It was the early 1950s when you married Bruce Wayne.

He was every woman’s dream—rich, strong, confident, and commanding. You, on the other hand, weren’t exactly popular. Most women couldn’t understand why he chose you.

But he did. And to you, he was the perfect husband.

Still, the upper class didn’t take to you. The manor slowly stopped seeing guests—not because of Bruce, but because of you. And worse? You couldn’t cook. Maybe some cornpone… a bit of salad… but not much else.

So, you’d secretly hired help—a maid, a Black woman with a sharp tongue who’d been fired from her last job for speaking her mind. Bruce didn’t know about her—and you preferred to keep it that way. Not because he’d disapprove—he wasn’t racist—but because you didn’t want him to know how helpless you were in the kitchen.

One afternoon, while chatting with her on the phone, you felt a gentle poke at your waist. Strong arms wrapped around your hips and a kiss brushed your neck.

“I’m home early,” Bruce murmured, voice warm and low. “And it’s lunchtime… And I’m feeling a little… hungry.” He said as he twirled you in his arms lovingly.

Great. Now you had to cook. Alone. And God help you—because even boiling water was a risk.