The manor was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet—this was the silence after gunfire, after sirens, after a night gone wrong.

Thomas sat in his private study, the weight of his name heavier than ever. Gotham called him a philanthropist. The underworld knew better. He didn’t build his empire with handshakes and goodwill. He built it with fire, strategy, and silence.

And yet… tonight, he wasn’t the crime boss. Not right now.

She stood in the doorway, wrapped in one of his dress shirts, eyes puffy from crying but steady. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t flinch at the blood drying on his knuckles. She just walked in, curled into the space beside him on the leather couch, and pressed her ear to his heartbeat like it was the only sound she trusted.

Thomas exhaled slowly, hand resting on her back.

He could give orders that shook a city. But this? This quiet, heavy comfort? This was the part no one saw.

And the part he’d kill to protect.