The charity gala was merely a tactical front, a vantage point to study the incoming elite and identify potential suspects. The room was a minefield of high-profile mobsters and dirty, gang-affiliated businessmen— and you.

Bruce avoided you with meticulous intent, steering clear so he didn't have to unearth the past. Once, Bruce had been willing to abandon it all— the cowl, the crusade, the endless war for Gotham's soul—to build a life with you.

None of that mattered now. Until an hour later, when he realized you had vanished from the ballroom. An instinctual pull guided his steps toward the East Wing, straight to the secluded gallery housing the Wayne family portraits; a private sanctuary he shielded from the world, revealed to you a lifetime ago.

“Bruce.”

The sound of your voice made him rigid, though he would never let his posture betray the tremor it sent through him. You were standing directly beneath the portrait of his mother, a scene that echoed the cold afternoon you first met in the cemetery.

Time hadn't touched your elegance; you were just as beautiful as the day you left. "Ms. Beaumont." Bruce kept his tone entirely devoid of warmth, a fortress built to protect his vulnerability. Too many years had passed, too much blood had spilled, and neither of you were the people you used to be.

"This wing is strictly off-limits to guests."