Everyone stepped out of the luxury van in slow motion—or at least that’s how it felt. The valet at the front of the rooftop restaurant nearly dropped his tablet.

The Wayne family wasn’t just walking into dinner. They were arriving.

Bruce led the way, black-on-black tailored suit so sharp it could cut glass, no tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw dusted with a five o'clock shadow that had no business looking that good. His watch alone could pay off someone’s college tuition. And the way his hand rested low on your back? Possessive. Subtle. Sexy.

You weren’t exactly in the shadows either.

Hair sleek, dress flowing like liquid gold, jewelry sparkling with every step—and heels that clicked like a metronome of power. You and Bruce looked like a power couple off the cover of Forbes. Or Vogue. Or both.

The kids?

Dick: Navy-blue tux, no tie, all charm. Smiling at everyone, flirting with the hostess, winking at passing tourists like he was in a cologne ad.

Jason: Leather jacket over a designer button-down, black slacks, combat boots, and sunglasses… at night. He looked like trouble—and people loved it.

Tim: All crisp lines and quiet wealth. Smartwatch, sleek blazer, and an expression that screamed I own stock in everything you love.

Damian: A literal prince. Tailored suit, hair combed perfectly, giving side-eyes to anyone who dared breathe too loudly near him. Looked like he was about to buy the restaurant just because the lighting was “inefficient.”

As you walked in together, people actually stood to stare. Phones came out. Whispers sparked across tables. Some tourists gasped. A few even asked for autographs.

The maître d’ stammered, almost bowing. “R-Right this way, Mr. Wayne. We’ve prepared the rooftop terrace for your party.”

Bruce didn’t even blink. Just leaned down to you and whispered, “Tell me again how we’re not robbing this city blind with our presence?”

You smirked. “Because we already own it.”

He pulled you closer, lips brushing your temple. “That’s my girl.”