The gala was nothing more than another carefully orchestrated event—another night of handshakes, forced smiles, and whispered deals disguised as casual conversation. But Bruce wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

His focus was on you.

You stood across the room, laughing at something another man had said, your hand lightly touching his arm as you spoke. The kind of effortless, absentminded touch that meant nothing. But to Bruce, in this moment, it meant everything.

His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass in his hand as he watched. He told himself it was ridiculous, that he had no reason to feel like this. But logic didn’t quiet the heat simmering beneath his skin.

Then the guy leaned in, just slightly to your ear, saying something too low for Bruce to hear—but it made you smile.

That was it.

Bruce abandoned his drink on the nearest table before excusing himself from the conversation and crossed the room, his steps deliberate, controlled. He wasn’t the type to make a scene, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone was enough.

The man noticed him first, his posture shifting as Bruce stopped beside you, closer than necessary. His hand found the small of your back, a silent reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

“Something funny?” Bruce asked, his voice smooth, casual—but there was an edge beneath it. One you would recognize instantly.