, catching yourself just in time to disguise it as a cough. Bruce turned toward you at once, concern flickering across his face, but you waved him off casually. Reaching out, you plucked the glass from his hand and took a quick sip—only to pause mid-swallow.
That wasn’t champagne.
You lowered the flute slightly, confusion knitting your brows as the mild burn of ginger ale registered. You glanced at the glass, then at Bruce, suspicion blooming just as he offered you an infuriatingly innocent look. Before you could say anything—or demand an explanation—Andrew cleared his throat.
“Wayne’s proposal does offer long-term insulation from regulatory fallout,” he admitted, his tone thoughtful now rather than guarded. “That’s been a significant point of debate at Nexus.”
Taking the glass back from you, Bruce lifted the glass toward Andrew, a friendly grin settling easily into place.
“Let’s be honest,” he said lightly. “Eden isn’t sexy. It’s boring. Expensive.”
You shot him a sharp glare, one he absolutely deserved—but your infuriating, soon-to-be ex-husband ignored it entirely. If anything, he looked amused. His smile widened, smooth and unbothered, as though he hadn’t just dismissed years of work with a handful of carefully chosen words.
“It’s not a publicity stunt,” Bruce continued easily. “There won’t be any dramatic unveiling. No glowing towers, no flashy press releases. No me cutting a ribbon and pretending I know how all the construction put into the project works.”
He tilted his head, mock thoughtful.
“Well. I could pretend,” he added, glancing down at his suit. “But who would believe that coming from a man in a hundred-thousand-dollar Armani?”
Andrew snorted despite himself, the tension easing just a fraction.
“But what Eden is,” Bruce continued smoothly, his tone shifting into something more sincere without losing its casual cadence, “is solid.”
He spoke as though he weren’t discussing a project worth billions—like this was just another conversation over drinks rather than a turning point. His arm remained firm at your waist.
“Every aspect has been meticulously thought out to benefit all parties involved,” he went on. “And what’s even more solid than the numbers is the woman behind the project.”
Your glare faltered, softening into something closer to surprise, and your throat tightened despite your best efforts to remain composed. The praise hit you harder than it should have, you didn’t expect him to sound this sincere and confident in you. As if sensing the shift, his thumb moved almost imperceptibly at your side, a gentle, grounding stroke meant only for you.
Damn this man.
“Rest assured,” Bruce finished smoothly, lifting his glass once more, his tone all effortless confidence, “Wayne Enterprises has every intention of honouring the terms agreed upon by Nexus and Y/N.”
Lex studied him, his gaze flicking briefly to where Bruce’s hand remained possessively in place. “Spoken like a man protecting his interests.”
Bruce’s smile softened—but only on the surface. “Spoken like a man who knows them.”
Lex’s lips pressed thin. “You’re awfully confident for someone whose personal life is currently under a microscope.”
Bruce’s grin turned razor sharp.
“Oh, my personal life is always under a microscope,” he replied lightly. “That’s what happens when you’re rich, handsome, and tragically charming.” He tilted his head, mock-curious. “Must not be something you’re used to, I guess.”
Both you and Andrew coughed at the same time as Bruce lifted his glass in a lazy, mocking salute.
“But don’t worry,” he added, voice almost playful. “When Eden moves forward, it’ll give the tabloids something new to obsess over.” The smile Bruce gave didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll be able to read all about it in the papers—just like everyone else.”
Lex’s grip tightened around his glass, knuckles blanching as crystal creaked softly under the pressure. For a fleeting moment, you half-expected it to shatter in his hand.
Having grown up with that egomaniac, both you and Bruce knew exactly where to poke. And the most effective blow of all was the same one every time—implying that Lex Luthor was no different from anyone else.
You half expected him to stamp his foot and throw a tantrum but instead, Lex only levelled Bruce with a cold glare and a tight, brittle smile, his teeth audibly grinding behind it.
Andrew’s attention shifted between the three of you now—no longer weighing numbers alone. Something more contemplative crossed his expression.
“I think,” he said slowly, “the board will want to revisit the ethical framework before making any decisions.”
“Of course,” you replied smoothly, unfazed. “We look forward to Nexus’s decision.”
Bruce inclined his head with polite ease. “Take all the time you need.”
Then, turning slightly toward you, his hand firm at your waist, he added with casual authority, “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—I believe I owe my wife a dance.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He guided you forward, seamlessly pulling you into the crowd. Lex’s stare burned into your back as the two of you disappeared beneath chandeliers and shifting bodies.
“Has Lex been causing you trouble?” Bruce murmured near your ear, his voice low, the easy charm gone—replaced by something darker.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” you replied tightly, lifting a hand in dismissal as you took a half step back, ready to put space between you and him.
Bruce caught your arm.
The touch was gentle, but decisive enough to stop you cold. You turned, meeting his gaze. For a moment, the noise of the gala seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you suspended in something unspoken.
Bruce exhaled slowly, as if choosing his next words with care. “Lex doesn’t play fair. If he pushes, if he tries to undermine you—”
“I’ll deal with it,” you cut in firmly. “This is my project. And I’ve been putting Lex in his place since we were kids.” Your gaze didn’t waver. “I can handle him.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, something close to admiration softening his expression.
“I know,” he said.
You studied him for a beat longer than necessary, searching for a crack in the armour he wore so effortlessly. Instead, he offered you a lazy, practiced smile, all playboy ease as he held out a hand in offering.
“Shall we, Mrs. Wayne?”
You swallowed, then nodded.
His hand settled at your waist, fingers warm even through the fabric of your dress, guiding you closer as the orchestra swelled. You let yourself follow his lead, moving with him easily, muscle memory carrying you through the steps—an old familiarity born of countless lessons you’d been forced to endure as children, ironically enough with Bruce as your partner.
“You’ve been turning heads tonight,” he murmured, voice low. “Even more than usual.”
You gave a noncommittal hum, deliberately keeping your eyes elsewhere, unwilling to meet his gaze when it felt so gentle looking at you
“And the dress—” He paused, his attention dipping briefly before lifting again. “It suits you.”
“So you’ve already said,” you replied blandly, though your heart betrayed you with its uneven rhythm.
He let out a soft, breathy chuckle.
Something shifted then—his expression morphed into something determined and resolute. You felt it in the way his grip tightened at your waist, the way his attention narrowed until it seemed as though the rest of the ballroom had fallen away. He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed warm against your ear.
“There’s something I need to—”
“Bruce!”
Julie’s voice cut cleanly through the moment. So very perfectly timed.
She appeared at his shoulder, all bright, polished smiles, her hand already reaching out to rest on his arm as though it belonged there. “I was hoping I’d get a dance before the night was over.”
For a moment, you simply stared at her—at the innocence she wore so convincingly. Of everyone who knew about the impending divorce, she was the only one connected to Lex Luthor, and the only one you wouldn’t put it past to let something slip.
You wondered, whether Bruce realized she was still in contact with her ex—one of Wayne Enterprises’ biggest rivals, no less.
Soon, it wouldn’t be your problem.
Bruce had chosen her. He could deal with the consequences of that choice, so long as it didn’t touch Eden.
And yet…
The worrying question lingered: who had been leaking private information about the project in the first place? Eden’s details weren’t public. Access was restricted, tightly controlled. Julie shouldn’t have known anything—unless—
Your fingers curled slowly at your side.
Unless Bruce had been careless enough to leave sensitive files open in his desk. Unless, in his distraction, he’d left her unattended in his office.
“—Y/N?”
You blinked, the angered edge of your thoughts dissolving as your fingers uncurled. Julie was looking at you now, her expression open and expectant. Bruce stood beside her, concern flickering across his face as he searched yours.
“Hm?” you murmured.
“Is it alright if I steal Bruce away for a dance?” Julie asked lightly.
Your expression smoothed instantly, composure sliding back into place like a well-worn mask. You offered a polite smile. “Of course,” you said evenly.
After all, it wasn’t as though Bruce actually belonged to you to be stolen.
Before Bruce could protest—before he could even open his mouth—you released him and stepped back. Then you turned and slipped away into the crowd, not daring to look over your shoulder. You couldn’t bear the sight of him and Julie together, couldn’t stomach watching history repeat itself in real time.
By the time you reached the bar, you had made the decision to drink your feelings away. If you were going to feel this hollow, this exposed, then you might as well numb the edges.
All your worries and problems would be a tomorrow you’s problem. Tonight, you needed a distraction
You slid onto a barstool and signalled for a drink without bothering to specify what kind, just motioning to the top shelf. The bartender moved quickly, glass appearing in front of you moments later, amber liquid catching the light.
You wrapped your fingers around it and took a generous sip.
The burn was sharp and welcome, cutting through the tightness in your chest.
“Now this,” a familiar voice purred beside you, “is a sight I don’t see often.”
You turned, a rueful grin tugging at your lips as Selina slipped into the empty stool next to you, black dress clinging like it had been painted on, confidence radiating off her in waves.
“Care to join me in drowning my pathetic emotions?” you asked, lifting your glass slightly in invitation.
Selina snorted and flagged the bartender for her own drink without hesitation. “Always.”
Selina accepted her glass, took a measured sip, then leaned back against the bar, one arm draped loosely as her eyes swept the room with sharp, feline interest.
“I swear,” she said dryly, “that man does not deserve you.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re biased.”
“Wildly,” Selina replied without a hint of shame. Then her head tilted, gaze narrowing as she searched the ballroom. “So—where is our favourite emotionally repressed billionaire tonight?”
You tipped your chin toward the crowd.
Bruce and Julie moved together with an ease that looked far too natural. The sight tightened something in your chest, and you looked away before the ache could deepen. You missed the way Bruce’s gaze tracked you anyway, unguarded and yearning, until it collided with Selina’s. Her eyes narrowed instantly.
You’re an idiot, she mouthed at him before turning her back.
“Mhm,” you said lightly, lifting your glass. “Well, we’re getting a divorce. So he’s free to do as he pleases.”
Selina’s head snapped toward you, outrage flaring bright and theatrical—as if she hadn’t already heard the news straight from him. “He wanted a divorce?” she demanded. “That bastard.”
“Actually,” you corrected calmly, taking another sip, “I did.”
She rose a brow. “You?”
“I can’t keep doing this with him.”
Selina took a slow sip, eyes never leaving your face, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. “He’s still a bastard.”
A soft, humourless huff escaped you. “What did I expect from the richest man in Gotham?” you said lightly. “It was stupid to think an arranged marriage could tame the city’s billionaire playboy. Bruce will do what he’s always done—what he wants. I’m just making it easier for him.”
Selina’s jaw tightened. “He never deserved you,” she muttered. “You’ve been more patient with him than anyone I know.”
You shrugged, the motion deceptively light. “Maybe. But it was because I kept clinging to the hope that we could actually make this marriage work. We were close, once upon a time.”
Unable to help yourself your gaze drifted, unbidden, to the dance floor.
You swallowed, the memory sitting heavy beneath your ribs. “I thought… maybe we could find our way back to that.”
Bruce stood with Julie hanging comfortably off his arm. The sight had your throat tightening and you wondered why you still cared.
“Now I realize,” you added, your voice softer still, “that was wishful thinking.”
Selina opened her mouth, clearly ready to say something, but another voice cut in.
“Every time I see you,” it drawled, rich with amusement, “you somehow get more stunning.”
Your head turned at once, and a genuine smile bloomed across your face. “Ollie.”
You rose from the bar stool and stepped into Oliver Queen’s open arms, returning the embrace without hesitation. When you pulled back, his gaze flicked to Selina, a spark of recognition and mischief lighting his expression.
“Kitty.”
She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “Robin Hood.”
Your brows knit together at the exchange, confusion flickering briefly—but before you could voice it, Oliver had already turned his attention back to you, all easy charm and curiosity.
“So,” he said casually, leaning an elbow against the bar, “what are we drinking to tonight?”
You opened your mouth—
And Selina beat you to it.
A wicked smirk curved her lips as she lifted her glass. “Y/N and Bruce’s divorce.”
Oliver blinked, his gaze snapping between the two of you, disbelief written plainly across his face. “Wait—what?” he demanded. “He asked for one?!”
You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the burn steady you as you ignored the uncomfortable truth behind his assumption. Had you really been that obvious? That much of a lovesick fool for a man who never quite chose you?
“Actually,” you said calmly, setting the glass down, “I did.”
Oliver’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something darker, more contemplative. His gaze flicked briefly toward the dance floor, where Bruce still stood with Julie at his side, before sliding to Selina. She met his look with a subtle shake of her head, a silent warning, before his attention returned to you.
What you didn’t realize was that both Selina and Oliver knew the truth.
They’d seen it—in the way Bruce watched you when he thought no one was paying attention, in the way his composure fractured whenever your name came up, in the quiet restraint he wrapped around himself like armour whenever you were near. They knew how deeply, how disastrously, he loved you.
And neither of them could believe—truly believe—that Bruce Wayne would ever be foolish enough to let you go.
“Well,” he said at last, lifting his glass, his tone carefully measured, “that’s… incredibly unfortunate.”
You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t sound too devastated,” you remarked dryly.
His grin widened immediately, all charm and audacity as he leaned a little closer. “How could I be?” he said lightly. “Gotham’s most desired woman is officially back on the market.”
You blinked—just for a heartbeat—caught off guard long enough to register the unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. Then a laugh escaped you, genuine despite yourself, as you shoved him lightly in the chest.
“You are so full of shit, Oliver Queen,” you said, shaking your head.
He winked, entirely unrepentant. “I’m just saying—I’m thrilled we can finally go out and cause trouble without the guard bat glaring at us from across the room.”
Your brows knit together, confusion flickering across your features. “The what—”
You never got to finish the question.
An arm wrapped firmly around your waist, tugging you back into a hard chest that made your breath hitch despite yourself. The scent of his cologne washed over you.
“It looks like I’m missing the private party over here,” Bruce said, laughing lightly—too lightly—as his gaze swept from Oliver to Selina before settling on you. His hand remained at your waist, possessively as he glared at Oliver over your head.
Oliver’s grin sharpened. “Nothing private about it, B. Just friends catching up.”
Selina lifted her glass, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should try it sometime.”
Bruce ignored her completely, his attention shifting onto you. “Everything alright?”
You gently but unmistakably removed his arm from around your waist, stepping out of his reach before answering. “Perfectly fine.”
The distance was subtle, but it landed like a slap. Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the muscle in his cheek flexing as he restrained whatever instinct threatened to surface.
“We were just talking,” Oliver continued easily, leaning back against the bar as if nothing at all were amiss. “You know—life, changes… fresh starts.”
“Is that so?” Bruce replied coolly.
Oliver hummed in response, completely unapologetic.
You rolled your eyes and reached for your glass, taking a measured sip before turning slightly back toward Oliver, pointedly excluding Bruce from the exchange. “You were saying?” you prompted, hoping—vainly—to derail the brewing dick-measuring contest.
Oliver’s gaze flicked between you and Bruce, amusement dancing openly in his eyes. Then he smiled—slow, knowing. “I was saying that change suits some people.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed sharply, the infamous bat glare making a brief appearance. Unfortunately, Oliver was one of the very few people immune to it, having grown up alongside him.
Oliver’s grin only widened, tauntingly.
Bruce’s fingers twitched at his side—an almost imperceptible tell, but one Selina caught instantly. She stiffened, eyes narrowing as she watched him closely, already bracing herself.
He was seconds away from doing something incredibly stupid.
Like punching the Queen billionaire square in the face.
But in that moment, Julie appeared.
“There you are!” she chimed brightly, looping an arm through Bruce’s as if reclaiming territory. “You disappeared on me, Bruce!”
The contact broke whatever fragile tension had been simmering.
Your fingers tightened around your glass, knuckles whitening for the briefest moment before you forced them to relax. You took a slow breath through your nose, schooling your expression into something cool and unreadable.
Julie’s gaze drifted—first to you, then to Oliver, then to Selina. Her smile thinned. “Oh. What are we all up to?”
Selina lifted her glass in a mock toast, lips curving. “Drinking.”
Oliver smirked. “Catching up.”
Bruce said nothing. His attention had narrowed to you alone now, jaw tight, the arm Julie had claimed stiff beneath her grip—as though he were tolerating the contact rather than welcoming it.
Before you could add something, Selina cut in smoothly, her tone calculated. “Actually…Oliver and Y/N were about to go dance.”
You blinked at Selina, momentarily caught off guard, but she only sent you a conspiratorial wink.
Julie’s lips dipped, just barely. “Oh…”
You raised a brow, the challenge unmistakable. “Problem?”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to Bruce for half a second before returning to you. “Well… I mean, would that be appropriate?” She asked innocently.
Your voice remained cool. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well,” Julie said, choosing her words carefully, “you are married.”
Selina snorted outright. “If that’s the standard,” she said dryly, “then why are you hanging off a married man?” Her gaze swept pointedly over Julie’s grip on Bruce’s arm. “You’ve been glued to him all night like a leech.”
Julie’s face flushed several shades darker. “That’s different,” she snapped. “Everyone knows Bruce and I are childhood friends.”
“And so are Oliver and I,” you said calmly. You offered her a look of mock innocence, all wide eyes and pleasant composure. “I know we don’t always run in the same circles, Julie, but most of the old families grew up together.”
Oliver smiled, lazy and unapologetic, slinging an arm comfortably over your shoulder. “Playdates, boarding schools, shared nannies,” he said with an easy grin. “Really charming stuff.”
Julie’s gaze darted between the three of you, her confidence visibly faltering as she scrambled for footing. “That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly. Then, realizing she was outnumbered, she turned toward Bruce—crocodile tears already welling in her eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just trying to look out for you two.”
Bruce let out a weary sigh, clearly on the verge of stepping in—but you didn’t give him the chance.
“As sweet as that is,” you said evenly, your tone polite but final, “there’s really no need. I’ve already told you—Bruce and I are getting a divorce. So if that’s all…”
You turned away from her without another glance and faced Oliver instead, extending your hand.
“Care to dance?”
He took it instantly, eyes lighting with unmistakable delight. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You didn’t look back as Oliver led you onto the dance floor. You didn’t need to. The music wrapped around you, and you let yourself fall into it. Your shoulders loosened, your steps grew lighter, and the smile that curved your lips was real.
Behind you, Bruce remained where you’d left him—rigid and silent—with Julie’s hand still looped through his arm.
Selina watched the scene unfold with open amusement. She rose gracefully from her stool and crossed the space toward Bruce, heels clicking softly against the marble. Reaching him, she gave his chest a light pat—almost fond—and leaned up to murmur in his ear.
“I’ll tell you again,” she said softly, “you’re an idiot.”
Then she straightened and sauntered away without another glance, leaving Bruce standing alone with the truth he’d been avoiding.
On the dance floor, Oliver spun you once, and laughter bubbled free from your chest before you could stop it. The lights caught the fabric of your dress as you moved, effortless and alive.
Across the room, Bruce could only watch, heart aching as he realized you were slipping through his fingers.
For once, it was Bruce who decided to end the night early.
He found you on the edge of the crowd and minutes later, the two of you were standing outside beneath the portico, waiting for Alfred to bring the car around.
You immediately regretted not bringing a jacket.
What had been a cool, refreshing evening had dropped into something far less pleasant. The cold cut through the thin fabric of your dress, and you crossed your arms tightly over your chest, willing the shiver crawling up your spine to stop.
Suddenly, warmth settled over your shoulders.
You looked up in surprise to find Bruce standing close, his suit jacket draped around you.
“Next time,” he grumbled, “remember to bring a jacket.”
Your eyes narrowed at the tone. “I’m fine,” you replied, already moving to shrug it off.
His hand closed over the lapel, stopping you.
“You’re trembling,” he said flatly. “Keep it.”
You grumbled under your breath, but another sharp gust of wind had you pulling the jacket closer instead. The scent of his cologne lingered—clean, dark, unmistakably him—and before you could stop yourself, you inhaled subtly.
Damn him. You hated how good he smelled.
“Bruce!” Julie’s voice called. You stiffened, biting back a groan. Selina had been right—this woman clung to him like a leech.
Julie slipped up beside him, her smile bright and practiced as she latched onto his arm, giving him a mock frown. “Where’s your jacket? You’re going to catch a chill,” she said, hands roaming over his biceps under the guise of concern. Her fingers rubbed along his sleeves in a way that was anything but subtle.
“I’m fine,” Bruce grunted, neatly stepping out of her grip.
Julie frowned at the rejection, surprise flickering across her face before she smoothed it away. “I was hoping you could give me a ride,” she added lightly. “My driver says the car has a flat.”
Bruce’s gaze flicked to you.
You pointedly looked away, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
“It’s late,” Bruce said evenly, “and my wife isn’t feeling well.” He lifted a hand, flagging down a cab before Julie could respond, and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. “Make sure she gets home safely.”
Julie’s mouth fell open. She tried to protest, but Bruce was already guiding her toward the cab, practically ushering her inside before shutting the door in her face—just as Alfred’s car rolled up to the curb.
Without sparing the cab a second glance, Bruce turned back and opened the door for you, gesturing for you to enter first.
You ducked your head as you slid inside, hating the way warmth bloomed in your chest at the gesture.
One small moment of care, you reminded yourself, didn’t erase years of distance.
The car pulled away smoothly. Silence settled between you and Bruce, thick and heavy, broken only by the muted hum of Gotham passing outside the windows. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the tension radiating off him—coiled and restless. He had something to say. It was obvious in the way he shifted, the way his jaw flexed.
After a few minutes, he finally broke.
“Do you realize you’re still Mrs. Wayne?” Bruce said, his voice controlled but edged. “Dancing with Oliver will only fuel the rumours going around.”
You scoffed softly, the sound sharp with disbelief. The sheer audacity of him—after weeks of Julie on his arm, paraded openly without a shred of consideration.
“Like you have any room to talk,” you muttered, barely bothering to keep the bitterness out of your voice.
Bruce turned to you fully then, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”
You faced him at last, something hard settling into your expression. “I said it’s not much of a rumour when it’s true,” you replied evenly. “And if you find it that scandalizing, then sign the papers and let’s finalize this divorce as soon as possible.”
With a sharp motion, you reached into your bag, pulled out the neatly folded documents, and shoved them into his chest. The papers rustled softly as they struck him.
His jaw clenched. “I’ll need a lawyer to look them over.”
You rolled your eyes, exhaustion bleeding through the irritation. “Then I suggest you do it soon, Bruce. I want nothing from you. I’ve already agreed to transfer my Wayne Enterprises shares back to you. I don’t want your money. I don’t want your assets.” Your voice steadied, firm and unwavering. “I’ve never asked you for anything—except this. So give me this one thing. It takes a month to finalize.”
His teeth pressed together harder.
A month.
That was how long he had. How long he could stall. How long he could figure out a way to stop this from becoming real.
Reluctantly, he pulled out his pen. He hesitated, eyes flicking from your expectant expression down to the papers, then back again. His jaw tightened, the conflict written plainly across his face. Part of him wanted—needed—to give you what you were asking for. The other part couldn’t accept a world where you weren’t his.
With a quiet exhale, he signed.
Or rather, he made a show of it.
He closed the file quickly and handed it back to you, expression carefully neutral, controlled.
You didn’t notice the way his grip lingered for half a second too long on the folder, not wanting to let it go.
He would find a way to change your mind before the month was up. He had to. Because in no world could he let you go. He was too selfish for that—and he knew it. A hypocrite, through and through. He had kept you despite knowing he couldn’t give you what you needed. And now, faced with losing you, he realized the truth he’d been avoiding all along.
You were what he needed.
You let out a small breath as you took the folder back. Something heavy in your chest sank when you saw him give in and sign without a fight—but alongside it came a strange lightness, as if a weight you’d been carrying for years had finally loosened its grip.
You didn’t bother to check the document. There was no reason to distrust him. Not with something like this. Not after everything you’d shared.
You carefully slid the file back into your bag.
This was it.
The first step toward moving on from Bruce Wayne.
Hell. Bruce Wayne was certain he’d somehow been dragged straight into it.
He’d even gone so far as to contact John Constantine—just to be sure he hadn’t slipped into an alternate reality, a curse, or some particularly cruel cosmic joke. Unfortunately, Constantine had only laughed, lit a cigarette, and confirmed the worst truth of all:
This was real.
And you were truly set on divorcing him.
Ever since the news broke, Gotham had gone unnervingly quiet. The whispers of Batman’s foul mood had spread fast through the criminal underbelly, and like rats sensing a flood, they’d scattered. No muggings. No evil schemes. No desperate villains looking to cause their usual brand of chaos. For once no one dared to piss off the Bat.
Which meant Bruce had no outlet.
No criminals to bleed the anger into.
No bruises to dull the ache.
And no you.
He carried it all with him—everywhere. A volatile mix of fury, regret, misery… and want. Because even now, especially now, the thing he wanted most in the world was his wife.
Soon to be his ex.
And that knowledge burned hotter than any hell Constantine could’ve dragged him through.
“Why so glum, Bats?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened at the sound of Oliver Queen’s voice. He turned to find him perched casually nearby, clad in green, far too relaxed for someone standing within striking distance. The white lenses of Bruce’s cowl narrowed.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
Oliver grinned, unbothered by the look as he spun one of his arrows between his fingers like a toy. “What? Not happy to see me?”
Bruce’s glare sharpened, a silent warning.
Oliver only laughed, the sound bright and infuriating against the weight pressing down on Bruce’s chest. “Don’t tell me you’re still brooding about that little dance I had with Y/N.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched.
Oliver sighed, long and theatrical. “Relax, Bats. It was a dance. No vows were broken. No laws were violated.” He tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “And if we’re being honest—she looked like she was having fun. Which is more than I’ve seen in a long time.”
Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides, leather creaking under the strain. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
Oliver’s expression shifted. The grin faded, replaced by something more serious. “I know you’re screwing it up.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t get to have it both ways,” Oliver continued, voice firm now. “You don’t get to ice her out and then bare your teeth when someone else makes her smile.”
“Stay out of it,” Bruce growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Oliver stepped closer anyway, utterly unbothered by the threat rolling off him. “Don’t forget—I consider her like a little sister. And I won’t stand around and watch you keep hurting her.”
The punch came without warning.
A sharp crack split the air as Bruce’s fist connected with Oliver’s cheekbone, the impact snapping his head to the side. For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then Oliver straightened slowly, infuriatingly calm.
He rolled his jaw once, testing it, before shrugging as though he’d taken an inconvenient elbow on the court instead of a full-force punch from Batman. With his thumb, he wiped the thin trail of blood from the corner of his mouth and glanced at it briefly, unimpressed.
“Feel better, princess?” he asked mildly.
Bruce only answered with a grunt, chest heaving.
Oliver watched him for a moment longer, then sighed, shaking his head.
“You know what the worst part is?” he said quietly. “You actually love her. I can see it. Hell, everyone can.” His gaze hardened. “But you refuse to let her in.”
Bruce turned back sharply. “I can’t.”
Oliver shook his head, frustration finally bleeding through. “This isn’t being fucking righteous, Bruce. It’s cowardice.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re hurting her. And you’re hurting yourself.”
Bruce said nothing.
“If you can’t let her in,” Oliver continued quietly, “then let her go.”
“I can’t,” Bruce ground out, the words dragged from somewhere raw and ugly in his chest.
Silence stretched between them, thick and volatile.
At last, Oliver stepped back, giving Bruce space, though his eyes never left him. “I’m not your enemy, B. But I won’t apologize for standing up for her.”
He paused, then added, almost too casually, “And for what it’s worth? If you keep hesitating, someone else won’t.”
Bruce’s head snapped up, eyes burning with anger. “You wouldn’t.”
Oliver lifted his hands in surrender, calm and honest. “You know I wouldn’t. Dinah and I are solid.” His expression sobered. “But someone else will. Let her in, or let her go. There’s still time to save your marriage—before it turns into something unsalvageable.”
Then he turned and walked away, boots echoing softly against concrete, leaving Bruce alone with the truth Oliver had shoved straight into his chest.
Four damn weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and Bruce was no closer to figuring out how to make you stay.
He’d been foolish enough to hope something would change—that the small, almost imperceptible lift in your mood meant there was still a chance.
Your conversations remained polite, cordial, and painfully distant. At work, any communication went through your assistant, who might as well have been a professionally trained guard dog. Invitations to breakfast, lunch, dinner—declined with perfect courtesy.
No matter what he tried, you stayed just out of reach.
The tabloids, courtesy of Lex Luthor, were having a field day. Speculation buzzed endlessly, theories multiplying by the hour—but neither of you confirmed a thing.
It was obvious you wanted this divorce to happen cleanly and quietly as possible. But unfortunately for you, Bruce Wayne had never been the better man when it came to letting go.
That morning, he sat at the kitchen table in a foul mood, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold as he flipped through the papers. Gossip headlines screamed up at him from the page, each more ridiculous than the last.
This time, apparently, he’d caught you with a younger gigolo.
The article suggested you’d run off with the man because he couldn’t keep up with your voracious appetite.
Bruce stared at the headline for a long moment.
His jaw tightened. His fingers creased the paper.
“Remind me,” he muttered darkly, “to buy the Gotham press and fire this journalist.”
“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied with a weary sigh, already far too accustomed to damage control of this variety.
Before anything more could be said, the sound of heels cut sharply through the room.
“I trust your schedule is open,” you said coolly as you stepped in, gaze locking onto him, “so we can get everything finalized.”
Bruce blinked—once. Then again.
Confusion flickered across his face before realization hit like a gut punch.
Your eyes narrowed. “It’s been a month, Bruce,” you said evenly. “Today’s the day.”
His eyes widened just enough to give him away. “I—I have a meeting this morning,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.
Now it was your turn to blink.
“Oh?” you asked, voice deceptively calm. “I don’t remember seeing it on the schedule.”
“It was last minute,” Bruce said quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded way too fake. “You know how Winston gets.”
He made a point of not looking at Alfred, who regarded him with a look so unimpressed it bordered on judgment.
You studied Bruce for a moment longer than necessary, then let out a slow breath. “Fine. After the meeting, then,” you said evenly. “I’ll set it up for lunch.”
Bruce nodded a little too fast. “Of course.”
You turned and strode away without another word, heels clicking decisively against the marble. The moment you were out of sight, Bruce’s shoulders sagged. He dropped back into his chair and dragged a hand down his face.
A long, tired sigh left him.
“You cannot keep postponing this, Master Bruce,” Alfred said quietly. “If you are unwilling to tell the madam the truth, then you must give her what she wants.”
“I can’t, Alfred,” Bruce muttered, staring down at the desk. “I didn’t sign the papers.”
Alfred froze.
“…What?”
Bruce let out a rough breath. “I was hoping,” he admitted, voice low and bitter, “that she’d change her mind.”
Alfred closed his eyes for a brief moment, the disappointment unmistakable.
“Then, sir,” he said at last, “you are not buying time. You are only ensuring that when the truth comes out, it will hurt her far more than honesty ever would.”
Bruce only sighed, heavy and exhausted, staring at nothing in particular.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred continued quietly, “I have watched the madam for five years.” He folded his hands behind his back. “The first two—when you were gone—devastated her. And yet she kept the company afloat. She stood firm while board members challenged her authority, while shareholders doubted her, while the city whispered that Wayne Enterprises would crumble without its heir.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“And the last three years,” Alfred went on, “were met not with your absence, but with your distance. Your coldness. Your relentless pursuit of the cowl, while she stood beside you in name only.”
The silence stretched.
“If you cannot let her in,” Alfred said softly, “then you must let her go. Let her find someone who can give her what you refuse to.”
Bruce swallowed.
“I love her, Alfred,” he admitted at last, the words stripped bare of bravado.
“I know,” Alfred replied without hesitation. “That is why your parents agreed to such a contract when you were still a child. They saw the love between you long before either of you understood what it was.” He paused. “But sometimes, Master Bruce, loving someone means setting them free.”
Bruce pushed back from the desk abruptly and stood, tension radiating from every line of his body.
“I’m heading to the office,” he muttered, already turning away—running from the truth he wasn’t yet ready to face.
Five times you called, and five times he let it go to voicemail.
Bruce knew he was late. He knew you were furious for him delaying the meeting. He just didn’t know how to tell you the truth: that he had never signed the papers.
A hesitant knock broke the silence.
His assistant cracked the door open, hovering nervously. “Mr. Wayne… it’s your wife.”
Bruce didn’t even look up from where he was staring at the ceiling. “Tell her the meeting is taking longer than expected.”
The door closed.
Then opened again.
Bruce exhaled hard, already preparing a sharp rebuke—but the words died on his tongue when he looked down and saw Clark stepping into the office. One glance at the pitying expression on his face told Bruce everything he needed to know.
Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let me guess,” he muttered. “It’s your turn to tell me to let her in or let her go?”
Clark tucked his hands into his pockets, striding further into the room. His expression was carefully neutral in that infuriatingly gentle way of his—but the concern was there all the same.
“Oliver’s worried,” Clark said quietly. “So am I.” He paused, then added, almost dryly, “And for the record, punching me would only hurt you.”
Bruce scoffed and paced once across the office before turning back to him. “You all seem very invested in my marriage all of a sudden.”
Clark studied him for a long moment before answering. “Because this isn’t just about the marriage.”
Bruce stilled.
“This is about you,” Clark continued evenly. “And the fact that you’re letting paranoia and fear run your life.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Clark replied gently. “I’ve watched you push people away for years. I’ve watched you convince yourself that protecting someone means keeping them at arm’s length.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And now—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—now you’re finally facing the consequence of that working.”
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks in his control. “She’s asking me to sign my own damn heart away.”
“No,” Clark corrected quietly. “She’s asking you to respect her choice.”
Bruce let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
Clark didn’t rise to the bait. “Is it?”
That made Bruce look at him.
“You think I don’t know what it costs?” Clark continued. “Letting someone see the parts of you that scare you. The parts you’re convinced would break them.” He paused, voice soft but unwavering. “I chose to trust Lois with that. You never gave her that chance.”
“I can’t,” Bruce whispered, the word torn from him.
Clark stepped closer, his presence calm but unyielding. “Then let her go.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re hurting her like this, Bruce,” Clark pressed.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, jaw flexing. “I know.”
“Bruce—”
“I know!” he snapped, the restraint finally shattering. He surged forward, shoving Clark back against the wall, forearm braced at his chest. “I know,” he repeated, voice breaking now, raw and unguarded. “But I can’t. I can’t.”
His grip faltered, anger bleeding into desperation. “I love her, Clark. I love her too damn much to let her go.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “And I love her so much that I’m terrified if she gets any closer—if she really sees everything—she’ll get hurt.”
The admission emptied him.
Bruce sagged, the fight draining out of his body all at once, his forehead dropping forward as if the weight of it had finally become too much to carry alone.
Clark didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in and pulled Bruce into a firm, grounding hug, one hand braced between his shoulder blades. Clark exhaled slowly, feeling Bruce’s pain as if it were his own.
Protests sounded behind the door, muffled and frantic—but Bruce barely had time to register them before the doors slammed open.
You stormed in.
“Mrs. Wayne, please—Mr. Wayne is in a meeting—”
“Save it,” you snapped, already halfway into the office. “There is no damn meeting. I saw Winston at the restaurant with his wife—and he looked genuinely confused when I asked about some supposed meeting with Bruce.”
The assistant faltered behind you, but you were no longer listening.
You stopped short.
Clark’s arms were still around Bruce, in what looked to be an intimate embrace. Bruce’s hair was rumpled, his tie loosened, collar open—disheveled in a way you’d never seen in public.
Your mouth fell open.
Clark froze first, instinctively stepping back, hands lifting in immediate surrender. “This isn’t—”
“I can explain,” Bruce said quickly, straightening as he scrambled for words—any words—to explain why he hadn’t shown up for the settlement meeting. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“You…” Your eyes flicked between him and Clark. “…You and Clark?”
Bruce’s brows drew together in pure confusion, while Clark promptly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red.
“What?” Bruce asked, completely lost.
You dragged a hand through your hair, pacing once before stopping short, eyes widening as if a realization had just slammed into place. “That makes so much sense…”
“What does?” Bruce pressed, genuinely bewildered. He was still trying to figure out why you weren’t yelling—why you weren’t demanding answers about the meeting.
“All these years,” you said slowly, disbelief threading your voice, “why didn’t you tell me you were into men? I would’ve understood.”
Bruce’s eyes went wide. “What?!”
It was your turn to blink. “You and Clark…?” You looked between Bruce’s baffled expression and Clark’s mortified one, your brows knitting together. “You two aren’t together?”
Clark cleared his throat, straightening immediately. “No, ma’am. I assure you—Lois and I are very happily engaged. Bruce just… tripped.” He gestured awkwardly between the two of them. “And you walked in when I caught him.”
You stared at him.
“He tripped,” you repeated flatly.
Clark nodded far too quickly, already backing toward the door. He shot Bruce an apologetic look. “I—I appreciate you agreeing to the interview, Mr. Wayne,” he said, lying with as much professionalism as he could muster.
And with that, he fled.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving the office awkwardly quiet. You turned back to Bruce slowly. He stood there, shoulders tense, jaw set, clearly scrambling for something—anything—to say.
“The meeting went late,” he began.
You lifted a hand.
“Save it,” you said coolly. “I saw Winston at the restaurant. There was no meeting.” Your voice didn’t rise but it was lined with determination. “Enough is enough, Bruce. Let’s finalize this.”
“Y/N…” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“What?” You threw your arms out, frustration finally breaking through. “What could you possibly say this time?”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then, quietly—too quietly—
“We can’t finalize it.”
Your expression stilled. “Excuse me?”
“We can’t finalize it,” he repeated, voice low, steady in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Why not?” Your eyes narrowed. “Everything is settled for a clean and quick break. I want nothing from you.”
His throat bobbed. “Because I never signed the papers.”
The words didn’t register at first.
“What?” you whispered.
“That night,” he said, barely breathing now, “I never signed them.”
Your jaw clenched, a sharp, aching pressure building behind your eyes. Bruce felt it the moment he saw the tears gather there—the betrayal, the hurt, the quiet devastation he’d been trying so desperately to delay.
But you didn’t yell.
Without a word, you turned on your heel and walked away, fury radiating off you in controlled, lethal waves.
“Y/N!” Bruce called, panic crashing through him as he moved after you, his long strides barely keeping up. He nearly had to run to catch you as you stormed down the corridor, heels striking marble like gunshots.
“Stop,” he pleaded. “Please—just let me explain.”
Julie chose that exact moment to step out of the elevators, a bright, hopeful smile on her face and a bakery box cradled in her arms. You nearly collided with her. She gasped in surprise, stumbling back—but you didn’t slow, didn’t apologize, didn’t even look at her.
Neither did Bruce.
He caught up to you a heartbeat later, fingers closing around your arm.
“Y/N—wait, please—”
You whirled around and slapped him across the face. The sound cracked through the office Gasps rippled outward as heads snapped up from desks and glass-walled offices. Julie dropped the box in shock and rushed forward instinctively, hands already lifting toward Bruce’s face.
“Oh my God—Bruce—are you okay—”
He didn’t even register her.
His head was still turned from the impact, jaw tight, cheek stinging—but his eyes were locked on you. And when he saw the tears finally spill, something inside him broke.
“I’ve never asked you for anything,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “Not your money. Not your time. Not your secrets.” A tear slipped free, tracing down your cheek. “I asked you for one thing. Just this. And you still couldn’t give me that.”
Julie bristled, stepping forward like she had a right to be there. “How could you hit him?”
You let out a hollow, disbelieving laugh and turned on her, eyes flashing. “Don’t worry,” you snapped. “It gives you a chance to kiss it better.”
Then your gaze swung back to Bruce, glaring through the tears.
“My lawyers will be in touch,” you said coldly. “I wanted to do this cleanly.” Your voice trembled once, then steadied. “But you’ve made it very clear you had no intention of that.”
With that, you pulled free of his grip.
“Y/N—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand came up, fingers shaking as you slid off the ring from your finger. For a split second it caught the light, the silver diamond gleaming, before you hurled it at his chest. It struck him just below the collarbone and fell to the floor with a soft, hollow clink.
You shook your head once, conveying your disappointment and disgust, and turned away.
Your heels carried you down the hall toward the elevators, back straight, shoulders tight, every step an act of will. You didn’t look back. If you did, you knew you wouldn’t keep moving.
Behind you, Julie reached for him, her voice urgent, hands hovering at his arm, his shoulders, as she fussed over him but he still didn’t even look at her.
His eyes were locked on you as the elevator doors slid open. Locked on the way your reflection fractured in the polished metal, on the tears you hadn’t been able to stop.
He stood frozen, cheek burning, heart in ruins—watching the woman he loved disappear as the doors shut, knowing with brutal clarity that this time… he might have finally lost her for good.
“I hate him,” you groaned, tipping back your glass and draining it in one go.
“Mhm. He’s an idiot,” Selina agreed easily, already flagging the bartender for another round.
Your phone buzzed against the bar. You glanced down, thumb fumbling slightly as you opened the notification—and then your vision went red.
There it was.
Bruce, Julie, and… Andrew.
You downed another drink without thinking, the burn barely registering. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him,” you hissed, slamming the glass down. “Now he’s trying to hijack my project.”
Selina leaned in to look at the screen and winced. “Yikes.”
“I don’t understand what his problem is,” you went on, words spilling faster now, alcohol loosening every restraint you’d been clinging to. “I mean—I walked in on him and Clark in his office today, and for a second I finally got it. I thought—oh. That’s it. He’s gay. That’s why this marriage never worked.”
Selina choked on her drink. “You what?”
You didn’t hear her, too busy spiralling. “Five years, Selina. Five years I wasted on him. Trying to understand him. Trying to love him.” Your voice cracked, just barely. “Is it me? Because he never had a problem sleeping with me…”
Selina snorted, sharp and immediate. “I promise you, that is very much a him problem.”
You frowned at her, squinting slightly. “What do you mean? He never had performance issues or anything—” You paused, brow furrowing as a new thought occurred to you. “You know what? If he doesn’t want a divorce so badly, maybe I should stop fighting it. Reap the benefits. Find myself a side piece with his money.” You lifted your glass in grim mockery. “I mean, he has Julie. Why can’t I have my own?”
Selina’s eyes widened—and she had to bite down hard to keep from laughing.
“If you did that,” she said, barely holding it together, “I’m pretty sure Bruce would finally break his no-kill rule.”
“Mhm,” you nodded solemnly, as if this were the most logical conclusion in the world. Selina’s words not truly registering. “Maybe I should. Show him exactly what he’s missing.”
“Yeah, no,” Selina said immediately.
You pushed yourself off the barstool anyway, triumphant—only for the room to tilt violently. Your knee buckled.
“Woah, woah—easy, kitty,” Selina caught you just in time, looping an arm around your waist. “Let’s postpone your revenge tour until tomorrow, yeah?”
You groaned but didn’t argue, your head dropping briefly against her shoulder in defeat.
“Good,” she muttered. “Because drunk you has terrible judgment.”
She shifted your weight more securely against her and began steering you toward the exit, already fishing her phone out of her pocket. As the cool night air brushed your skin, she brought the phone to her ear and tapped a familiar number.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Hello?” Bruce’s voice came through, tense even without context.
“I have a very drunk and extremely pissed-off—” Selina began.
She never finished the sentence. She was cut off as something struck her from behind hard.
The sound was dull and sickening. Selina’s body went slack instantly, her grip loosening as she collapsed, dragging you down with her. The world lurched, asphalt rushing up to meet you as you hit the floor.
The phone clattered nearby, still connected.
On the other end, Bruce’s voice had turned panicked and demanding.
“Selina?”
A beat.
“Selina—answer me. What the hell just happened?”
There was no answer, and then he heard the distant sound of your voice. weak and dazed.
Your senses lagged behind reality. The impact registered too late as Selina’s weight vanished beside you, her body crumpling bonelessly to the pavement. Your shoulder struck first, then your head, the sound ringing sharp and hollow inside your skull.
Pain bloomed—hot, blinding, swallowing every coherent thought.
“Selina—” you slurred, trying to crawl toward her. Your fingers scraped uselessly against the asphalt, refusing to obey.
Footsteps approached, measured and unhurried.
“Well,” a voice said pleasantly from somewhere above you.
It sounded distorted, warped by the ringing in your ears. You blinked hard, trying to focus. The world swam, colours bleeding together—green smearing into black. A cane tapped once against the pavement, the sound sharp and echoing far too loudly in your skull.
“This is… disappointing,” the voice continued, almost thoughtful.
Your vision tilted as you tried to lift your head. The effort made nausea roll violently through you.
“Drunk,” the voice went on, faintly fond. “Alcohol always introduces errors.”
You tried to speak. Tried to scream.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off the sound before it could form. Something pressed against your face, the scent acrid and sharp.
You struggled weakly, panic flaring as your limbs refused to respond.
“Shhh,” the voice crooned close to your ear. “You’re already very bad at staying conscious. Let’s not fight this.”
Your last clear sight was Selina lying motionless beside you, blood dark at her temple, her chest frighteningly still.
Then the world collapsed inward.
And everything went black.
Bruce arrived to chaos.
Red and blue lights cut through the night, washing the pavement in violent flashes. Police officers moved in tight clusters, radios crackling.
His chest seized.
“Bruce!”
He turned sharply. Selina was sitting on the edge of an ambulance, an EMT hovering nearby, clearly mid-argument with her. She waved them off with irritation the second she saw him, her head snapping up despite the bandage already wrapped around her temple.
Bruce crossed the distance in seconds.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Selina shook her head, frustration and fear threading through her voice. “I don’t know. Y/N was upset and drinking. I called you to tell you I was taking her back to her penthouse, and then…” Her brow furrowed as she searched the moment. “Everything went black. The bastard came up behind me. Knocked me out cold.”
Bruce’s breath stuttered.
“When I woke up,” Selina continued, swallowing hard, “she was gone.” Her eyes locked onto his. “He took her, Bruce.”
“No,” Bruce breathed.
The word tore out of him as his gaze swept the scene, frantic now,
“No. No—”
An EMT reached for his arm, voice calm but firm. “Sir, you need to—”
Bruce shook him off without a second thought.
“Bruce.” Selina’s voice cut through the noise.
He turned back to her just as she reached into her jacket and pulled out a small, neatly folded card. Even from a distance, the colour made his blood run cold.
Bright green.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded the card, his fingers steady even as something feral clawed its way up his spine.
Inside, a single line was typed.
“What did you assume was safe
simply because it was yours?”
Bruce’s jaw clenched, the card crumpling in his fist as something raw and violent surged through him. He turned and stormed off without a word, ignoring the officers calling after him, brushing past EMTs who tried to slow him down. Nothing mattered except one thing.
You.
Behind him, Selina watched the moment his control finally snapped—and took her chance. She slipped out of the ambulance before anyone could stop her, landing lightly on her feet and disappearing down the alley. In seconds, she was scaling the brickwork, agile as ever, until she reached the rooftop where two familiar figures stood watching the chaos below.
“You think this’ll work?” Oliver asked, arms crossed, eyes never leaving Bruce’s retreating form.
Selina scoffed. “Nygma owes me a favour. He knows better than to hurt her.”
Clark tilted his head, eyes unfocusing as he listened to something only he could hear. After a beat, he relaxed slightly. “She’s fine. Still out cold.” He looked at Selina, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Are we sure this is the right way to handle this?”
“Relax, Boy Scout,” Selina said dryly. “That’s why you’re here—to get her out if anything goes sideways before Bruce finds her.” Her gaze sharpened. “He needs this push. Otherwise he’ll let her go, convince himself it’s the right thing to do, and rot in his misery instead of fighting for her.”
Oliver nodded slowly. “She’s not wrong. You know how morally self-destructive Bruce can get.”
Clark sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant agreement.
Below them, Gotham raged on—unaware that its darkest knight had just been given a reason to burn the city apart if he had to.
You came back to consciousness slowly.
The ache in your head was the first thing you noted and the second was the awareness that something was wrong. A faint hum vibrated beneath you, mechanical and steady, like a server room.
You tried to move.
Your wrists were bound but found yourself secured against the cool metal of an armrest. The chill seeped into your skin. Overhead, a single light burned bright, casting harsh shadows along concrete walls painted an unsettling, nauseating shade of green.
“Good,” a voice said calmly, almost pleasantly, “You’re awake.”
You lifted your head, vision swimming.
Edward Nygma stood several feet away. His suit was perfectly pressed, his posture relaxed. The glare from the light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes and making him look less like a madman and more like a professor preparing a lecture.
“Oh—don’t bother screaming,” he added mildly. “The soundproofing is excellent. Very expensive.”
Your throat felt dry as sand. “What do you want?” you managed.
Riddler smiled faintly. Looking almost curious.
“I want an answer,” he said calmly. “And you’re going to help me get one.”
He stepped closer, the soft click of his shoes echoing in the too-quiet room, and placed a single bright green card on the table in front of you. The typed text, perfectly aligned, stared back at you.
“Consider this,” he continued, voice smooth. “A riddle—for you.”
Your mouth felt like cotton as you leaned forward just enough to read it.
“What man disappears at night,
yet leaves his shadow everywhere?”
You frowned, confusion knitting your brows as you read it again.
“Excellent observation,” Riddler replied dryly. “Try again.”
You shook your head, irritation cutting through the fog in your thoughts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He studied you for a long moment, head tilting slightly, as though you were a specimen under glass. His gaze sharp and assessing.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“I don’t play riddles,” you snapped, the words coming out harsher than you intended. “If this is about Bruce—if you think kidnapping me gets you money—”
“Oh, no,” he interrupted. “Money is boring.”
He began to circle you, footsteps soft against the concrete, unhurried. The faint hum in the room seemed to grow louder with every step he took.
Your pulse picked up. “You’re not making sense,” you snapped. “If it’s not money, then what do you want?”
Riddler stopped directly in front of you. For the first time since you woke, his expression shifted, looking genuinely puzzled.
“You really don’t know,” he said.
“Know what?”
He straightened slowly, studying you as if recalculating something in his mind.
“You don’t know,” he repeated, this time with a trace of disappointment. “How deeply inefficient.”
You let out a frustrated groan, your head tipping back against the chair. “Again—if this is about Bruce,” you said flatly, “I hate to break it to you, but we’re divorcing.”
Riddler looked at you again, eyes narrowing.
“…Divorcing,” he repeated slowly, testing the word.
“Yes,” you snapped. “So if this is some leverage play, congratulations—you kidnapped the wrong woman.”
Silence stretched.
Riddler adjusted his glasses, studying you the way one might study a malfunctioning instrument.
“No,” he said at last, voice tightening with displeasure. his expression darkened and something manic entered his gaze. “No, no, no… that won’t do at all.”
“What won’t?” you demanded.
Suddenly, the room erupted.
Alarms screamed to life, sharp and piercing. Riddler’s head snapped toward a nearby monitor as lines of green code began cascading down the screen far too quickly to decipher.
“…Ah,” he murmured, almost fondly as the darkness in his expression seemed to vanish. “It seems someone finally found us.”
The lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
A violent crash split the air. Metal screamed as it tore free, followed by the unmistakable sound of something—someone—landing with a heavy thud.
Your breath caught.
A silhouette moved through the dark, tall and solid, every step looking predatory. The very air around him felt as if it was charged with barely restrained violence.
“Step away from her,” a low, gravelly voice commanded.
Batman.
He was on Riddler in seconds.
You barely registered the fight beyond flashes of motion—black against green, a blur of limbs. There was a sound of bone meeting concrete. A sharp grunt cut short. Riddler’s cane clattered uselessly across the floor before his body followed, hitting hard and not getting back up.
Heavy boots approached. You felt him before you saw him. There was sharp clink as the metal cuffs released you and you immediately rubbed your wrist.
A gloved hand reached out, careful now, nothing like the force he’d used moments ago.
You took it and tried to stand.
Your legs immediately betrayed you.
A sharp gasp left your lips as the room tilted, and before you could even think to be embarrassed, he was already there—one arm braced around your back, the other steady at your knees. You clutched his suit instinctively, fingers digging into armoured fabric as he lifted you with effortless strength, as if you weighed nothing at all.
“I’ve got you,” Batman said, his voice lower now, roughened with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “You’re safe.”
He wrapped his cape around your shoulders, cocooning you in warmth, blocking out the sight of Riddler’s unmoving body behind him. The cape smelled faintly of smoke and rain and something deeply familiar you couldn’t quite place.
As he carried you toward the exit, you looked up at him—at the dark cowl, the shadowed line of his jaw, the way his hand stayed firm and steady at your back, thumb pressing once as if to reassure you.
Your chest tightened at such a familiar gesture. You turned your face away, blinking hard, and only then realized he was already moving toward the exit.
“No,” you said breathlessly. “Please—stop.”
He froze instantly, muscles locking beneath the armour.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, already scanning the room again, body angling subtly to shield you, prepared for another attack.
“I—” You swallowed, fingers tightening in his cape. “I don’t want the paparazzi to see me like this.”
He stared at you for a long moment. “Is there someone I can call?” Batman asked finally. “Mr. Wayne.”
A bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “He’s the last person I want to see right now.”
You let out a slow breath. “I have a high-rise in the East End,” you added quietly. “Would you… mind giving me a ride?”
He was silent for a long moment and you prepared for him to deny your request.
“All right,” he said at last.
He turned away from the exit without another glance, cape settling more securely around you as he adjusted his path—already choosing a route that would keep you out of sight.
“Hold on,” he murmured.
“We’re here,” Batman said at last.
You peeked up from where your face had been tucked against his shoulder, relief washing through you as solid ground replaced the dizzying rush of rooftops. Being carried across Gotham by a man dressed like a bat was—decidedly—not an experience you ever wanted to repeat sober.
He set you down carefully. Your knees wobbled, and instantly his hands were there—firm, steady, almost reluctant to let go until he was sure you had your balance.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
You let out a soft, breathy snort. “You’d think being kidnapped would sober a girl up.”
His mouth tightened beneath the cowl. “You need to be more careful drinking at night,” he said. “Gotham isn’t safe.”
“Usually I am,” you replied, straightening. “Tonight was a special occasion.”
He glanced at you, clearly debating whether to ask. You spared him the effort.
“I mean,” you continued, voice sharp-edged with exhaustion, “when your husband lets you believe he signed divorce papers—then casually reveals a month later that he never did—I think it would drive any woman to drink.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, a sound slipped from him. A low, restrained grunt, almost like a grumble. “Still,” he said, steady and firm, “it’s always best to be careful.”
You hummed softly, the sound thoughtful—and then you swayed just a little closer than necessary, close enough to feel the solidity of him again. Your voice dropped, almost conspiratorial.
“You know,” you murmured, “you’re much nicer than my husband.”
For a fraction of a second, something in him stilled. His hands tightened just enough to keep you upright.
His jaw flexed. “I’m not—”
“Don’t,” you interrupted softly, one finger lifting to trail slowly down the hard line of his armoured chest. “I know. Boundaries. Rules. The heroic image to maintain.” You smirked mischievously. “But even heroes break the rules occasionally.”
His breath caught—just slightly. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Clear enough to know what I want,” you purred, the boldness in your voice something you’d never allow yourself sober. A faint smile curved your lips. “You can even keep the mask on. I promise I won’t peek.”
Your fingers lifted to his jaw, brushing along the edge of the cowl. He barely flinched—barely breathed. Slowly, you rose onto your toes, closing the last inch between you, and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to his lips.
Bruce’s restraint finally snapped.
Weeks of distance, of watching you slip further from him, of wanting and denying himself all at once—it shattered in a single breath. A part of him knew this was wrong, knew every rule he was breaking. But another part justified it just as fiercely. You were still his wife. He knew you well enough to know you were sober enough to consent to this. And you had made it clear—you didn’t want the mask off.
His arms came around you, strong and certain, as he kissed you back with a hunger he’d kept leashed for far too long. You gasped when he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively locking around his waist. He moved without hesitation, sure-footed and you were too lost in him to question how easily he seemed to know the layout.
By the time you realized where you were, you were in the bedroom.
Pieces of armour and discarded clothing lay scattered across the floor, silent evidence of how quickly both your and his control had unraveled. He set you down on the bed, and you watched him with parted lips as he removed the last of the heavy plating, revealing the powerful lines of muscle beneath.
Then he reached for the cowl.
Your breath caught—only for relief to follow when, beneath it, there was only a simple domino mask. Whatever relief or confusion you might’ve voiced was stolen as he was suddenly there again, his presence overwhelming, his kiss deep and consuming.
His lips devoured yours hungrily, urgency bleeding through every movement. Your fingers clutched at him instinctively—one hand gripping his shoulder, the other sliding to his waist, curling up his back.
His mouth found your neck and you arched up, a breathless moan slipping past your lips.
Your fingers brushed over his skin, slow now, deliberate. A scar—raised, familiar beneath your touch. Your breath caught. Your hand shifted slightly, tracing along muscle and heat until you felt another. And another.
The hand at his shoulder slid lower, mapping instinctively, and there it was again.
You stilled, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Batman's body was a canvas of scars just like Bruce's. They were etched deep, earned over years—Like the ones you had traced countless times in the dark, memorizing each ridge and groove without ever questioning where Bruce had gotten them.
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“What man disappears at night, yet leaves his shadow everywhere?”
The riddle crashed back into your mind like ice water.
Nygma had been telling the truth, It hadn’t been about money. It had never been about money.
Riddler had known something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to see. His irritation at the divorce. His certainty. The way he’d looked at you.
The answer had been in your hands all along.
Your breath hitched as the pieces slammed together with brutal clarity.
Your palms pressed flat against Bruce’s chest, shoving him back before you even realized you were moving.
He froze. The movement stopped instantly, concern flickering across what little of his face you could see beneath the mask.
Your breathing was shallow now, uneven. Your eyes dragged over him, no longer seeing the mask meant to hide his identity, but everything beneath it.
Your fingers trembled as they hovered over his skin, tracing paths you had memorized a hundred times before. The same healed gashes. The same ridges beneath scar tissue. All those late nights. All those silences. All the things you had noticed and never questioned.
It was the same body.
Slowly, your gaze lifted to his face.
To the man who vanished night after night, leaving you alone with questions you never dared to ask—what he was doing, where he was going, who he was with—never once imagining this.
The sound that tore out of you was sharp and breathless, bordering on hysterical. A laugh that didn’t belong to humour so much as disbelief.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me…”
Your eyes burned as they locked onto his.
“You,” you said hoarsely. “It was always you.”
Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t bother to deny it. Didn’t reach for you again.
Slowly—carefully—he lifted his hands away from you, palms open, as if you were something volatile.
“Say it,” you demanded, your voice shaking despite your effort to steady it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
For a long moment, he only looked at you.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, his hands rose to his face. He hooked his fingers beneath the edges of the domino mask and pulled it free.
Your husband’s face stared back at you.
The sound that tore from your chest was broken—half laugh, half sob—as the world tilted violently beneath your feet. Tears burned hot and sudden, blurring your vision as everything you had ignored, excused, rationalized came crashing together all at once.
“No,” you breathed, even as the truth settled deep into your bones. “No—because of course it is.”
Bruce’s face was bare in a way you’d never seen before—no armour, no charm. Just devastation written plainly across his face.
“I never wanted you to find out like this,” he said quietly.
“Oh, don’t,” you snapped, pain sharpening your voice into something jagged. “You never intended for me to find out. Period.” Your chest heaved as a new thought crystallized. “Tell me—was that why you refused to divorce me? Because I was a convenient cover? An alibi?”
Bruce flinched like you’d struck him.
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”
You laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “Then what, Bruce? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like I was useful. The perfect Wayne wife. Smiling beside you, keeping the questions away while you disappeared every night.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You were never a cover.”
“Then explain it,” you demanded.
He dragged a hand down his face, the movement slow, showing just how wrecked he felt. His eyes shone with something dangerously close to panic. “Because I was trying to protect you,” he said hoarsely. “Because if I stayed distant, you wouldn’t start seeing the patterns. You wouldn’t put together the connection between me and Batman.”
He swallowed hard.
“And you wouldn’t be dragged into the darkness I fight every night just to keep this city standing.”
Your chest tightened. Your voice, when it came, was quiet—deadly in its calm.
“So I was an acceptable loss,” you said. “As long as Gotham stayed safe.”
His breath hitched. “No.” His voice broke on the word. “You were the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.”
You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “Bullshit!” you snapped.
You drew in a sharp breath, forcing your voice down, forcing control back into it even as your hands trembled.
“Bullshit,” you repeated quietly. “That’s just an excuse.”
He took a step toward you—then stopped, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, as if touching you might shatter what little remained.
“I didn’t refuse the divorce because I needed an alibi,” he said, voice raw. “I refused because signing those papers felt like ripping my own heart out.”
“What are you saying?” you asked shakily.
You pressed on before he could answer, years of hurt spilling out at once. “I spent years loving what might as well have been a ghost. Making excuses for your absence. Convincing myself the problem was me.” Your voice trembled. “Feeling used. Alone. Like an afterthought whenever you finally decided to show up.”
Bruce closed his eyes, like every word was another stab to his heart.
“If you’d told me,” you whispered, broken now, “I would’ve stayed.” A tear slipped free. “I would’ve chosen you.”
That was what finally broke him.
“I know,” he said, the words barely audible, like they were torn straight from his chest. “And that’s what terrifies me.” His breath hitched. “Y/N… I love you. I love you so much that I’ve been selfish. So selfish that I’d rather keep you safe at any cost—even if it meant doing everything except the one thing I should’ve done.”
He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, eyes shining, voice rough with emotion he’d been holding back for years.
“I wake up every night knowing there are people out there who would use you to hurt me,” he went on. “People who would enjoy it.” His jaw tightened. “And every time I put that mask on, I tell myself the same lie—that keeping you in the dark keeps you safe.”
“But it didn’t, did it?” you said, your voice stripped of emotion. “Tonight is proof of that.”
Bruce flinched.
“I know,” he admitted hoarsely.
You drew in a steady breath, forcing your voice to remain even. “We live in Gotham, Bruce. We come from two of the richest families in the city. Danger was never something we could opt out of—Batman or not.”
You met his eyes then, unwavering.
“I was always a target,” you continued quietly. “Because of my name. My money. My influence. The difference is that while you were preparing for that reality, I was being kept ignorant of it.”
You shook your head.
“You didn’t make the world safer for me,” you said. “You just made me less prepared to face it.”
Bruce’s shoulders slumped, his head bowing his head because you were right. Everyone had told him the same thing, over and over. Let her in, or let her go. And still, he had clung to the space in between, too stubborn and too afraid to choose.
Afraid you would get hurt.
Afraid this world would be too much for you.
Afraid that if you truly saw him, you wouldn’t accept what you found.
So he had done the one thing he knew how to do best.
He had taken control and made the decision to keep everything concealed from you.
And in doing so, he’d hurt the one person he’d been trying so desperately to protect.
“I was terrified,” he admitted quietly. “Terrified you’d look at me and see a monster. That you’d realize loving me meant living with this—” he gestured helplessly to the suit, the scars, the truth “—and walk away.”
His voice broke.
“So I chose for you,” he said quietly. “And I was wrong.” A breath shuddered out of him. “I’m sorry.”
You stared at him for a long moment, stunned by the rawness in his voice. Your mouth opened, then closed again—too many thoughts colliding, none of them lining up neatly. You’d spent years bracing yourself against his distance. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.
“And what about Julie?” you blurted at last.
The name seemed to genuinely catch him off guard. His brows pulled together. “What about her?”
You let out a hollow scoff. “She has been in love with you forever, everyone knows it.”
“And?”
“And what, Bruce?” The words came out sharper than you meant, tears blurring your vision despite your effort to hold them back. “I know she’s the one you truly love. I’m just the one you were forced to be with.”
His expression shifted instantly—shock, then something like hurt. “What are you talking about?” he asked, voice rising. “The only person I’ve ever loved is you. I never even touched Julie.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound breaking in your throat. “You two were always together, going out for lunch and dinner. She clings to you shamelessly—”
“Y/N, that’s not—” Bruce tried to cut in, already shaking his head.
You shot him a sharp look, stopping him cold. “Don’t,” you said, voice trembling but firm. “I saw you two kiss.”
Bruce stiffened. “When?”
“Back in university,” you said, swallowing hard. “In the hall. When no one else was around.”
For a split second, he looked genuinely confused—then his eyes widened, memory snapping into place. “That’s not what you think.” You scoffed, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he caught your hand and pulled you closer, his other hand rising to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I’m serious,” he said urgently, the words tumbling out of him now that the truth was finally in the open. “I came to pick you up from class when she approached me. She told me how she felt, it caught me completely off guard. And she took the chance to try and kiss me.”
Your breath hitched.
“I pushed her away before she could,” he continued, voice rough, desperate for you to believe him. “I told her it was never going to happen. That it was always you.” His hand tightened around yours. “I never loved her,” he said firmly. “Not once. Not for a second. You have always been the only woman for me. There has never been anyone else.”
Your gaze searched his face—really searched it—and what you found there wasn’t deflection or guilt, but raw sincerity. He looked like the boy you’d fallen in love with long before Gotham had beat him down.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer now, stripped of its defences. “For every night I wasn’t there. For every truth I buried. For letting you believe—for even a moment—that you were anything less than the center of my world.” His breath shook. “If she bothers you this much, then she’s gone. Whatever you want, I’ll give you. Just—” his voice broke, “—not a divorce. I can’t lose you.”
Your breath hitched at the raw desperation in his words.
“Then why?” you asked, your voice shaking despite yourself. “Why did you let her hang around you? All those lunches, the dinners, the way she was always there—why?” You searched his face, aching for an answer that would finally make sense of it all.
He hesitated, eyes flicking away as his jaw tightened. His head shook slowly. “I…”
You laughed bitterly, the sound thin and fragile. “You still don’t get it,” you sighed as you pulled away from his touch. “Trust, Bruce. This all comes down to the fact that you still don’t trust me.”
“Do you have any idea what it feels like,” you continued, words spilling faster, sharper, “to love someone who’s always half gone? To lie awake wondering if tonight is the night you won’t come back—and not even knowing why?” Your throat tightened. “To feel unstable inside your own marriage?”
Line of guilt carved deep into his face.
“Even now,” you went on, voice cracking, “you won’t tell me why you kept Julie so close.” You shook your head. “Do you know what that did to me? It made me feel like I wasn’t even an option. Like I was unwanted. Like I was something you settled for.”
“That was never true,” he said hoarsely.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Because that’s how you made me feel.” You swallowed. “Now you’re telling me it was all for my protection? That the pain I went through was just… acceptable collateral damage in your eyes?”
“You were never collateral,” he said immediately, the words ripped from him.
“But somewhere along the way,” you replied softly—devastating in its calm, “you decided my feelings were expendable. In the name of safety and secrecy.” You held his gaze, unflinching. “At least in your calculations.”
He looked at you like the ground had fallen away beneath him.
“I thought loving you meant carrying the burden alone,” he said quietly. “Shielding you from the darkness that’s been my life.”
Tears slipped free before you could stop them. You wiped them away angrily, refusing to let them soften your resolve.
“Love isn’t martyrdom, Bruce,” you said. “It’s partnership. It’s choosing each other with the truth—not in spite of it.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m realizing that now.”
Silence stretched between you. It was fragile and raw, honest in a way it had never been before.
At last, he spoke again, voice low. “I can’t promise you’ll be safe. Not if you stay. Not if you know everything.”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as you held his gaze. “I’m not asking for safety,” you said. “I’m asking for choice.”
Something in him shifted. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, then eased—as if a long-held tension finally loosened.
“Then whatever you choose,” he said softly, resolute. “I’ll live with it.”
You exhaled, your breath trembling as it left you. “Not tonight.”
Pain flickered across his face, but he didn’t argue.
“I need time,” you continued. “Time to decide if I can forgive you. It’s years of hurt and neglect, Bruce. I can’t look past that so easily.”
He nodded once, the motion dejected. “Take all the time you need.”
You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your hand once again.
“And Julie,” he said softly. “Give me until Monday to explain. Please.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you slipped your hand out of his grip and got off from the bed, gathering your dress, and pulling it on with a strange feeling of detachment. When you walked away, you didn’t look back.
For the first time, it was you leaving Bruce alone in the bed.
Behind you, Bruce Wayne stayed perfectly still, realizing that saving Gotham had never been his greatest test.
Loving you honestly was.
Bruce left not long after. Despite everything—despite the drinking, the kidnapping, the revelations—the exhaustion hadn’t caught up to you yet. you felt wide awake, your mind was reeling.
You poured yourself a glass of ice-cold water and wandered toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham, the city spread out beneath you in a glittering sprawl of light and shadow.
Gotham.
A city of sin and corruption.
A city you had always wanted to help.
And the city Bruce had been protecting all along.
For years, you’d only ever seen the mask he chose to show you—the careless playboy, the billionaire who spent recklessly, partied endlessly, and drifted through life untouched by consequence. And yet, all this time, he had been Gotham’s silent guardian.
Looking back, the signs felt painfully obvious.
Batman needed money to have such fancy gadgets. Bruce had it.
Batman vanished at night. So did Bruce.
The scars. The motivation. The years-long disappearance.
You had noticed everything—just never let yourself connect the dots.
Now that you had, you were left trying to reconcile the man you loved with the man he had hidden from you.
You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the glass before you took a sip, the cold grounding you.
You loved him. As much as you had tried not to. As much as you had tried to leave… You still loved him and it turned out he loved you too.
Your gaze drifted across the rooftops, scanning the skyline, half-expecting to find a his silhouette perched in the shadows, watching you. Protecting you from a distance, the way he always seemed to have.
For the first time, you didn’t know whether you wanted him to come closer… or give you space.
The next morning, you woke to the sound of relentless knocking.
With a groan, you rolled out of bed, your head pounding in protest as you shuffled toward the door. When you pulled it open, a delivery man stood there, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Mrs. Wayne?” he asked.
You sighed. “As of this moment, still.”
He blinked, clearly unsure what to do with that, before recovering and holding out the clipboard and pen. “Signature, please.”
You signed absently.
The moment you handed it back, he stepped aside and waved over his shoulder. “Bring them in!”
Your eyes widened as several men filed into your penthouse, arms full of bouquets. One after another, they kept coming until the entryway was overflowing with colour and the air was thick with sweet, familiar floral scents.
You stared, stunned.
They weren’t just any flowers.
They were your favourite flowers. Every single one of them. The ones you loved and would bring to the manor in a small fresh bouquet every week. It was a little thing that you did to bring joy to your day.
By the time the last bouquet was set down, your penthouse looked more like a conservatory than a home.
You didn’t need to ask who was responsible.
What tightened in your chest was the realization you hadn’t expected—that despite everything, despite the distance and the secrets, he had paid enough attention to know every single one of your favourite flowers without you telling him.
As the delivery men filed out one by one, Selina strode in, her steps confident. She stopped short, eyes widening as she took in the sheer amount of flowers filling your space.
“Well,” she mused, a slow smirk spreading across her face, “I guess someone finally came to his senses. Grovelling suits him.”
Your head snapped up at the sound of her voice. “Oh my god—Selina!” You rushed toward her without thinking. “Are you okay? I completely forgot to text you. I should’ve checked—”
She waved you off dismissively. “Relax. This kitty has nine lives. Just a bump on the head.” Her expression softened as she looked you over more carefully. “What about you? Are you alright?”
You let out a slow breath. “I’m fine. Br—” You cleared your throat, catching yourself just in time. “Batman got to me before Riddler could do anything.”
“Did he now?” Selina drawled, one brow lifting as she very clearly clocked the near slip. “So he finally got the balls to tell you.”
You blinked. “What?” You frowned, doing your best to ignore the way your heart stuttered as you forced an air of innocence. “Tell me what?”
Selina gave you a long, unimpressed look. “Sweetheart,” she said lightly, “I’m already aware that your husband moonlights as Gotham’s favourite bat.”
You went completely still. “He told you?”
She shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Not exactly. Let’s just say we run in… similar circles.”
You stared at her, processing, then blurted, “You’re a vigilante too?”
Selina laughed, the sound warm and sharp. “God, no. I have standards.” She smirked. “You probably heard of me as Catwoman.”
“The burglar?” you asked flatly.
She pressed a hand to her chest in mock offence. “Thief, darling. Burglar sounds so… inelegant.”
You stared at her, mind scrambling to reconcile the woman standing in your penthouse with Gotham’s most infamous cat-themed menace. “You’re telling me one of my closest friends is a wanted criminal.”
Selina grinned wider. “Allegedly.”
You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Gotham really does love a double life.”
“Occupational hazard,” Selina said lightly. Then, more seriously, “But now you know why I clocked Bruce years ago. Takes one to spot one.”
You shook your head slowly. “I was married to Batman and best friends with Catwoman.”
Selina gave a satisfied hum. “You do have excellent taste in company.” Then she winced, like she’d just remembered something she probably should’ve led with. “Me, Bruce, Oliver, and Clark.”
Your eyes narrowed immediately. “What about Oliver and Clark?”
She met your gaze. “Green Arrow and Superman.”
You stumbled back a step before dropping onto the couch, elbows on your knees, head falling into your hands. “So what—” you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, “—you all knew? All this time? And no one thought to tell me?” You looked up at her, hurt flashing through the shock. “Was this a joke to you? Some kind of… club I wasn’t allowed into?”
Selina’s expression softened immediately. The teasing edge vanished.
“No,” she said firmly, crossing the room to sit across from you. “It was never a joke.” She leaned forward, forearms on her thighs. “It just wasn’t our secret to tell.”
You let out a weak scoff. “That seems to be a running theme.”
“Bruce didn’t want you knowing about this life,” Selina said evenly. “And out of respect—for him, and for you—we kept you in the dark.”
You grumbled under your breath, anger and exhaustion tangling in your chest.
Selina reached out then, placing a steady hand on your shoulder. “As much as I hate to admit it,” she said, wry but sincere, “the idiot did have a point. Knowing paints a target on your back. A bigger one than the one you already had just by being you.”
You swallowed. “So instead, I got lied to.”
Her grip tightened slightly. “You got protected the only way he knew how,” she said quietly. “Poorly? Yes... But out of love. He’s an idiot most of the time, but he does love you. And he’s been miserable ever since you asked for the divorce.”
You lifted a brow slowly. “So you knew about that before I even told you?”
Selina winced. “Guilty. He confessed the night you asked for it, and while he might not have said it outright, he was heartbroken.”
She drew in a breath, then sighed. “And if we’re committing to honesty…” Her gaze held yours. “I should probably tell you I’m the reason you got kidnapped.”
Your stomach dropped. “Selina.”
“I know,” she said quickly, before you could speak. “I know.” Selina exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Nygma owed me a favour. Oliver and Clark were nearby, making sure you were safe. I took a gamble.” Her gaze held yours, unflinching. “You needed to know the truth—and Bruce needed to stop freezing. He was going to let you walk away because he thinks suffering quietly is some kind of virtue.”
You closed your eyes and drew in a slow, steady breath. When you opened them again, you looked at Selina, exhaustion weighing heavy in your chest.
“But does knowing the truth even make a difference at this point?” you asked softly.
Selina shook her head. “Only you can answer that.”
When you didn’t respond, she sighed, her tone gentler now. “Then let me ask you this,” she said. “Do you love him?”
Your throat tightened. You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded instead.
Because you did. You always had.
You pressed your lips together, fingers curling in your lap. Loving Bruce had never been simple—but trusting him with your heart, after years of distance and coldness? That felt like standing at the edge of a building and deciding whether to jump again after already learning how badly the fall hurt.
“Loving him isn’t the problem,” You swallowed. “Trusting him is.”
Selina reached out, squeezing your hand once.
“You’re allowed to love him and be angry,” she said gently. “You’re allowed to take your time. And you’re allowed to walk away if, in the end, loving him costs you more than you can afford.” She paused, her gaze sharpening just a little. “But don’t walk away because you’re scared.”
You looked at her.
“Bruce let his fear control him,” Selina continued softly. “And it almost cost you. Don’t make the same mistake—don’t let fear decide for you and then live with that regret.”
Monday finally arrived, heavy with all your unresolved problems.
Bruce still hadn’t signed the papers, and after everything that had come to light between you, you existed in a strange, fragile in-between. Nothing was settled, nothing was resolved. So you chose the one place that had always grounded you.
Wayne Enterprises.
It might have been your husband’s company by name, but you had made it your own in every way that mattered. You ran the operations. You commanded the meetings. You had built your confidence there, forged your backbone steel-strong against men who looked down on you. In the business world, your reputation was known to be razor-sharp—a shark, they called you.
And right now, you needed that side of yourself.
You still hadn’t returned to the Manor choosing to stay in your penthouse that was under your name. After getting ready, you headed downstairs—only to stop short.
Bruce was waiting for you. A cup of coffee in one hand. A folded paper bag in the other.
At the sound of your approach, he scrambled to straighten up—shoulders squaring, posture instinctively formal despite the nerves written all over his face.
You slowed a few feet away.
“I thought you were giving me time,” you said quietly.
He nodded without hesitation. “I am.” Then, after a beat, he added, softer, “But I never said anything about me.”
You watched him carefully as he went on, voice steady but raw beneath the surface. “I’m choosing you. Whether you choose me in the end or not.” His jaw tightened, resolve settling in. “I will always choose you. I’ve just done a terrible job of showing it.”
For a moment, you had no words.
He took a small step forward and held out the cup and the bag. “Breakfast,” he said. “From the coffee shop on 23rd. The one that you love.”
You accepted them slowly, almost absently, then glanced at the order—and froze. Everything was right. The exact order down to the littlest preferences.
“How…?” you started.
“You always skip breakfast,” he said, cheeks flushing faintly. “And having it sent to your office would’ve been made it cold by now.”
Your brows furrowed as the implication sank in. You’d always assumed it was your assistant who would make sure you had your breakfast—another small convenience you never questioned.
“You…” The word slipped out before you could finish the thought.
He shrugged, almost sheepish. “You get too busy to eat otherwise.”
You were still reeling but he didn’t wait for a reply. He opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in, tentative but hopeful.
“Can we go to work together?”
You nodded.
Relief crossed his face instantly, softening into a boyish smile you hadn’t seen in years. He helped you into the car before sliding in after you.
As the car pulled away, you tried very hard not to blush under the weight of his attention. He kept glancing over at you—quick, stolen looks—as you lifted the cup and took a sip. There was something almost painfully earnest about it, like an eager puppy watching for approval. It made you remember the boy he used to be, before the two of you grew apart.
You reached into the bag and pulled out the pastry—then paused.
His lips parted slightly, anticipation flickering across his face. But at the sight of your hesitation, a frown began to form, as he assumed it was a sign of rejection.
Instead of taking a bite, you broke it cleanly in half and held one piece out to him.
His eyes widened. “It’s for you,” he started to protest, already shaking his head.
“Just accept it, Bruce,” you said evenly.
He hesitated—then nodded and took the offered half.
From the front seat, Alfred caught the exchange in the rearview mirror. A small, satisfied smile curved his lips at the sight of you two.
“So…” Bruce began, his tone trying and failing to be casual, as if he hadn’t been worried about your reaction all weekend. “Did you get the flowers?”
You nodded, taking another bite of your pastry. “I did.” You glanced sideways, curiosity flickering. “How did you know all my favourites?”
His gaze met yours. “Every week,” he said quietly, “you bring home a vase of fresh flowers. Always the same ones.” He swallowed, then went on, softer. “They’re the ones that grow in your parents’ garden. You used to say it was the most magical place in the world when we were kids.”
Your breath caught at the memory—running through the garden with Bruce as you played hide-and-seek, laughter echoing between the hedges. Lounging in the sun when the games tired you out, his head on your lap as he napped while you carefully weaving flower crowns from whatever you could pick from your mother’s garden without getting scolded.
A faint smile crossed your lips as the image surfaced of him wearing the crooked crown you’d made proudly. When you glanced at Bruce, the look in his eyes told you he was remembering it too.
You hadn’t realized how much of that boy he’d kept hidden, holding onto such memories.
You didn’t get the chance to say anything more before the car slowed and Alfred pulled up in front of the company.
Bruce moved before Alfred even had the chance to open the door. He stepped out first, then turned back, extending a hand toward you without hesitation. You accepted it, your fingers sliding into his, and his grip tightened slightly as he helped you out. Almost instinctively, he drew you closer, his hand shifting to rest at the small of your back.
Together, you began to climb the steps toward the entrance.
“Bruce!”
You stiffened at the sound of Julie’s voice. You made a move to keep walking, unwilling to watch her hang off of him. But Bruce’s hand shifted, firm at your waist, holding you in place.
You shot him a sharp look. He ignored it.
Instead, he turned with a polite, tense smile as Julie approached.
“Bruce,” she greeted brightly, then her gaze flicked to you and lingered a beat too long. Her smile thinned. “Oh. You two made up?”
You lifted a brow, unimpressed. “Is that a problem?”
Julie shook her head quickly. “No, of course not. It’s just—” she hesitated, tilting her head. “That fight looked serious. You seemed very harsh on Bruce. Unfair, even.”
Before you could respond, Bruce spoke.
“My wife had every right to be angry,” he said smoothly, his tone calm but firm. “If anything, she’s been more than understanding.”
Julie paused, her gaze flicking between the two of you as she tried to figure out what changed between you two. “Well… that’s good,” she said at last, forcing a smile. “I was actually here to see if you wanted to go for brunch, Bruce?”
Bruce turned to you instead. “Do you want brunch, honey?”
You blinked at the endearment, momentarily caught off guard, then shook your head. “I have work to get done.”
“You’re always such a workaholic,” Julie laughed lightly.
“She is,” Bruce agreed mildly, a faint curve to his mouth. “That’s why the company is where it is. She’s the true powerhouse at Wayne Enterprises.”
Julie laughed lightly but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course,” she said tightly. “Still, brunch wouldn’t take long. It might be nice to get out of the office for a bit.”
You shook your head. “Unfortunately, I have a full day.”
Time was already slipping through your fingers, and Eden wasn’t going to secure itself. You needed focus on closing that deal.
Julie’s smile brightened, quick and eager. “I guess it’s just me and you then, Bruce.”
“I have a full schedule as well,” Bruce replied evenly. “A board call, then meetings.”
Julie blinked, then laughed again, as if brushing it off. “I’m sure Y/N doesn’t mind handling that.”
Something sharpened in Bruce’s expression. His gaze narrowed, voice firm and unmistakably cold. “She’s my wife,” he said. “Not my secretary.”
“Besides,” he added calmly, “now that our deal is over, it wouldn’t be appropriate. I’m a married man.”
Julie recoiled as if struck, her composure cracking before she scoffed. “Since when does that matter? You two are divorcing.”
“That’s not your place to comment on,” Bruce said coolly.
You turned to look at him, genuine shock flickering across your face.
Julie’s laugh died mid-breath. Her eyes widened. “Bruce—”
He didn’t let her finish.
“—and it never has been,” he continued, voice low and precise, the tone he reserved for boardrooms when someone had just crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.
Julie’s mouth opened, then closed. “I was just—”
“My marriage is not a topic for your speculation,” Bruce cut in smoothly. “Our divorce—if and when it happens—is not your business. Nor is how we handle our relationship until then.”
Color bloomed high on Julie’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “I’m just saying there’s nothing wrong with two friends going out." She looked to you, "Come on, Y/N—you shouldn’t overreact about Bruce and I being close.”
You lifted a brow, but before you could respond, Bruce spoke again.
“Julie, you seem to forget,” he said calmly, “the only reason I attended those brunches was because you had information I needed.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “And for the record, my wife hasn’t said a word about your behaviour. If anything, she’s been far too patient. This isn’t about her—it’s about you and your lack of respect for my marriage.”
You look at Bruce in surprise, wondering exactly what information he needed from her to be going to these brunches.
Julie laughed, the sound was sharp and brittle. “So what—because I’m done helping you, you decide to dump me?”
Bruce arched a brow. “Our relationship was purely business. You helped me by confirming who’s been leaking details of the Eden project to Lex,” he said evenly. “But let’s not forget how you’ve been playing both sides—feeding Lex personal information as well. Including news about my marriage.”
Julie’s face drained of colour.
“You—you can’t prove that,” she said, the scoff coming a beat too late, and too shaky to sound convincing.
Bruce didn’t blink. “You were the only one we told,” he said evenly. Selina and Alfred didn’t count because he knew they would never betray you and him “And the very next day, media outlets started speculating. Lex suddenly seemed very certain about the state of my marriage.”
Julie opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“I’ve been clear with you before,” Bruce continued, his voice steady and unraised. “Y/N is the only woman I will ever choose. That hasn’t changed. It won’t change—marriage or not.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I fulfilled my end of the deal. I made sure Lex left you alone. In return, you helped me find who was leaking company information and trying to sabotage Eden. That means there’s nothing left between us.”
With that, he gently pressed a hand to your back, guiding you forward.
Julie panicked and reached out, fingers wrapping around his arm. “Please, Bruce!” she pleaded. “He threatened me!”
Bruce stopped—but only long enough to look at her, his expression glacial. He calmly shrugged out of her grip.
“You went back to him of your own free will,” he said coolly. “After I pulled strings to make sure he left you alone. Your choices—and their consequences—are not my responsibility.”
“Bruce!” Julie cried.
He didn’t look back. He simply led you past her, his hand firm and steady at your back, leaving her standing there with nothing but the knowledge of her own mistakes.
“So,” you murmured once you were out of earshot, your voice low, “that’s why you were hanging around Julie.”
He nodded without hesitation. “She was close with Lex,” he said quietly. “And he’s been doing everything he can to sabotage Eden—blocking permits, stirring up Nexus, trying to gain control of those properties. Julie was the access point I needed to shut it down.”
He glanced down at you then, lips curving faintly. “What?” he added, almost incredulous. “You actually thought I liked her?”
He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “There’s only ever been one woman for me. That’s you.” His expression softened. “You’ve been working too hard on this project. I didn’t want to distract you with Lex’s schemes—not when I could handle it quietly.”
You nudged him gently at the side, a small smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “You certainly went about it in the most frustrating way possible.”
As the two of you stepped inside, your assistant was already there, posture snapping straight at the sight of you. Her gaze flicked to Bruce—questioning, wary—but you gave a subtle shake of your head, a silent later.
She cleared her throat, clutching her tablet a little too tightly. “Lucius wanted to meet with you about the Central City and Metropolis branches. They—”
“That can wait,” Bruce cut in smoothly.
He didn’t even look up at her. His attention was fixed on his phone, a slow, almost smug smile spreading across his face at whatever he was reading.
“We have a meeting to attend.”
Both of you blinked.
“I do?” you echoed, at the exact same moment your assistant sputtered, “She does?”
Your assistant went pale instantly, fingers flying across the screen as she scrolled through the itinerary, panic sharpening her movements. “I—I don’t have anything flagged. There’s no meeting listed, no external call, no—”
Bruce finally looked up.
He turned the phone toward you, tilting it just enough for you to see the screen.
Eden Project – Partnership Confirmation
Dear Mr. Wayne,
Dear Ms. Wayne,
On behalf of the Nexus Board of Directors, we are pleased to inform you that Nexus has voted to move forward with the Eden Project in partnership with Wayne Enterprises.
Following further internal review, we are confident that Wayne Enterprises’ proposed framework—particularly its emphasis on environmental remediation, regulatory compliance, and long-term community infrastructure—aligns with Nexus’s strategic and ethical objectives.
Pending final legal review and standard contractual formalities, we are prepared to proceed with the transfer of the designated properties and to establish the agreed-upon equity and oversight structures discussed in prior negotiations.
Our legal and operations teams will coordinate with Wayne Enterprises within the week to finalize timelines and next steps. Final terms can be discussed in person today.
We appreciate your patience throughout this process and look forward to a productive partnership.
Sincerely,
Andrew Cunningham
Chief Executive Officer
Nexus Corporation
For a moment, the world went quiet.
Your eyes traced the words again, slower this time, as if you needed to be sure they were real. Voted to move forward. Prepared to proceed. Final terms can be discussed today.
Your breath caught in your chest.
“They agreed,” you whispered, the words barely audible.
Bruce’s mouth curved into a soft, satisfied smile. His hands settled on your shoulders, warm and steady. “They did,” he said simply. “You did it.”
Your assistant made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a choked laugh. “Oh my god—oh my god, you did it,” she blurted, already moving. “I’ll—uh—I’ll clear the rest of the day. Legal, Lucius, ops—everyone.”
You barely heard her.
Years of planning. Of roadblocks. Of watching Lex circle like a shark, trying to tear it out from under you. All of it crystallized into that single email glowing on Bruce’s screen.
You looked up at him, disbelief and triumph warring in your expression.
“You knew,” you said softly.
He nodded. “I didn’t want to say anything until the decision was officially confirmed. A… coincidental leak of Julie and Lex discussing the real motivations behind his interest in the Nexus properties found its way to the board late Friday night.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Andrew doesn’t like being cornered. But he hates being lied to—and threatened—even more.”
Friday…the night you were kidnapped.
The realization hit you all at once. That was why he’d asked for time when you confronted him about Julie. He hadn’t been stalling to make an excuse. He’d been waiting until he could lay everything out at once.
Part of you could have chosen anger. Could have clung to the fact that, once again, he’d been doing this behind your back. And there was still so much to unpack about his disastrous communication skills.
But beneath all of that, the truth remained.
He’d done this for you.
Selina was right. If you walked away now—if you let fear make the decision for you—you’d regret it. Because as flawed as his choices had been, as much as he’d hidden and hurt you along the way, Bruce had never stopped standing at your side. Protecting you through the shadows. Taking care of you the only way he knew how.
Something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest.
The world seemed to narrow then, the hum of the building fading until there was only the two of you amid glass windows and polished floors. Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his face, your fingers trembling as tears blurred your vision and finally spilled over.
“Thank you,” you choked out.
Bruce’s expression softened instantly. His hands came up to cradle your face in return, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes as if he could catch every tear before it fell.
“I know I haven’t been the best husband,” he said quietly, the words stripped of bravado or charm. “I know I’ve hidden behind excuses and silence.” His voice thickened, raw and unguarded. “But if you can find it in your heart to give me one more chance, I’ll prove to you the feelings I’ve been too much of a coward to show.”
A shaky breath left you as you nodded, tears slipping freely now.
“One chance, Bruce,” you whispered.
It wasn’t blind forgiveness. It wasn’t even a clean slate—you refused to pretend that years of absence, silence, and hurt could simply be erased.
But all relationships had their ups and downs, and yes, yours was less a series of bumps and more of a mountain—a steep, unforgiving mountain carved with old wounds.
But if he was willing to climb it with you—honestly, this time—then you were willing to take one last step forward and give him a chance.
The grin that broke across his face was brighter than anything you’d seen from him in years—unrestrained, almost boyish. You barely had time to gasp before he surged forward, kissing you deeply, as if afraid the moment might slip away if he didn’t seize it.
Around you, the office erupted—whistles, cheers, and clapping—but Bruce seemed to exist in a world where it was only the two of you.
When you finally pulled back, breathless and laughing through tears, he reached into his pocket. Your heart skipped as he opened his palm, revealing your wedding ring.
He took your hand and slid it back onto your finger with a tenderness that made your chest ache, as though he understood exactly what he was silently promising you. After how close he’d come to losing you, this time he was determined not to make the same mistakes.
“Well, Mrs. Wayne,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours, “let me finally give you the marriage you deserve.”
And for the first time since you’d said divorce, the word husband no longer felt like a hollow title—but the promise it was meant to be.