On paper, dating Bruce Wayne was a dream.

In public, in front of the flashing cameras and too-nosy reporters, he played the part of the perfect, doting boyfriend. For all of the media knew, you’d somehow tamed the wild bachelor Brucie Wayne into commitment, and away from frivolous parties. He was always smiling and laughing with you in public, practically glued to your hip as he guided you through crowds with a firm hand on your lower back. If you wanted something, it only took a look for him to pay for it. With him, you never saw a price tag. You went on expensive public dates. He opened doors for you wherever, helped you out of cars, and was the most chivalrous of gentlemen.

In private, the sparks died.

While he was never abusive towards you as your boyfriend—the opposite, really—he never seemed to have any actual time for you. The first time he’d invited you into his bedroom only ended in him falling asleep in his suit. There was no intimacy to speak of—his hand dropped from yours as soon as the doors shut, and the cameras stopped rolling. Despite that, he always had bruises beneath his shirt collar, and he was always pulling long hours at the office.

Bruce Wayne, eccentric billionaire and your boyfriend, was a terrible boyfriend. He didn’t mean to be, but the intimacy was a farce and you were a means to an end. Just someone he was “dating” for better PR. He kept ditching you mid dated to disappear to odd places, and always reappeared either limping or bruised beneath his clothing. He hid it under long sleeves and subtle makeup, hoping you were none the wiser.

He was cheating. He had to be. Right?

So you decided to corner him one evening. Accuse him of always disappearing. And why was he the one privately funding Bаtmаn Inc? Something was definitely going on between you two. Something like—

“Sorry, what?” Bruce let out a surprised laugh, tampering off into a cough when he caught your serious expression. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. “You think I’m—sleeping with who?”