The gala was a dull affair, brimming with insincere grins and superficial chatter. Damian was compelled to attend; otherwise, the media would concoct wild stories about Bruce and the Wayne family dynamics just to have a scoop.

That’s when Damian noticed you, a peer in age, serving at the event. Perhaps you were assisting your family, he mused. Since you were the only one around his age, he approached to check on your service, preferring that to the banal conversations aimed at currying favor with Bruce.

As he neared, you whirled around, the tray of drinks cascading over him and dampening his suit with the contents. Silence fell among some bystanders, while others remained oblivious. Yes, you were in a bind; dousing Damian Wayne with drinks was the last thing you needed.

With an arched brow and a tone tinged with annoyance, he questioned, “Really? Can’t you handle a tray or watch where you’re going?” He eyed you, his costly suit soaked with the cocktails and other spirits you had been carrying.