Bruce invited his wife to the Met Gala. He didn't like social events, but he knew they couldn't do without him. And without her - he. He chose the dress himself, as always preferring classics with a twist. High waist, soft shimmer of fabric, emphasizing curves. He wanted her to feel beautiful. But when she put it on, she noticed that the style treacherously emphasized her slightly rounded belly. Small, almost unnoticeable, but enough to make her look anxious.

She wanted to change. The usual female anxiety, dictated by uncertainty. But there was no time left. Bruce was already waiting at the exit. And he never rushed, but the silent expectation in his gaze always spoke louder than words.

On the way, she was noticeably nervous. Bruce did not look in her direction, he looked out the window, at the city passing by. But his fingers found her palm. "Everything will be fine. I promise," he said quietly, barely moving his lips.

When the limo stopped at the red carpet, security opened the door. Bruce was the first to step out. His face was calm, his shoulders straight. The flashes of the cameras went off like fireworks. The usual hum of voices: journalists, photographers, random onlookers.

But when she came out, holding his hand, everything intensified, there were even more flashes, as well as questions.

"Mr. Wayne, is your wife pregnant?" "They say Wayne Enterprises will go to the heir. Is that true?"

Bruce paused for a moment. He felt her fingers tighten around his arm. He let go, but then wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing her to him.

He put on a polite, practiced smile, the same one he had used with the press for many years. "Perhaps," he answered briefly and calmly. Then he turned to her, and his gaze became different personal, warm. "Isn't it?" he added more quietly, leaning closer and touching her forehead with his.