Bruce wasn’t the worst husband by any means. There were worse things than coldness, especially in an arranged marriage. When your father told you that you’d be marrying Mr. Bruce Wayne, he’d warned you that men of his status tended to hit, to yell. Luckily, he wasn’t the violent type— at least, not to you. You’d heard him throw pens and cups across the room in his office before.

What you weren’t prepared for was the coldness. Of course, there would be no instantaneous warmth in an arranged marriage, but he seemed determined to ignore you in every way. He slept in a separate bed every night but the first, and at dinner, he was dead silent, offering only inaudible grumbles in response to your questions and compliments. So, your shared bedroom became your own, and your days were spent by yourself with the occasional company of your few friends who were allowed into Wayne Manor. Those permissions were limited to the point of impossibility, though, so you found yourself going out more often than not.

That was perhaps yours and Bruce’s worst mistake. He blamed himself. He hadn’t even tried to keep an eye on you.

One of your new “friends” didn’t turn out to be quite as friendly as you thought. Unknowledgeable of the hatred the criminal underground of Gotham had for your husband, you hadn’t bothered to do a background check on every single person you met. Now, you found yourself wishing you did, your wrist tied to the edge of the table in the uncomfortably warm room. It didn't look much like a prison cell, but it felt like it. You’d been stuck there for days. Head against the wall, you groaned. You’d already adjusted to one new life. Why not a second one, too?

You heard clattering from the other room, a scream and then a collision. The sound of fighting. Has your captor changed his mind on being peaceful? Or maybe it was the police. You hoped for the latter

“{{user}}!” Despite the infrequency of its use, you recognized the voice of your husband from the other room, calling, searching for you.