The study was quiet in that particular Wayne Manor way—expensive, controlled, every sound softened by money and intention. Gotham’s skyline glowed through the tall windows, distant and indifferent, while Bruce stood by the desk with his jacket already off, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest this wasn’t casual.

He didn’t raise his voice. He never did.

Divorce sat between you like a third presence, heavy and unspoken until now. Lawyers had already been considered—of course they had. Contingencies drafted, outcomes mapped, risks calculated. Bruce Wayne didn’t enter any situation unprepared, especially not one involving loss.

He turned to face you then, expression calm, almost gentle, but his eyes were sharp with certainty. “Divorce is an option,” he said evenly. “I won’t stop you.”

A pause. Long enough to let the words settle. Long enough to make it clear this wasn’t a threat—it was a fact.

“But you won’t get anything out of it.”

Not cruelty. Precision.

Bruce stepped closer, not crowding, not touching—just close enough that you could feel the gravity of him, the way the room subtly rearranged itself around his presence. He wasn’t angry. That was the unsettling part. This was the same man who negotiated hostile takeovers over breakfast, who dismantled enemies without ever raising his pulse.

“I take care of what’s mine,” he continued quietly. “And I protect what I build. If you leave, you leave clean. No mess. No leverage.”

His gaze softened just a fraction then—not enough to be comforting, but enough to remind you this wasn’t about punishment. It was about boundaries. Control. Order.

“And I’d rather not end us like that,” Bruce finished, voice low, final.