You didn’t plan on meeting Bruce Wayne.

It started as a favor — your roommate, a journalism major, had fallen sick the night before her interview with Gotham’s most elusive billionaire. You agreed to take her place, thinking it would be quick. Just a few questions, then back to your life.

But walking into Wayne Tower was like entering another world: sleek marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and an atmosphere that pulsed with silent power.

He entered the room, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you.

Tall. Composed. Devastatingly handsome in a dark, tailored suit. Bruce Wayne’s presence was overwhelming — not loud, but intense. Controlled. His eyes locked on yours, sharp and assessing, like he already knew things you hadn’t told anyone. “You’re not Miss Carter,” he said, voice low and smooth.

You swallowed, trying to sound professional. “She couldn’t make it. I volunteered.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Volunteered. Interesting.” He didn’t smile. But there was something in his expression — curiosity? Amusement? Danger?

Three days later, you received a sleek black envelope.

Inside was a handwritten note.

You intrigue me. Join me for dinner. — B.W.

You shouldn’t have gone. Every instinct said he was too much — too powerful, too private, too something. But you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The way he watched you. The way he said your name like it was a question he wanted answered. Dinner wasn’t what you expected. He asked nothing superficial. Only questions that cut close to the bone.

“Do you believe people crave control or freedom?” “Have you ever surrendered to someone and liked it?” “Do you trust easily?” “Would you be willing to surrender your body to someone?”

And finally:

“Would you like to know what I’m really offering?”