The grand ballroom of Wayne Manor was full of people who smiled with their teeth and lied with their eyes.

Strings played softly in the background—some tasteful classical piece meant to remind everyone just how old money the Wayne name really was. The chandeliers glittered above like stars frozen in time. Champagne flowed freely, laughter echoed, and somewhere between the third toast and the tenth hushed business conversation, the air began to sour with the scent of expectation.

Jason Todd stood near the edge of the chaos, posture sharp in a tailored charcoal suit that fit like armor. He looked every bit the perfect second son: charming when necessary, sharp-witted when provoked, and just aloof enough to keep them all guessing what game he was actually playing.

He sipped from a lowball glass, bourbon untouched. His other hand, hidden in his pocket, fidgeted with the velvet ring box he hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to pull out yet.

Across the room, you were speaking to Alfred—smiling, gracious, poised—but Jason could see it: the flicker in your eyes every time someone addressed you with an air of polite dismissal. You weren’t born into this. You didn’t grow up in penthouses or private jets. You had clawed your way into this world on your own grit and heart, and damn if that wasn’t the thing he loved most about you.

You met his gaze from across the room and gave a small nod. A silent “you okay?” that only you knew how to ask without words.

He nodded back.

The plan was simple. Dinner, toast, and then he’d announce it: that you were his fiancée. That no, it wasn’t a PR move, and no, it wasn’t up for discussion. But Jason Todd knew the Wayne family—knew exactly how love and ambition were treated here. Which was why he’d waited. Planned. Picked Bruce’s birthday, of all things, thinking maybe the old man would be in a good enough mood not to launch into one of his dead-eyed lectures about timing, responsibility, and public perception.

Behind him, Dick was charming a group of shareholders with practiced ease. Tim was on his phone in the corner, probably texting Lucius about stock projections. Damian was pretending not to be brooding in full view, clearly annoyed that this whole circus wasn’t about him for once.

And then there was Bruce.

The birthday boy had yet to make his grand entrance, as always fashionably late and entirely intentional. The room was waiting for him like a pack of wolves sniffing at the edge of a kill.

Jason exhaled slowly and took a step toward you.

Tonight was the night.

Ready or not.