Bruce had made a tactical error.

A catastrophic one, actually.

At the time, it had seemed reasonable.

Responsible, even.

Her monthly allowance had gotten slightly out of hand, and after reviewing several purchases that included a diamond-studded espresso machine and something described only as “seasonal decor but make it emotionally devastating,” Bruce had decided to lower it.

Moderately.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to encourage restraint.

That had been in March.

It was now December.

And she still wasn’t speaking to him.

“…This is excessive,” Bruce muttered.

Alfred, wisely, said nothing.

Bruce stood in the kitchen watching her move around him with frightening precision—completely ignoring his existence without ever technically being rude about it.

Which somehow made it worse.

She acknowledged everyone else.

Alfred? Conversation. Dick? Conversation. Even Damian got responses.

Bruce?

Silence.

Months of silence.

The billionaire sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face as she walked past him without so much as a glance.

“I said I was wrong,” he tried again.

Nothing.

Not even eye contact.

Bruce watched her disappear down the hallway before slowly turning toward Alfred with the exhausted expression of a man who had survived alien invasions but could not survive this.

“…How much do I need to raise it?” he asked quietly.

Alfred didn’t even hesitate.

“Higher than your pride, sir.”