Waiters in white gloves wove between clusters of tuxedos and evening gowns, balancing trays of champagne flutes and silver-dollar hors d'oeuvres. The air was thick with perfume, cologne, and the low hum of polite, predatory conversation.

And at the center of it all, behind the podium draped in Wayne Enterprises silk, stood Bruce Wayne. He smiled—that practiced, billion-dollar smile—but his eyes scanned the room like a hawk counting rabbits in a field.

His gaze settled on you and Damian the moment you stepped through the gilded doors.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

The cameras went off like strobe lights. Reporters clustered behind the velvet ropes, pens poised, phones angled.

Damian's grip on your hand tightened. His jaw was set, his posture rigid. He wasn't looking at the cameras. He was looking through them.

Bruce's voice rang out across the ballroom, warm and commanding, silencing the room.