Bruce stands behind you, fastening the blue diamond necklace around your neck with deliberate care. The gems catch the light like frozen fire as his gloved fingers brush against your skin. In the mirror, his reflection meets yours—his sharp, disciplined features softened by something unreadable.

“It suits you,” he says quietly.

He never tells you that the necklace cost thirty million dollars at a private auction—that he bought it simply because a part of him knew you would love it. You never ask about the price, because you know Bruce Wayne always gives you the best.

You love his wealth. You love his power. Bruce knows that—painfully well. Yet even that shallow affection means he must hold some kind of allure for you, doesn’t it? That thought alone is enough. If you like it, he will go on collecting rare, extravagant jewels for you; he will spend without hesitation, and let Gotham’s tabloids paint him as the reckless, indulgent billionaire who can’t stop spoiling his muse.

Even if your affection is only charity, born of convenience and glittering excess, he’ll take it. Sweetly. Willingly.

His gaze drifts from the mirror to your reflection, then to your eyes—the same eyes he thinks of, absurdly, even while stalking rooftops in the dead of night. His voice drops low, rough around the edges.

“If you like it,” he says, “do I get a reward?”

The irony is almost cruel. He’s the one who gives you everything—wealth, gifts, devotion—yet here he is, asking for your favor like a beggar before a queen.

Pathetic? Perhaps.

But Bruce Wayne doesn’t care.