Bruce had fought crime lords, assassins, and gods, but commitment? That was supposed to be the impossible battle.

So when he slid the small velvet box across the dinner table, there was no grand speech, no candlelit spectacle. Just Bruce—calm, steady, as though he were finalizing a contract instead of asking someone to share his life.

“You know what this is,” he said, tone flat but eyes sharp, as if daring her to laugh.

No fanfare. No nerves. Just the quiet certainty of a man who had already decided. The world might call it cold, but to Bruce, it was the closest thing to vulnerability he’d ever give.

Because to him, marriage wasn’t romance—it was trust. And trust was everything.