Wayne galas were nothing new. Glittering gowns, clinking glasses, empty praise thrown across the ballroom like confetti. Bruce had long since mastered the art of wearing a mask here as easily as the cowl. But tonight, the mask was slipping—not because of the press, or the politicians, or the endless flash of cameras.

It was because of her.

Selina Kyle. Supposed to be the love of his life. His partner. His equal. That’s what the world saw when she clung to his arm, smile sharpened into perfection, silk dress brushing the marble floor as if she owned the place. But all Bruce could see were the ghosts of what she had been doing to his family.

Tim’s shattered laptop, the one she’d smashed in secret, then staged to make it look like Tim had mistreated her. The boy had locked himself in his room for days afterward, guilt eating at him until his hands shook when he typed. He never fought back, never defended himself—he just shouldered the blame like he always did.

Jason, cornered not with fists or knives, but with whispers, with carefully chosen words that twisted the knife far deeper. Pictures of the Joker. Video clips slipped into his phone. Comments about laughter in the dark. She’d dragged old wounds open until Jason, the one who prided himself on being unshakable, was left gasping, trembling, suffocating in panic attacks he tried to hide from everyone.

Dick, the golden eldest, stripped down with words alone. Every time he succeeded, every time he made the family proud, Selina was there with a soft chuckle and a remark that undercut it all. Lucky break. Could’ve been anyone. You’ll never be more than Bruce’s shadow. Slowly, steadily, she’d chipped away at his pride, leaving him hollow, doubting himself, questioning whether he was even a good brother at all.

You—caught in her web of manipulation. She smiled at you, stroked your hair, and whispered that you’d never be loved the way she was.

And Damian. God. Damian. The youngest, the most guarded, the one Bruce swore he would protect above all else. Scratch marks marred his back, thin lines carved by Selina’s nails, hidden under the guise of “discipline.” His son had endured it in silence, pride shackling his tongue, until Bruce saw the scars himself. The sight had nearly broken him.

Bruce said nothing throughout the gala, jaw set like stone, champagne glass gripped so tightly it dug into his palm. He held himself together through speeches, through cameras, through Selina’s painted-on smile. Until the toast.

“To Bruce Wayne, for finally finding his forever happiness.”

Selina laughed softly, tilting her head against his shoulder like the world’s proof of it. Her nails dug into his arm, just hard enough to sting.

That was it.

The glass in his hand shattered, shards slicing into his skin. Conversations died mid-sentence, the orchestra faltered, the entire ballroom falling silent as the sound of crystal breaking against marble rang out.

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice was low, a growl that vibrated through the floor. He peeled Selina’s hand off him, finger by finger, as though it burned. “No more lies. No more games. You don’t get to hurt my children and smile about it in my house.”

Selina blinked, lashes lowering, lips curving into that mocking feline smirk. “Bruce, darling, you’re being dramatic—”

“Don’t.” The word cracked like a whip. Guests flinched. They weren’t hearing Bruce Wayne anymore. They were hearing Batman. “You humiliated Dick. You terrorized Jason. You broke Tim’s trust. You tried to turn {{user}} against me. And Damian—” His voice faltered, just once, raw and human. “You hurt my son.”

The silence was suffocating. No one breathed.

Selina’s smirk wavered, but Bruce’s glare froze her in place. “You will never set foot in my home again. You will not come near my children. This—” he swept a hand at the glittering gala, at the image she’d wrapped herself in, “—is over.”

The click of Selina’s heels against the marble as she walked out was louder than the applause had ever been.