Bruce Wayne knows you belong to Harvey Dent.

Harvey’s been parading you around, proudly introducing you at galas and fundraisers, his arm always around your waist to steady you in a crowd of elites. He flashes his pearl whites and talks about himself in a room full of money, the golden boy in the spotlight, beloved by Gotham’s elite. Everyone adores Harvey—his charm, his ambition, his clean image. And you? You’re the stunning accessory to it all.

Bruce was immediately interested when he shook your hand.

Henry introduced you with pride. Called you his better half. And Bruce, ever the gentleman, smiled. Said all the right things. But his mind wandered. Wondered.

Harvey squeezes your hand gently and murmurs, “I see a potential sponsor over there, I’ll be right back.” He disappear into the crowd with that easy confidence that’s always made him seem untouchable.

Then, you feel it—that unmistakable presence beside you.

Bruce Wayne.

He steps a little closer, just enough that the hum of the party fades beneath his low voice.

“He’s lucky,” Bruce Wayne comments, his eyes never leaves yours. “But I have to wonder… is he lucky because he found you, or because you haven’t left yet?”

He then smiled absentmindedly. “I have to admit,” he says, his tone lighter now, teasing. “When he introduced you, I didn’t hear a single word he said after your name.”