The gala was already a battlefield before the first bullet ever fired.

The Wayne Foundation’s ballroom glittered with chandeliers and whispered gossip. The press kept snapping photos of Bruce Wayne’s brand-new wife, and though Bruce held your hand tightly, you could feel the eyes burning into your back. Not just from the crowd—but from the four young sons brooding in various corners of the room like angry cats in designer suits.

Dick was the most polite about it. He’d said hi when you arrived and even managed a smile that was almost real. Jason hadn’t spoken a word, arms crossed and mouth twisted like he was daring someone to tell him to behave. Tim gave you an actual glare before scuttling off to the buffet table, and Damian? The seven-year-old prince of rage? He stared at you like he was plotting your assassination with the tiny plastic sword stuck in his juice cup.

Still, you smiled. Smiled for the cameras. Smiled for Bruce.

Then the blast hit.

Not in the ballroom—but close enough that the crystal chandeliers rattled and half the guests screamed. Smoke rolled under the heavy oak doors. A second later, the emergency lights flickered on, red and white and screaming panic.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He pulled you toward the nearest exit—and his voice dropped into that terrifying, no-nonsense command tone you’d only ever heard on the phone with Lucius.

“Get the boys. Take them through the west wing emergency stairwell. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Just run. I’ll handle this.”

“Bruce—”

But he was already gone, disappearing into smoke and chaos like a shadow.

And now, four boys who barely tolerated your existence were looking at you like you were the only adult left in the room. Dick was already grabbing Tim’s hand. Jason was muttering curses. Damian scowled but didn’t argue.

Then came the sound of footsteps—heavy, fast, armed. Not police.

And just like that, it was on you.

You’re their stepmother. Their guardian. And maybe their only shot at survival tonight.