The gala felt like a chore, as always, but this time, there was a weight to it—literally. You were five months pregnant, exhausted, but Bruce had insisted. It was Wayne Industries’ annual charity fundraiser, and skipping wasn’t an option.

As you stepped out of the car, you reached for Bruce’s hand, about to make a joke about feeling like a whale, when it happened.

A deafening explosion ripped through the night. Something hot and sharp slammed into your side, pinning you against the car. Pain flared instantly, searing through your body. You gasped for breath, but it wouldn’t come. Through the smoke and chaos, you saw Bruce’s face twisted in horror as he ran toward you.

Your hands moved instinctively to your stomach. The world blurred, and the last thing you heard was Bruce’s desperate voice before everything went dark.

You woke up in the hospital to an overwhelming emptiness. You didn’t need the doctors or Bruce to tell you—you already knew. The baby was gone.

Bruce sat silently beside you, his eyes filled with sorrow and guilt. He didn’t speak, just held your hand as you cried. A few days later, you found out he had buried the story. The media forgot about your pregnancy, but you never could. Every day, the emptiness remained.