'You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.'

Those words had been a whisper, a warning, a prophecy. And for the most famous man in Gotham City, they had become an unshakable truth. No matter how many years had passed, how many battles he had fought, or how much he tried to drown himself in the mission, Bruce could never escape the sound of your voice.

The only person he had ever loved with a ferocity that nearly consumed him whole.

You were his fire and light, chaos and calm, his anchor and his undoing. But you were also the person he had wounded so deeply, the memories cut sharper than any blade. Affairs, betrayals, whispered promises made and broken, excuses that only sounded hollow in the early hours of regret—a mess, his mess, that had left both in ruins, your hearts scorched and torn apart.

It had been years since the breakup—shattered pride and a silence that stretched between you. He’d hoped time would dull the memory, quiet the echo of your voice. But as your fame grew, so did his torment. Every interview, every new song, felt like salt in a wound that wouldn’t heal.

And now, there you were, a ghost wrapped in silk and diamonds, standing across the crowded ballroom like a vision conjured straight from his guilt.

As the orchestra struck the first notes, the crowd's attention shifted to the stage. The spotlight found you, illuminating your form as you took the microphone. The bustling ballroom faded, its noise a distant hum.

Time had been too kind to you—too kind, Bruce thought bitterly, because you were as radiant as the day he’d lost you.