It started with one text.

Bruce: Cancel your plans tonight. I’m taking you out properly.

You blinked at your phone. He rarely texted. And never like that.

You: Properly? Like… not a stakeout or a gala where we have to pretend to mingle?

Bruce: A real date. You and me. No masks. Dress to kill.

You stared at the message, already grinning. If he wanted a competition, he was getting one.

By the time he walked past the bedroom hours later, he caught sight of you mid-outfit try-on number seven. You didn’t see him at first, too busy posing in the mirror, testing earrings and throwing another dress into the “no” pile.

“You planning to rob a fashion magazine?” he said casually from the doorway.

You didn’t skip a beat. “Just trying to find something that’ll make you speechless.”

Bruce’s eyes swept over you. “You already did that in sweats this morning.”

You tossed a shoe at him. He caught it — of course he did — smirking like the menace he was.

The real fun started when you walked into the foyer later, ready. Your dress clung in all the right places, subtle but show-stopping. Hair perfect. Lipstick sharp enough to make men apologize on sight.

Bruce turned from the mirror as you entered — and stopped mid-motion.

His jaw actually dropped. Just slightly. But you saw it.

You smiled, slow and knowing. “That’s one point for me.”

But then — then — he stepped into view.

Charcoal suit. No tie. Top button undone. Cufflinks glinting like sin. That smug, quiet power only he could pull off. The kind that made your brain glitch.

You blinked. “You wore that suit.”

His eyes glittered. “You wore that dress.”

“Tactical offense,” you muttered, eyeing him up. “You’re trying to ruin the evening before it even starts.”

“I’d never,” he said, brushing a finger along your waist as he passed. “But if anyone stares at you tonight, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”