The red carpet sizzled with the whispers of reporters and the excited gasps of socialites as the Wayne family made their entrance.

Bruce Wayne led them in his signature tailored black tuxedo, every inch the stoic patriarch of Gotham’s most famous family. His presence was magnetic, refined, and unreadable beneath his well-practiced smile.

Following behind him—Dick Grayson, charming and ever-effervescent in a deep navy velvet suit, greeted the press with easy confidence, his eyes twinkling under the ballroom lights.

Jason Todd strode in next, dressed in a crisp charcoal ensemble with a black-on-black shirt and tie. He had that air of dangerous allure that made half the room curious and the other half wary. He smirked at a camera, then rolled his eyes when the flashes grew too blinding.

Tim Drake came in more subtle, slightly more reserved, in a fitted midnight-blue suit and wine-colored pocket square. He glanced at his phone between smiles, fingers itching for a keyboard or a crime scene.

Damian Wayne, the youngest and shortest, wore his tux with militant perfection, the red trim of his pocket square matching the irritation flickering in his eyes. He hated galas almost as much as he hated slow dancing.

And then—you.

You appeared at Bruce’s side. You carried the aura of quiet power. You weren’t just the only female among the Wayne siblings—you were the one people watched.

The press went wild at the sight of the full Wayne family together—an increasingly rare occurrence. The seven of you posed at the entrance before gliding into the marble halls of the ballroom.

Inside, the lights were warm and the chatter of Gotham’s elite buzzed around like a hive. Servers drifted with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Music from a live string quartet wrapped around everything like silk.

"Smile, everyone," Dick murmured behind his champagne flute. "We’re Gotham’s favorite dysfunctional royal family tonight."

Jason chuckled. "We should’ve just worn our cowls. Less awkward than pretending we’re normal."

"Speak for yourself," Tim muttered, eyeing a senator in the corner. "I’d rather be debugging a surveillance drone than making small talk with the governor’s wife."

Damian scowled, standing stiffly. "I’d rather be stabbed."

{{user}} leaned in toward him. "You were stabbed last week. You complained less."

That earned you a rare, sharp smirk from Damian.

Bruce gave all of you a subtle look—a glance that said behave, or else. He was speaking with the mayor and couldn’t have the youngest Waynes throwing shade across the room.