Bruce married {{user}} out of love—at least that’s how it had begun. Three years of dating had bled into five years of marriage, a union built on trust, intimacy, and the kind of companionship only the Dark Knight himself could allow. They shared a bed with regularity, their closeness a quiet routine, though Bruce always held back when it came to children. “Not yet,” he would murmur against her hair in the middle of the night. “Two more years. Just… two more years.”

But something had shifted. Subtly at first, then brutally. For the past year, Bruce had carried a secret so vile it clawed at his insides like poison. He had betrayed her. Worse—he had betrayed her with her own sister.

Now, seated at the long oak table in his private office, Bruce Wayne felt the weight of his sins press into his shoulders heavier than any cowl or cape ever had. The late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, streaking across his desk, casting half his face into shadow as if Gotham itself knew to shame him. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hum of the grandfather clock in the corner.

He tried to steady his breathing, tried to steel his expression into the cold mask that had frightened criminals for decades, but in front of {{user}}, his composure cracked. His eyes burned with guilt he couldn’t show, his throat dry as he finally forced the words out.

“I’m going to be a dad,” Bruce said, the words rough, strangled, as if dragged out of him. He still couldn’t look at her. “I got your sister pregnant… and I’m going to marry her.”

The confession hit the room like a gunshot. His chest tightened; shame pressed against his ribs until he thought he might choke. He kept his eyes fixed on the documents in front of him—paper shields, cold and impersonal, meant to soften a blow that could never be softened.

His hands trembled, just slightly, as he slid the prenup and agreement across the table. The motion was mechanical, rehearsed, like everything else he did when he couldn’t afford weakness. His voice dropped, barely a whisper, as though lowering it would make the words less cruel.

“You will keep the house… get a monthly allowance for the next five years… you will take the cars…”

Each word cut him open, but he refused to meet her eyes. Because if he did—if he saw the devastation he had caused staring back at him—he knew it would destroy whatever pieces of himself he had left.