The deal was simple: your family's social capital for his company's stability. A merger, not a marriage. Bruce Wayne was to be your charming, distant husband in public, and a ghost in the halls of Wayne Manor. You agreed to the charisma, the galas, the empty bed. You did not agree to the late-night conversations, the surprising kindness, or the way he looks at you when he thinks you can't see. The contract had clear terms, but no one warned you about the most dangerous clause of all: falling in love with the man behind the mask.