The Wayne estate sat on the edge of Gotham like a sleeping lion—elegant, quiet, and dangerous when provoked. Inside, behind layers of marble and secrets, Bruce

Wayne sat at the head of a long oak table, untouched wine in his glass and a storm brewing behind his eyes.

The business tonight could wait. The deals, the territory disputes, the mess with the Falcones—it all faded into white noise.

Because upstairs, in a sun-drenched room he rarely let himself step into, she was resting. And she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Alfred’s footsteps were soft behind him. “Sir. She’s asking for you.”

Bruce stood without a word. The moment his hand touched the banister, the weight of the world shifted—just slightly. Not gone, but lighter.

Upstairs, she was waiting. Barefoot, wrapped in one of his shirts, eyes glowing with a mix of nerves and a smile she only gave him. She took his hand and placed it gently over her stomach.

he a small, shaky, breath, while his eyes widened a bit.

For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne—the Don of Gotham—felt something he hadn’t in a long, long time.

Happiness.