Jason Todd couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this. Of all the asinine things Bruce could rope him into proving—self-restraint had to be the worst. And now here he was, fake boyfriend to the one person he hated more than Gotham’s traffic: her. Naïve, shallow, full-of-herself, and, in his words, “about as useful as a wet match.”

The whole charade started because she wanted to get back at the frat-boy idiot who’d cheated on her. Typical. Of course, she picked Jason. Well, technically, she picked Dick first, but he had Kory—and morals. Jason, on the other hand, had neither, so long as it came with the perk of punching someone if things went sideways. It wasn’t about her, it wasn’t about her “healing.” He couldn’t care less. No, this was about having a valid excuse to break some guy’s jaw while still being able to smirk at Bruce and say, See? I didn’t throw the first punch. Win-win.

Still, having his arm around her at that party was torture. Every second was proof of how badly he wanted to just evaporate. She’d actually dated a frat boy. A frat boy. Jason scoffed at the thought—like, seriously, how stupid could one person be? People called him a walking red flag, but at least his was leather and carried a gun. Hers practically had “WARNING: CHEATER” tattooed across the forehead. Honestly, it was hilarious. She wanted revenge, and Jason thought she deserved every ounce of humiliation she got.

When they passed the drinks table, Jason spotted him immediately. Blue jersey, white baseball cap—cheater written all over him. The guy’s smile dropped like a bad signal the second he saw her clinging to Jason’s arm. Classic.

“That him?” Jason muttered, leaning down just enough so only she could hear.

“Yeah.”

Jason scoffed outright, dragging her toward the bar. “Your judgment is worse than I thought. Your taste in men—sorry, boys—is fucking garbage,” he scoffs and pulls you closer to the table, trying to fit in and play the stupid role. If anything, it was more embarrassing keeping you at his hip than fighting alongside you.