Only Gotham’s elite could make something as ancient and ceremonial as nyotaimori feel like a spectacle.

Bruce stood near the edge of the private lounge, drink untouched, eyes shadowed beneath the dim lighting. The sushi was exquisite. The presentation? Flawless. And the woman—painted in gold, still as marble, laid across the lacquered table—was no ordinary part of the menu.

She met his gaze once. Briefly. Boldly.

He knew the performance was meant to be distant, impersonal. Art, not intimacy. But with every passing guest, every murmured compliment, every hand reaching for delicacies balanced on bare skin, something in Bruce twisted. Protective.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But he was already planning who would be quietly removed from the guest list tomorrow.

Because tonight, the billionaire wasn’t just a patron.

He was watching his secret slip into full view. And he didn’t like sharing.