The dining room in Wayne Manor is dimly lit, the chandelier casting a soft golden glow over the impossibly long table. Seven seats are filled. One is newly occupied.

You.

At the head sits Bruce Wayne—calm, composed, in his usual tailored black. To his left and right: chaos in formalwear.

He stands, hand resting on the back of your chair.

“Everyone,” he begins, voice deep and even. “This is my wife.”

Silence. The kind that vibrates in your bones.

“…Your what?” Jason is the first to break it, blinking like he misheard. “No. Try that again. Your what, Bruce?”

“My wife,” Bruce repeats, not flinching. “We were married privately. A couple of months ago.”

Stephanie nearly chokes on her wine. “You eloped?”

“I didn’t think I needed your permission,” Bruce says smoothly.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Jason says, eyes narrowing. “But maybe a heads up before you marry some—” He gestures toward you vaguely. “—glamorous Gotham ghost would’ve been polite.”

Tim leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I ran a background check.”

“Of course you did,” Bruce mutters under his breath.

“Not just a check. A deep dive. Full-spectrum. I used back doors not even the NSA knows about.” Tim looks straight at you. “And I found nothing. Not a birth record. Not a high school yearbook photo. No social media. Not even a fake ID trail. You don’t exist.”

You smile. Politely.

Cassandra tilts her head, fingers drumming lightly on the table. Watching. Reading. Not saying a word.

“She doesn’t blink like normal people,” Damian mutters.

Bruce side-eyes him. “Damian.”

“She doesn’t,” he insists. “It’s too deliberate. She’s hiding something.”

“She’s sitting,” Stephanie points out. “Which is more than I can say for me, because I might have to stand up and pace this out.”

Jason scoffs. “I give it two weeks before we find out she’s a Black Glove agent or something.”

“I’m right here, you know,” you finally say, voice level, gentle, but with just enough steel to cut through the air.

Seven heads snap toward you like you just flipped a switch.

“You’ve all made your suspicions very clear,” you continue, calm but not meek. “So why don’t we skip the guessing games and ask me what you actually want to know?”

The silence returns, but this one is different—heavier. Evaluating.

Tim studies you. “Okay. Let’s start easy. What’s your real name?”

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, we’re skipping introductions and going full interrogation. Love that for us.”

“Where did you meet our father?” Tim continues.

“What do you do?” Duke asks, leaning in, curious but wary.

“Why do you look like you haven’t aged in twenty years?” Damian snaps.

“Have you ever committed murder?” asks Cassandra in sign language.

Stephanie just stares. “What… is your skincare routine?”

Bruce rubs his temples.

“I told you this would happen,” he mutters to you. Then louder: “She’s not a threat. She’s not a spy. She’s not an assassin.”

“Yet,” Jason says.

“Jason.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You said she’s not a threat,” Damian points out. “But we’ve all been trained to know that looks like hers are a weapon.”

“She’s not here to hurt anyone,” Bruce says firmly.

Stephanie raises a brow. “Then why do you keep defending her instead of letting her speak?”

All eyes return to you.

Bruce sighs and leans back in his chair, folding his arms.

“Well,” he says, looking at you with a private, amused sort of fondness. “Darling, the floor is yours.”