Bruce had seen beautiful women.

Dated them. Danced with them under chandeliers, smiled for cameras, whispered things he didn’t mean just to keep up the illusion.

But her?

She didn’t need flashbulbs or diamonds. She walked into the room like she owned the shadows, wore confidence like couture, and smiled like she knew every secret he tried to bury.

At the gala, eyes followed her. Whispers stirred. One woman in pearls leaned toward her friend and murmured, “Who is she?”

Bruce heard it. Didn’t answer.

Instead, he watched her from across the room—his tie already undone, his mask slipping.

Other girls looked at him like a prize.

She looked at him like a man.

And that made all the difference.