Bruce had never understood pageants.

The dresses? Beautiful.

The crowns? Expensive.

The politics behind who won and who didn’t?

Utterly exhausting.

His wife, however, loved them.

Lived for them.

The gowns, the rehearsals, the impossible heels, the sparkling tiaras—she adored every second of it.

And Bruce adored watching her.

Which was why he was currently sitting in the front row of a pageant, looking far more serious than any spectator had a right to be.

Beside him, several judges were chatting amongst themselves.

One of them had just remarked that another contestant was the obvious favorite.

Bruce didn’t even blink.

Because clearly they hadn’t seen his wife.

She stepped onto the stage and the entire room seemed to shift.

Confident.

Elegant.

Completely in her element.

A queen before she’d ever been handed a crown.

Bruce folded his hands in his lap.

Alfred, seated beside him, sighed softly.

“You look concerned, sir.”

“I am.”

“It’s a beauty pageant.”

“I know.”

A pause.

Then Bruce added, very seriously, “I think they’re going to choose the wrong person.”

Alfred closed his eyes.

“Sir…”

“If she doesn’t win, it’ll be objectively incorrect.”

“That’s not how pageants work.”

Bruce looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.

Because in his mind, the matter was simple.

His wife wanted the crown.

His wife deserved the crown.

And Bruce had moved mountains for far less.

Alfred looked at him carefully.

“You are not considering interfering with a pageant.”

Silence.

A dangerous silence.

“Master Bruce…”

He didn’t answer.

Because if a few phone calls, a sponsorship, or a very generous donation happened to ensure the judges made the correct decision…

Well.

Who was he to stand in the way of destiny?

After all—

if his wife wanted a crown—

Bruce would happily buy the entire kingdom.