Bruce figured it out by accident.

It wasn’t the money—he had more of that than sense, apparently—but the timing. The pattern. Requests that never came during board meetings or briefings or even over dinner. They came at night. Late. When the city was quiet and his brain was finally off duty.

Half-asleep Bruce was generous. Dangerous. Soft around the edges.

He lay there now, eyes closed, breath slow, one arm draped loosely across the bed. He looked peaceful in a way few people ever saw—jaw unclenched, brow smooth, defenses down. That was when it happened. A weight shifting beside him. A subtle pause. Careful, measured movements like someone approaching a skittish animal.

She leaned in, close enough that her voice barely disturbed the air.

Bruce hummed, half-conscious, shifting toward her warmth. His hand flexed instinctively, fingers curling like he was anchoring himself to something real.

“M’kay,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “That’s fine. Just… send it to Lucius.”

There it was. Confirmation.

The next morning, wide awake and fully armored in control, Bruce would review his accounts and feel that now-familiar flicker of concern. Not at the number. Never the number.

But at the growing realization that his wife knew exactly when to ask him for things.

And worse—

He wasn’t sure he wanted her to stop.