Slade didn’t believe in favorites. Not weapons, not contracts, not people. Favoritism was a weakness—something that got you killed in the field or bankrupted in court.

And yet… there she was.

His divorce lawyer. The only one in Gotham who could stare down a judge, dismantle a spouse’s entire argument in twelve words, and walk out of the courthouse untouched by the emotional shrapnel left behind. She didn’t flinch at accusationsw a. Didn’t soften at threats. Didn’t blink when Slade himself appeared in her office dripping blood and sarcasm.

Tonight she sat across from him in her dimly lit office, glasses low on her nose, case files stacked like miniature battlements around her. The storm outside rattled the windows, but she didn’t look up—not at the lightning, not at him. Slade watched her the way a soldier watched a battlefield: calculating, controlled, a breath away from predatory. No one cut through lies like she did. No one delivered bad news with that sharp, surgical precision. No one had ever told him—Deathstroke—that he needed to calm down and “let the legal system handle this” without getting thrown out a window. She was brilliant. Fearless. A little vicious. And she handled his divorces with the same elegance he handled a blade.

Slade leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, gaze heavy and unblinking on her silhouette as she read through his newest file—the third ex-spouse bold enough to try their luck.

She didn’t notice his stare. Or maybe she did and simply didn’t care. That indifference alone was intoxicating.

Slade didn’t do favorites.

But she was the exception he’d never admit.