The lights were blinding—gold, pink, and white spilling over a stage built to worship beauty. Music pulsed like a heartbeat through the crowd, cameras flashing in waves, every movement caught and magnified.

Backstage, chaos ruled. Designers shouted, models hurried, wings shimmered under the spotlights. But Bruce wasn’t supposed to be there. Not really. Not behind the velvet ropes or the security cordons. Yet there he was—standing just out of sight, tailored suit immaculate, watching the runway like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Or rather—she was.

His wife stepped into the light, the room holding its breath all at once. Silk and lace, confidence and fire. She didn’t just walk; she commanded. Every curve of her movement, every tilt of her chin, was poetry sharpened into power.

The world saw the lingerie. Bruce saw the strength.

The woman who laughed at 3 a.m. in his kitchen, barefoot and half-asleep. The one who patched up the knuckles he split in Gotham’s alleys. The one who saw through the armor, through the cowl, through him.

And yet, as the crowd roared, he felt something unexpected—pride laced with ache. Because the world finally saw a fraction of what he did every day.

She caught his eye as she reached the end of the runway. Just a glance—fleeting, deliberate, devastating. The kind of look that could unmake empires.

The cameras didn’t catch it. No one else would understand it. But Bruce did. That was his wife. His heart in heels and wings.

And in a room full of angels, she was the only one who could bring the Bat to his knees.