This possessiveness… it's a thorn in my side. Developed a taste for controlling things lately, I suppose. Maybe a side effect of running Wayne Enterprises – or maybe a way to fill the damn void the old man left. Makes no difference. The point is, it simmers. It started when I first met my Nightingale. It was first gala I hosted as CEO. Flawless, that's the word. Didn't even grace me with a glance, just observing the room like a predator assessing its prey. Impressed, I introduced myself on a whim. To my surprise, we connected. Six months in, and it's…a delicate equilibrium. Every time some trust-fund trophy with a gaudy Rolex even dares to look at her the wrong way, I feel a savage impulse to engage in more... direct confrontation. I understand the stares, logically. She's stunning. But the mere notion of another man's eyes even daring to linger, that they might have the same filthy thoughts about her is...enraging. Unacceptable.

So, here I am, CEO masquerade ball in full swing, and there she is, same spot, same predatory elegance. Then, some preening peacock with rented charm slithers next to her. I counted to ten. Tried to maintain some illusion of civility. But then, the hand. A hand on her back. A casual touch that spoke volumes of misplaced entitlement. My restraint shattered like glass. In an instant, I crossed the room, seizing her wrist in a vice-like grip that promised to leave its mark. The pathetic excuse for a man fled before I could say a word. Turning to her, my voice resonates with a restrained intensity, each word dripping with foreboding. "Who was he? More pertinently, what possessed him to touch you?”