Chapter Text
Elena stood barefoot in the middle of her bedroom, arms crossed, glaring at her mirror as if it had somehow wronged her. She kept repeating to herself, Half the guests will be drunk before it even starts. No one will be looking at you. The ever-growing pile of rejected garments on her closet floor glared up at her in irony.
The invitation had arrived two weeks ago, printed on cardstock thick enough to stop a bullet. The Rutherford Foundation Annual Gala was embossed in gold. Her supervisor, Dr. Langford, had slid it across Elena's desk with a proud smile. Networking opportunity, he’d called it. Translation: You’re our star scientist, so you get to smile through small talk with rich strangers while pretending you don’t want to stab yourself with a shrimp fork
Elena tugged the zipper of the fifth (maybe sixth) dress up her back. The fabric clung awkwardly around her ribs. She twisted, trying to catch her reflection from different angles.
"I look like I am smuggling a small animal under my dress,” she muttered to the empty house.
This was truly hopeless. Preparing to give up on going altogether, Elena locked eyes with a black silk dress haphazardly abandoned on a nearby chair. Forty-five minutes ago, when she had begun her search for an outfit, Elena had dismissed the form-fitting garment outright. She’d bought it on a whim last year, then promptly buried it in her closet after realizing she had nowhere to wear it.
"Fine," she muttered, shimmying out of the ill-fitting dress and stepping into the other.
The silk slid over her skin like water, the slit revealing just enough leg to feel daring, but not enough to make her self-conscious in a room filled with social elites. She admired herself in the mirror, watching the way the light danced across the fabric.
This would have to do. Her phone buzzed with a rideshare notification: Your driver, Raj, will arrive in 4 minutes.
She swallowed hard, suddenly aware of her pulse thudding in her throat. Elena pushed away the nerves, focusing her attention on getting ready. She reapplied her lipstick, slid on her heels, and adorned herself with every piece of silver jewelry she could find.
Raj has arrived.
Elena did one final check of her clutch (which, truthfully, was only big enough to hold her phone and some cash) and left the comfort of her brownstone behind.
Raj’s car idled at the curb, a nondescript sedan with a dented bumper and a pine-scented air freshener dangling from the rearview. He glanced up as she approached, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Fancy event?”
“Something like that,” Elena muttered, sliding into the backseat.
The leather was warm against her thighs, the seatbelt buckle digging into her hip as she fastened it. Raj merged into traffic without another word, leaving her to press her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The city slid by in streaks of neon and shadow, the occasional flash of headlights illuminating the nervous twist of her fingers in her lap.
The car lurched to a stop behind a line of limousines idling in front of the Rutherford Foundation’s marble facade. Elena’s stomach tightened as she caught sight of the crowd milling beneath the awning. Even from a distance, she could see women draped in glittering gowns and men in tuxedos with cufflinks that probably cost more than her PhD.
Raj glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Do you want me to drop you closer? Looks like a bit of a walk in those shoes.”
Elena shook her head, forcing a smile. “No, this is fine. Thank you.”
She fumbled with the door handle, nerves already getting the better of her. The moment her heel hit the pavement, she regretted not letting Raj pull closer to the entrance. The sidewalk was uneven, and the straps of her heels bit into her ankles with every step.
When she finally reached the entrance, she was swept forward by the current of Gotham’s (unsurprisingly pushy) elite. Inside, the gala was a humming hive of champagne flutes and murmured conversations. The lobby had been transformed into something out of a noir film: low lighting, art deco flourishes, and a sea of men in black suits. Elena spotted Dr. Langford across the room. He was mid-conversation with a tall, broad-shouldered man whose tuxedo looked like it had been poured onto him.
Langford caught her eye and waved her over with the enthusiasm of a man who’d already had one cocktail too many. “Elena! There you are.” His voice carried just a little too loudly in the massive ballroom. “Bruce, this is the prodigy I was telling you about: Dr. Elena Marković, our youngest virologist.”
Bruce Wayne turned, and Elena registered who her boss had been speaking to: Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. The man who had been the cover of “Gotham’s most eligible bachelor” since he turned eighteen. The man who practically owned the city of Gotham. She should have known who it was from the confidence in his stance or the faint smirk that suggested he knew exactly how many eyes were on him.
“Dr. Marković,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was warm and deliberate. “I hear you’re the reason Gotham hasn’t been wiped out by some designer pathogen yet.”
Elena arched a brow. If there was one rule to life in Gotham, it was this: Never, ever, trust a billionaire philanthropist. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne,” Elena replied, with all the niceties she could muster.
Bruce Wayne gave her his designer smile as he bowed his head to her hand. “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” He released her hand, but not before his fingers lingered just a heartbeat too long. “I am quite interested in what your team’s been working on. Langford here’s been tight-lipped; he says you’re the only one who can explain it properly.”
Elena shot Langford a look of exasperation before turning back to Wayne. “He’s exaggerating,” she said, though they both knew she was lying. Langford had never been one for details, preferring to delegate the heavy lifting to whoever could handle it. Which, lately, had been her. “But if you’re genuinely interested, I’d be happy to-”
“Walk me through it?” Wayne finished for her, smirking. He gestured toward a quieter corner of the room, where a pair of velvet-upholstered chairs sat bathed in the soft glow of a table lamp. “Unless you’d rather keep dodging admirers all night.”
Elena followed his gaze and caught no fewer than three men (all colleagues) looking away quickly. This was going to be a long night (and an even longer workday tomorrow). She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling more forcefully than necessary. “Lead the way.”
They settled into the chairs, and Elena found herself acutely aware of the way Wayne’s knee brushed against hers as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs. Close, but not invasive. Intentional, but not presumptuous. She’d met enough wealthy men in this city to know the difference.
“So,” he said, swirling his whiskey. “Tell me why I should invest in your team. Beyond the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
“You.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim of his glass. “Langford wasn’t exaggerating about your reputation. You’re the youngest virologist to ever head a project at Novartis. Published your first paper at nineteen. The CDC tried to poach you last year.” He tilted his head. “I do my homework, Doctor.”
“Flattery, Wayne?” she said dryly. “You really are pulling out all the stops.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “Flattery’s beneath me, Doctor,” he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “But what can I say? I am thorough.” His words sounded more like a purr than anything.
She’d seen this act before. Gotham was full of the “charming philanthropist” types, who were really just billionaires who pretended to be approachable. But there was something unnervingly genuine about the way he listened and the way his gaze never strayed from her face, even once.
"Eight months," he said, as if they were already mid-conversation. "That’s how long I need you for."
Elena blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The contract," Wayne clarified, his voice dropping half an octave. "Eight months. Wayne Enterprises has been developing a method of rapid wound healing. Not your average hydrogel,” he beamed proudly. “This will not only seal off the injury but also prevent infection and rapidly improve cell turnover.”
“We are years from that kind of technology,” she said bluntly. “You can’t possibly-”
“-We have a prototype,” he interrupted. “We can heal minor wounds in 78% less time. Anything less than three inches can be gone anywhere from a few hours to two days, depending on the severity. Preliminary trials show similar results for even significant, life-threatening injuries. The only problem is that every prototype fails under viral load. The second anything microscopic is present within the wound, the whole system collapses.” He leaned forward, close enough that Elena could see the way his eyes dilated slightly in the low light. "I want you to fix that."
She exhaled sharply, half-laughing. "You’re joking."
"Never been more serious." His thumb traced the rim of his whiskey glass absently. "Langford wasn’t exaggerating about your work. Your methods are the closest thing I have seen to perfection. I need that precision applied to our prototype."
"Eight months is impossible," she said flatly. "Even if I dropped everything else-"
"-You would." Wayne interrupted (again). "I am offering you a blank check and zero oversight." His smirk returned. “You can work alone or hire your own team. I won’t manage you. I just need this solved.”
The project was tantalizing. It was exactly the kind of high-risk, high-reward work she’d clawed her way into science for. But Bruce Wayne wasn’t just some investor. He was a distraction, made of charm, wits, and calculated dishevelment. Wayne was the kind of man who made smart women do stupid things.
"Why me?" she asked finally. "You could buy any scientist in the world.”
“I don't want any scientist. I want you.” His gaze never wavered from hers.
"How long have you been working on the prototype?" Elena quickly interjected in a failed attempt to ignore the heat creeping up her neck.
Wayne didn’t hesitate. "Three years."
She arched a brow. "And you think I can solve it in eight months?"
His grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "I don’t think," he said, leaning back in his chair, the movement stretching his suit jacket taut across his shoulders. "I know."
Elena snorted into her drink. "That’s arrogance talking."
"No," he corrected, swirling his whiskey absently. The ice clinked against crystal. "You can solve it." Simple. Absolute. As if the possibility of failure had never even occurred to him.
A beat of silence passed between them. “Fine. I will consider this insane proposition.” Elena muttered, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. “But I have two stipulations.”
“Anything,” Wayne interjected. He sounded desperate… or was that just flirtatious? It was very difficult to tell with Bruce Wayne.
“First, you cannot release information to anyone about what I am working on. It must be completely confidential during these eight months. If it somehow works, my name is attached. If it doesn’t, I never touched the project. Is that clear?” Elena was relieved that the assertiveness she had built after spending years navigating the STEM field as a woman had finally paid off.
“Done. And admired.” Bruce stated.
“I’ll need that in writing.”
“Of course. And second?”
“I need full access. I need to know everything that happened and is happening with this prototype. If someone comes within spitting distance of the lab, I should know about it. I won’t work without proper information.”
Bruce paused, voice wavering. “That will be tricky,” he admitted.
“I can’t improve something that I don’t understand. This is non-negotiable.”
“We have other contracts in the laboratory. All are top secret.” The seconds ticked by in silence as he considered this matter carefully. “I can get you your access. But it will come at a cost.”
“I thought money was no object for Bruce Wayne?” Elena chirped, her eyebrows raised in a mix of warmth and defiance.
“Believe me, it isn’t. But this is a cost on your end.“ Bruce murmured, leaning forward just enough that the scent of his cologne (something woodsy and expensive) drifted between them. “Full access means full responsibility. You’ll be handling proprietary Wayne Enterprises tech. That comes with an NDA so airtight, you’ll forget your own name if you breach it.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Still interested?”
Elena didn’t blink. “Try harder, Wayne. I’ve signed enough NDAs to wallpaper my house.”
Bruce’s grin was sudden, electric. “Well then, Dr. Marković. Eight months. Full access. And yes, you’ll know everything.” He paused. “But once you do, there’s no walking away.”
The silence between them stretched taut, filled only by the distant clink of glasses and the murmur of the gala crowd. Elena studied the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the shadow of something unreadable behind his practiced charm. "No walking away," she repeated slowly. "That sounds less like a business proposal and more like a poorly veiled threat."
Bruce’s laugh was low and warm, but his eyes stayed sharp. "Call it a reality check. The moment you step into that lab, you’re part of something bigger than either of us."
She traced the rim of her glass, considering. The scientist in her was already dissecting the problem and designing improvements. But the woman, the one who’d grown up in Gotham’s shadows, knew better than to trust a Wayne. But the work… the work was undeniable. "Okay," she said at last.
“Then it's settled. I’ll have my lawyer draft the paperwork and send it to you for review.”
Wayne flashed his smile, rising from his chair. The moment Bruce stood, the entire room seemed to pivot toward him. Elena watched as he straightened his cuffs with practiced ease before extending a hand to help her up. She ignored it, rising on her own. His smirk said he had expected nothing less.
"Here," he said, pulling a card from his pocket and sliding it into her silver clutch she hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His fingers brushed hers again; deliberate, always deliberate. "My private line. Call anytime." The playboy charm had returned.
Elena arched a brow. "Even at three AM?"
"Especially at three AM." His grin was all teeth.
Before she could retort, a woman in a red gown materialized at Bruce’s elbow, murmuring something about "the mayor’s wife" and "that donation". He nodded, smooth as ever, but Elena caught the way his jaw tightened in annoyance before he turned to face her.
“Well, Doctor, duty calls,” he said, with a theatrical bow.
And with that, the infamous Bruce Wayne was gone. And Elena had just made an impossible deal with the devil.