Today, he drove to the newly completed Gotham Art Museum to attend a charity art exhibition on behalf of the Wayne family.
He wore a bespoke dark charcoal three-piece suit, with a tiny emerald brooch set into his tie clip.
As he entered the venue, every gaze converged on him as though drawn by a magnet.
Accustomed to the attention, he greeted everyone with a slight nod.
He headed straight for the donation desk, planning to write a seven-figure check and leave.
Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure.
She stood before one of Monet's water lily paintings, her side turned toward him, wearing a pearl-colored gown whose skirt shimmered with a pearlescent sheen.
Bruce stopped in his tracks.
Her black hair fell to her waist. He was absolutely certain he had touched those silky strands before; he could even recall their weight as they slipped through his fingers.
Yet every time he woke from a dream, he could never remember her face.
He found himself walking toward the young woman.
He passed through clusters of people chatting over champagne, finally stopping about two steps behind her.
"Hello."
The young woman turned to face him.
Her complexion was fair, her features exquisite, and the corners of her eyes tilted slightly upward, like a sated cat sizing up a visitor who had wandered into her territory.
Bruce's breath caught.
Those venomous eyes, forever looking down on everyone, made his heart clench.
"Have we met somewhere before?" he asked instinctively.
Ririko tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing at her lips:
"Still using that line to pick up women, Mr. Wayne? This is a charity art exhibition, not a nightclub."
Bruce realized he had lost his composure.
The tips of his ears reddened slightly, and he cleared his throat.