The Gotham Charity Gala was supposed to be just another public appearance—crystal glasses, flashing cameras, and the usual sea of fake smiles. You had come out of obligation, determined to hold your head high despite the whispers that had followed you all week.

"Did you hear? She drove him to it." "Probably too cold in bed." "No wonder he looked elsewhere."

The internet had crucified you. The tabloids painted you as the villain. And Bruce? Bruce had been silent.

Until now.

The interviewer’s voice was saccharine-sweet as she leaned in, mic extended. "Mr. Wayne, any comment on the rumors about your recent... indiscretions?"

The ballroom fell silent. Cameras zoomed in. You froze mid-step, champagne flute dangling from your fingers.

Bruce’s jaw tensed. For a moment, you thought he’d deflect—another polished, empty denial.

"I cheated."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The interviewer’s smile faltered.

"It was my fault. Only mine." His voice was rough, stripped bare. "She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t cause it. And if any of you—" He scanned the room, a storm in his eyes, "—blame her again, you’ll answer to me."

Silence. Then chaos. Reporters shouting, guests murmuring, phones flashing.

You stood there, heart pounding, as Bruce Wayne burned his reputation to the ground—for you.