You'd known Bruce Wayne for years—long enough to see past the billionaire playboy act, the smoldering stares, the way his laugh sounded like it was dipped in whiskey and honey. You were his friend. His confidant. The one he called at 2 AM when the nightmares got too loud.

But to the rest of Gotham?

He was currency.

Every gala, every charity event, every damn coffee run—women (and men) fell over themselves to catch his eye. The whispers followed him like a shadow:

"Do you think he’ll take her home tonight?" "I heard he bought the Balthazar just to impress someone." "God, I’d let him ruin my life."

And Bruce? Bruce played the part perfectly—flashing that billion-dollar smile, leaning in just close enough to make hearts race, then walking away like it was nothing. But you?

You saw the way his eyes dimmed the second they turned their backs.

The Wayne Foundation gala was in full swing, champagne flowing like Gotham’s rivers after a storm. You leaned against the bar, watching yet another socialite drape herself over Bruce’s arm, her manicured nails digging into his suit sleeve.

"You’re staring, miss" murmured a voice beside you.

You didn’t need to look to know it was Alfred, his tone drier than the martini in your hand.

"Just counting how many times he’s been ‘distracted’ tonight," you muttered, swirling your drink. "We’re at six."

Across the room, Bruce caught your eye over the socialite’s shoulder—just for a second. His smirk was all challenge, like he knew you were keeping score. Then the woman whispered something in his ear, and the mask slid back into place.

"Pathetic," you sighed, downing the rest of your martini.

Alfred raised a brow. "Him? Or them?"