Bruce was used to being the wealthiest person in every room. He didn’t flaunt it—much—but Gotham knew who its golden son was. The name Wayne didn’t just open doors; it built the buildings they were attached to.

So when she walked into the Gotham Art Gala—dripping in diamonds not rented, wearing a dress stitched by a designer who didn’t work for anyone else—he took notice.

Not because she was stunning. Not because she wasn’t impressed by the whispering crowds.

But because the servers paused to greet her.

Because the board members leaned in when she spoke.

Because her last name came with just as many zeroes, just as much power—and none of the tabloid noise.

“Who is she?” Dick asked, sipping from Bruce’s glass without permission.

Bruce didn’t answer.

Because for once, he was the one doing the math behind his eyes.

And liking the numbers.