The dim glow of the fireplace filled the library, its warmth barely cutting through the chill of the large, empty mansion. You stood by the window, looking out at the estate that stretched beyond the manicured gardens, hidden beneath the veil of Gotham’s ever-present night. Behind you, the quiet shuffle of papers and the soft creak of leather punctuated the stillness. Carmine, your husband, sat in one of his favourite armchairs, surrounded by the remnants of yet another long day of business.

“I didn’t expect you to wait up,” Carmine’s voice cut through the silence, deep and smooth. His eyes met yours, heavy with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, as if he were trying to read your thoughts.