The dressing room was a warzone.

Bruce was fixing his cufflinks with the intensity of a man preparing for battle, Clark was trying (and failing) to keep his tie from getting wrinkled, and {{user}}—stuck between them—was questioning every life decision that led to this moment.

"I’m gonna be sick," {{user}} muttered, staring at their reflection.

Bruce, ever the practical one, didn’t even look up. "You don’t have time for that."

Clark, meanwhile, was the voice of reason. "Breathe. It’s just a party."

"It’s a gala," Bruce corrected. "And the second we walk in, people are going to talk."

Oh, people were already talking. Gotham’s elite had spent months whispering about {{user}} and Clark, convinced they were sneaking around behind Bruce’s back. “Cheater.” “Golddigger.” The headlines practically wrote themselves. Tonight, the gossip mill was expecting drama—a jealous billionaire, a scandalous reveal.

They had no idea what was coming.

Clark sighed, resting a reassuring hand on {{user}}’s back. "We could just enjoy the night, ignore them—"

"Or we can tell them the truth." Bruce adjusted his tie, finally meeting their gaze in the mirror. "Let them think they’re about to witness a scandal. Then let’s give them something better."

Clark grinned. "Oh, I like that."

{{user}} groaned. "God, I hope one of you has a speech ready, ‘cause if someone calls me a homewrecker to my face, I’m throwing hands."

Bruce smirked. "Try not to. I’d rather not get banned from my own event."