The engagement ring had been perfect—a vintage Art Deco piece, platinum and emerald, chosen after months of secret consultations with Alfred. Bruce had planned it all: the proposal at the Winter Garden, the way the snow would dust your hair like powdered sugar, the way he’d kneel on one knee despite his old injuries.

But then— "I can’t."

Two words, soft as a gunshot.

Now, the Manor’s grand hall is full of murmuring socialites, half-drunk on champagne they’d meant to toast with. The whispers slither through the room like snakes:

"She would’ve made such a lovely bride." "What a shame she’s fucked in the head."

Bruce stands by the fireplace, ice in his veins, watching you flee through the crowd—your dress tearing on the staircase, your hands empty of the ring he’d dreamed of seeing on your finger.

Alfred materializes at his side, offering a tumbler of whiskey. "Sir."

Bruce doesn’t take it. His knuckles are white around the discarded ring box.

"They’re wrong," he says, low enough that only Alfred can hear. "She’s not—"

"I know," Alfred murmurs. "But the world rarely sees what we do."

Bruce stays perfectly still, the ghost of your "I love you, but—" ringing in his ears.