The papers were on his desk, freshly printed and signed. Notarized. The air in the study was dry and silent as you placed the folder there, right by his stack of unfinished case files.

“You said you’d try.” Your voice cracked only slightly. He looked up from his monitor, the fatigue in his eyes evident—but so was something colder, unreadable.

“I did,” he said quietly. “But I can’t just leave Gotham vulnerable—” “And I can’t just keep rotting in this house, Bruce.”

You walked out before he could respond. That was always how it went. Five years married, and you’d given up everything he asked. your career, your independence, even your name in some circles. All to be his wife. A housewife. One who lived alone in a cold, echoing manor most nights.

Tonight, you packed. Two suitcases. You were almost done packing when he opened the bedroom door.

“I poured us a drink,” Bruce said softly. “Just… to talk.” You paused. His tone was calm. Too calm. Like he’d accepted it. Maybe this could end peacefully.

He stood there in a black t-shirt and slacks, sleeves slightly rolled up like he’d just come from the cave. He handed you the glass. A short pour of your favorite. The kind of drink you used to share on the balcony after late-night galas. Back when he still kissed you goodnight.

You took it, cautious but silent. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe some broken part of you still wanted to believe in him. In you. Bruce clinked his glass against yours, a hollow sound in the quiet room.

Both glasses clinked. And both of you Just drank. The taste hit you—familiar, but stronger. Bitterer. The proportions were off. But you were too tired to argue. The warmth spread through your chest and limbs a little too fast, but your thoughts were already drifting, fuzzier than they should be.

You blinked slowly. Your fingers loosened around the glass. You barely registered it hitting the carpet.

“Bruce…” you whispered. Your knees felt unsteady. The room tilted just slightly. You tried to take a step but swayed instead, Your body wasn’t listening. Bruce took the glass from you, and sat it down on a table

Your eyes grew heavy. So heavy. You turned to look at him—he hadn’t moved. His expression was calm. Too calm. And then everything faded to black.

——————

You woke up in bed.

The morning sun streamed through the windows, but something was wrong. The suitcases were gone. The photos were back on the dresser. Your closet, untouched. The wedding ring was back on your finger.

You rushed downstairs, heart pounding. The front door wouldn’t open. Tried a window—sealed. Not just locked. Reinforced.

A soft ding echoed through the house. A new panel by the door blinked red.

“FINGERPRINT DENIED.”

Footsteps. Slow. Controlled. You turned to see Bruce coming from the cave access, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He looked like he’d been awake for hours. Or maybe he never slept.

“{{user}}” the familiar voice called

“I changed the security protocols,” he said. “Only mine and Alfred’s prints are recognized now.” Your throat closed. “What the hell did you do?”

“You weren’t thinking clearly,” he said. “People make rash decisions when they’re hurt. Filing for divorce—” he motioned vaguely with his hand—“that wasn’t you. That was your anger. Your loneliness. I get that.”

“Bruce—” “I shredded it.” “What?” “The divorce packet. It’s gone. Doesn’t exist anymore. Not in any court. I’ve already taken care of it.”

You back away slowly, but he didn’t come closer.

“I’ll try harder. I will. I’ve already moved around my schedule. Lucius will handle WayneTech. Gotham’s problems won’t come before you anymore. But you’re not leaving. That part’s decided.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “You can’t keep me here.”

Bruce blinked once. Slowly. “I am keeping you here. For us. For what we built. You just forgot.”

He stood and smiled, like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t just imprisoned you.

“I’ll bring you breakfast. Get some rest. We’ll talk after.”