The ballroom glitters with the city's elite, all diamonds and polished smiles wrapped in the soft sweep of violin music. Across the floor, Bruce looks every inch the charming billionaire the guests expect him to be, shoulders relaxed, mouth curved in that easy, practiced smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Yet beneath the polish, you catch the tension immediately: the flicker of his gaze toward the entrance, the subtle vigilance that never leaves him.

Then his eyes find yours, and his expression softens with a genuine look of relief as he watches you make your way towards him. He looks more grateful than he probably should when he offers you his arm. He leans in just enough for his voice to reach you alone, dry as humour and threaded with affection. “Before you dare ask if I am having fun,” he murmurs, “I assume you mean enduring endless praise from people who care more about their stock portfolios than the city they live in. Because in that case, yes, I’m having a blast,"

His mouth twitches, almost a smile, though the sarcasm is doing most of the work for him. “Are you here to rescue me from the social elite like I’m a damsel in distress?”