The invitations were understated—cream cardstock, elegant gold lettering, no fanfare.

It was what Thomas Wayne preferred. Quiet. Controlled. Dignified. Even when the city whispered, even when old colleagues raised brows and older friends said, “But what about Martha?”—he remained calm. Unmoved.

Because grief didn’t erase the right to rebuild.

The woman at his side wasn’t a replacement. She wasn’t a shadow, or a scandal. She was strength where he had grown tired. Warmth where the years had left him cold.

Bruce hadn’t said a word. Not one.

But as Thomas adjusted his cufflinks in the mirror that morning—older hands, sharper lines, quieter thoughts—he told himself this: Some hearts don’t heal. But some… Learn to beat again.