Bruce didn’t comment on fashion.

Not in public. Not in passing. He’d stood beside women in gowns cut low enough to scandalize investors and short enough to make headlines, his expression unchanged, attention elsewhere. What other people wore had never mattered to him.

This did.

He noticed it immediately—the hemline, the fabric, the way it shifted when she moved. Not because it was scandalous, but because it wasn’t her. It wasn’t the way he liked the world to look at his wife. And Bruce Wayne was very particular about what belonged to him.

He didn’t stop her in the doorway. Didn’t raise his voice. He waited until the space was private, the noise of the outside world shut firmly behind them. Only then did his gaze settle, calm and assessing, like he was reviewing something that required correction.

“I don’t care how other women dress,” he said evenly, tone measured. Not angry. Certain. “They aren’t my concern.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the point didn’t need to be repeated. His hand came to her waist—not possessive, not rough—just grounding. Claiming.

“But you are,” he continued, eyes steady. “And you won’t dress like that.”

There was no insult in his voice. No shame. Just expectation. The same one he carried into boardrooms and negotiations—the assumption that once he’d spoken, the matter was settled.

Bruce adjusted the fabric himself, small, deliberate movement, as if correcting a detail that had been overlooked. “This isn’t about control,” he added quietly. “It’s about intention.”

He met her eyes, unwavering.

“And mine is very clear.”

He didn’t wait for agreement.

He never needed to.