Bruce did not believe in ghosts.

He believed in mistakes. In coincidences. In people wearing the wrong face in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Which was why he knew, immediately, that something was wrong.

Across the gala floor, past politicians and socialites and people who thought a seven-figure donation made them important, he saw her.

Same walk. Same posture. Same tilt of the head like she was silently judging everyone in the room.

For a split second, his brain supplied the obvious answer.

Selina.

But Selina would have come to him already. Would have stolen something, insulted him, danced with him, or all three.

This woman did none of those things.

She didn’t look at him like she knew him.

She looked at him like he was just another rich man in a tuxedo.

Bruce handed his glass to a passing waiter without looking away.

“…That’s interesting,” he muttered.

He started walking across the room, slow, deliberate, the way he moved when he was approaching a suspect instead of a dance partner.

As he got closer, the differences started to appear.

The eyes were wrong. The expression was wrong. The attitude was—

Not Selina.

He stopped in front of her anyway.

“…You’re not her,” he said simply.

A pause.

Then, quieter, more to himself than to her—

“But you look enough like her that this is going to be a problem.”