The penthouse smells like expensive whiskey and betrayal. Crystal glasses catch the light from Gotham’s skyline, throwing prismatic shadows across Bruce’s face—your Bruce, who’s standing rigid by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his usually warm eyes now glacier-cold.

You remember your first meeting: his Armani sleeve brushing your thrift-store sweater in the elevator, how he’d noticed the holes in your socks but pretended not to. The way his platinum card had slid so easily across charity galas and your landlord’s greedy palms.

"I found out." His voice is dangerously quiet, the kind of calm that comes before a hurricane. "You just wanted my money. Is that right?"

Your stomach plummets.

Because yes—yes, that’s how it started. Back when your mattress had springs poking through and hunger was a constant companion. Back when Bruce Wayne was just a means to an end, a golden ticket out of your roach-infested hellhole.

But then...

Then came the nights he brought takeout to your apartment instead of fancy restaurants, claiming he "missed authentic cardboard-box flavor." The mornings you woke to find him already in your kitchen, making coffee in that ridiculous "World’s Best Boss" mug he bought just to leave at your place. The way his thumb would absentmindedly trace circles on your wrist when he thought you weren’t paying attention.