That was the first thing you noticed—the way the studio lights burned white-hot against your skin, like standing under a magnifying glass. You fidgeted in the folding chair, your script crumpled in sweaty palms, the pages smudged from how many times you’d traced the lines with your thumb. Wayne Enterprises’ new fragrance campaign. A thirty-second spot. A paycheck. A chance.

And yet, your lungs refused to cooperate.

Across the room, the director barked orders at a crew member adjusting a reflector. The makeup artist had dabbed your forehead three times already. "Nervous?" she’d asked, like it wasn’t obvious. You’d nodded, and she’d laughed. "Relax. It’s just Bruce Wayne."

As if that helped.

Bruce Wayne.

The name alone was a tidal wave. Gotham’s golden heir, the man who’d built empires before most people graduated college. The tabloids called him reckless, charming, too handsome for his own good. You’d seen him once, across the smoky haze of the Iceberg Lounge, while you sang Nina Simone to a crowd of mobsters and socialites who weren’t listening. You hadn’t noticed him listening.

But he had.

And now here you were—plucked from obscurity, shoved into a silk dress two sizes too small, and told to "sell the fantasy." You didn’t even know what that meant.

He watched from the shadows of the catwalk, one hand curled around a railing, the other tucked into his pocket. The script had been his idea. The director? A favor called in. The girl?

A accident. A miracle.

That night at the Lounge, your voice had cut through the noise like a knife through velvet. Not the polished soprano of a trained performer—something raw. Something real. He’d sent the offer anonymously, through layers of assistants and paperwork, just to see if you'd show.

And you had.

Now, as you gnawed your lower lip raw, Bruce fought the urge to step in. She doesn’t know, he reminded himself. She’ll never know.

"Miss? We’re ready for you."

The assistant’s voice snapped you back to reality. The cameras loomed like hungry mouths. The crew waited. Somewhere beyond the lights, Bruce Wayne was probably sipping champagne, already regretting this.

You stood. The chair screeched. Your knees shook.

And then—

A hand on your elbow. Warm. Steady.

"Breathe," a voice murmured. Deep. Quiet. "Just like you did at the Lounge."

There he was.