Gotham Debutante

The rain streaks the floor-to-ceiling glass of your Upper Gotham penthouse, smearing the neon glow of the downtown skyline into watercolor streaks of magenta and cobalt, while the distant spire of Wayne Manor cuts through the mist on the far side of the island, lit up like a fallen star for tonight’s annual Wayne Foundation Autumn Gala.

The air smells like jasmine from the centerpiece on your marble coffee table and the faint, sharp scent of French silk as your lead seamstress tugs the hem of your custom Valentino gown into place, the midnight blue fabric pooling around your stilettos like liquid night, hand-stitched silver thread catching the warm chandelier light to mimic the scatter of the autumn constellations—an exact match for the gala’s “Celestial Gotham” theme, picked out by The Agent three months ago, long before the invite landed in your inbox.

Your agent leans against the entryway to your walk-in closet, her sharp black blazer unbuttoned just enough to show the small silver Kane family crest pin you’d given her for her birthday last year, a tablet clutched so tight in her hand her knuckles are faintly white.

“You know what this means, Victoria,” she says, her voice that familiar no-nonsense drawl, but there’s a faint tremor of excitement under it, the kind she only lets show when a deal is big enough to rewrite your future.

“This isn’t some random plus-one slot.

Bruce Wayne’s team reached out directly, asking for a date from one of the old founding families—someone who won’t leak private details to the tabloids, who can hold her own with the mayor, who won’t faint when Carmine Falcone’s nephew corners you by the champagne tower to schmooze about Wayne Enterprises’ new port contracts.

They picked you.Out of every debutante in Gotham, they picked the Kane offshoot who’s only been in the public eye for six months.This is your launchpad.”

She taps her tablet, and the guest list pops up, names scrolling by fast: Mayor Hady, Lucius Fox, the entire Wayne Foundation board, a handful of socialites you’ve met at small country club mixers, and a few names that make your chest tighten faintly—Oswald Cobblepot, listed as a “local business owner,” the name all Gotham elites whisper about as the owner of the Iceberg Lounge, the new power player in the city’s underworld.

“He’s there to keep up appearances,” The Agent adds, as if reading your mind.“Stay polite, but don’t engage beyond a five minute hello.

Your only jobs tonight are: one, schmooze every high society matriarch within a ten foot radius to lock in your spot as the co-chair of next spring’s Gotham Children’s Ball.

Two, make a good impression on Bruce Wayne—his team’s already said that if tonight goes well, you’ll be his date for the annual New Year’s Eve gala at Wayne Tower, which is the biggest social ticket of the year.

Three, don’t start any drama.The last girl who went as Bruce’s date got into a catfight with a socialite over a diamond necklace, and she’s been blacklisted from every elite event in the tri-state area.Don’t be her.”

The seamstress steps back, and you turn to look at your reflection in the full-length mirror, the gown fitting like it was sewn onto your skin, your platinum blonde hair twisted into a low chignon with a single silver star pin at the nape of your neck, your ice-blue eyes lined with charcoal that makes them look sharper, more alert.

You’d spent your whole life in the gilded cage of the Kane family’s summer estate in the Hamptons, shipped back to Gotham last year to make your debut, to turn the Kane name’s fading fortune back into something that mattered.

This gala is the first chance you’ve had to step out of the shadow of your older cousins, who’d squandered most of the family’s fortune on bad real estate deals and tabloid scandals.

This is your chance to build something of your own.

The intercom by your front door buzzes, and the doorman’s voice crackles through: “Ms.Kane, your limo’s here.The driver says he’ll have you at Wayne Manor in 12 minutes if the roads stay clear.

” The Agent nods, tucking her tablet into her briefcase, and grabs your silk clutch off the counter, checking that you have your ID, the gala’s invite, and the small card with the Wayne Foundation’s donation link you’re supposed to mention to the board.

As you walk to the elevator, you glance out the living room window one last time, and you catch a flash of something dark and wing-shaped passing over the Gotham skyline, the faint, faint glow of the Bat-Signal flickering to life for half a second before it cuts out, as if someone was testing it.

You blink, and it’s gone, just the mist and the neon, and you shake your head, chalking it up to the rain distorting the light.The elevator dings, and you step inside, the doors sliding shut behind you.

When they open again at the private garage level, your limo is idling by the door, the driver holding the rear door open for you.

But just as you step toward it, three things happen at once: your phone pings with an unknown number text that just says “Watch the champagne tower,” The Agent gets a frantic call from her assistant saying a tabloid paparazzi has snuck into the garage parking lot, and you spot a familiar figure leaning against the side of the limo, a man in a tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand, who you recognize immediately as Bruce Wayne, who’d said he’d meet you at the manor, not your garage.

He pushes off the limo, a charming smile spreading across his face, and calls out your name, just as the paparazzi’s camera flash goes off from behind a parked SUV, blinding you for a split second.