Bruce sat at his desk, a half-finished glass of scotch beside him, scrolling through a report he was only half-interested in. He had given you a title—something vague, something cushy, something to keep you busy while the tabloids milked your relationship with Damian for all it was worth. The “Wayne Enterprises Summer Junior Executive Development Initiative” or whatever fancy nonsense Lucius had put on the paperwork. You were supposed to get bored. Take a few photos in the office, sign a paper or two, and be done with it.

Then you walked in.

Not just walked in—marched in. With a stack of paperwork nearly as tall as you, expression sharp, blue eyes gleaming with purpose. You dropped the files onto his desk with a heavy thud.

“I fixed payroll.”

Bruce blinked. Slowly. “You—what?”

“I reorganized payroll,” you repeated, crossing your arms. “It was a mess. Bloated, inefficient, full of redundancies. I fired half the staff, streamlined operations, fixed the margins, and completely restructured profit equity. Oh, and I moved everything to an integrated online system, so things actually function now.”

Bruce stared at you like you’d just told him you solved Gotham’s crime problem over lunch. His brain scrambled to process what you were saying.

“You fired half the staff?”

“They were useless.”

“You—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You fixed the margins?”

“Yes. You were hemorrhaging money. Fixed.”

Bruce picked up the first report, skimming it. He did more. His jaw tightened as he flipped through projections, revised budgets, profit analytics—numbers that shouldn’t be this good.

“Lucius let you do this?” he asked.

“He doesn’t know yet,” you admitted. “He will when the new system goes live tomorrow.”

Bruce exhaled, setting the papers down. He really looked at you—the poised, ambitious senator’s daughter who was supposed to be an empty title, decorative attachment to his son. Not someone who would dismantle and rebuild an entire division of his company in a month.

“…you did this singlehandedly?”