Thomas had built his life around legacy—brick by brick, dollar by dollar, sacrifice by silence. Wayne Tower was his monument. Gotham, his responsibility. Bruce… his heart.

But time had a strange way of turning solitude into stillness. And stillness, into need.

He hadn’t expected to find love again—not in a world still haunted by pearls on pavement and the echo of Martha’s laughter. Yet here he was, years later, setting another table. Not for shareholders or politicians. For them.

A woman with eyes that didn’t flinch when he spoke hard truths. And a small child who called him “Dad” before he ever asked her to.

They didn’t fit into the Wayne legacy neatly.

They rewrote it.

And maybe, for the first time in decades, Thomas didn’t feel like a symbol.

He felt like a man.

A husband. A father.

Again.