The city lights flashed like paparazzi through the tinted windows, but Bruce barely noticed. He sat back against the leather seat of the limousine, black tie loosened, composure fraying with every breath that wasn’t public.

Gotham waited for him—another gala, another night of handshakes and masks that didn’t come with pointed ears. But this—this was the part of the night he actually looked forward to.

She was in his lap before the first glass of champagne had stopped trembling in its holder. Hair done, makeup perfect, dressed like a secret worth keeping. But none of it mattered when her hands were on him, tugging at silk and patience in equal measure.

Bruce let out a low breath, fingers curling at her hips, grounding himself in her weight, her presence. The limo moved smoothly through the streets, but inside, everything was raw—clothes askew, kisses too desperate to be elegant, his voice a hushed growl against her ear.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered, even as he pulled her closer. “We have twenty minutes.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Because they both knew— The real show had already started.