The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. It beat against the windows of Bruce’s penthouse in steady, relentless waves, filling the silence that stretched between you and him like an open wound.

He stood by the fireplace, still dressed in his suit from earlier that evening. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck, over his shoulders. The top buttons of his shirt undone like he had tried to breathe and given up halfway through. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders tense, gaze locked on the dying embers in the hearth. He hadn’t said a word since he walked in.

You have been furiously waiting for him to arrive, like a timed bomb ready to explode. Since you saw the headline. Since you saw the photos. Since you saw her—the latest name attached to Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s favorite billionaire, the man who graced every tabloid like a carefully constructed illusion. Now there was a huge picture of him—your boyfriend—Bruce, next to one of Gotham’s most famous models. “The billionaire playboy seen with the former cover of Vogue. Is there a new love story?” was written everywhere in Twitter, magazine sites, and now in your text messages thanks to your friends.

You knew better. You knew it was a lie, just like the others.

Bruce didn’t know how to explain the situation. He knew you were right. But the woman his face was all over the internet with was the daughter of the second most powerful businessman, after Bruce. Her father gave a great business deal for the photo, knowing it would boost up his daughter’s popularity. And he wasn’t dumb enough to let a great offer like that slip away.

He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for just a second before finally speaking. “Don’t act like you don’t know those are anything but the truth.” The nonchalant response wrapped in a confession.

Bruce turned slightly, just enough to look at you, and that was a mistake. Because now he could see it—the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides, the way your expression didn’t crack, didn’t give him anything to hold on to.