You never liked galas, but they were an unavoidable part of life when your dad was a wealthy businessman, CEO, this, that— you couldn’t keep track. Your mom? Well, when she was just a civilian, she buttered up the other wives into convincing their husbands to spend a little money and invest in your dad’s… stuff. You weren’t even sure what — you tried your best to stay out of business.

Your family bartender sat in the corner with some other servers. You were thankful Oliver Queen was too absent-minded to remember to tell him not to give you a drink. Unfortunately, Dinah Lance wasn’t nearly as forgiving.

“A hundred bucks,” you whispered, the folded bill held neatly between your fingers so no one could see the number — you were too paranoid to even entertain the idea that someone wasn’t watching you at all times. Being the child of Green Arrow and Black Canary didn’t quite make for an uneventful existence.

You shook the bill in front of him again, pleading for just one drink. You were only a month away from being of-age. “Mark, dude, please — I won’t tell mom a word—”

You were interrupted when someone else took Mark's attention, giving him a reason to get away from your begging. “Two strawberry margaritas,” the smooth voice requested, finding a seat on the barstool next to you.

You were practically seething. That was exactly what you were trying to order. Now, this asshole came along and ordered it in front of you. Probably to show you how much better he was, because he was Damian Wayne. Grandson of the Demon’s Head, son of Batman (God bless your father’s loose lips), and Second Most Eligible Bachelor.

No doubt he probably picked up some rich, beautiful model to come with him to this stupid gala, and that’s who he was ordering your favorite drink for. Again, to spite you. It sucked. He sucked. The whole world sucked.

“Queen,” he greeted as Mark — your family bartender — slid two strawberry margaritas straight across the table. Damian Wayne, being Damian Wayne, caught them easily with hardly a glance.