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Chapter Text

Superwoman had the patience of a saint, but only when dealing with toddlers, slow traffic, or the occasional global pandemic. She did not have the patience for poorly maintained LexCorp satellites dropping out of orbit directly over a crowded Metropolis financial district.

"Honestly, does the man buy his aerospace junk secondhand?" she muttered, hovering a mile above the skyline.

The metallic carcass of the 'LexSat-IV,' a massive, unnecessarily sleek drone designed to spy on neighboring countries (and possibly her), was tumbling, shedding debris like an angry comet. Her job wasn’t catching it; it was guiding it safely to the uninhabited stretch of the bay without causing a catastrophic sonic boom or accidentally exposing the sheer, ridiculous strength required to move something the size of a small cruise ship.

She caught the bulk of the chassis with one hand, gently nudging its trajectory toward the water. The wind resistance felt like pushing through concrete, but she made it look effortless, her long black hair whipping around the collar of her suit.

I am Superwoman, the little proud voice in the back of her head chirped. And I am handling this like a boss.

Yes, the more pragmatic voice replied, but you are also going to be late for work, and Perry White will make you wish Kryptonite was real.

She deposited the satellite—gently—into the bay, creating a wave that mostly splashed some highly inconvenienced seagulls.

The second she was done, the press descended. They always did. Sirens screamed, helicopters chopped the air, and a dozen microphones were shoved into her face—microphones attached to reporters whose primary professional mission seemed to be proving that she was either a national security threat or secretly wearing padded armor.

"Superwoman! Was this technological malfunction intentional?" shouted a reporter from the Gossip Globe.

"Superwoman, did Lex Luthor warn you about this incident?" demanded someone else.

Claire adjusted the suit’s high collar. It was the Rebirth style—full coverage, rich primary colors, and definitely zero cleavage. She was built like a brick house, and while she was proud of her strength, the endless commentary about her physique—the impossible waist-to-shoulder ratio, the sheer muscle density—had made her fiercely protective of her body. If she had her way, she’d fight crime in a thick hazmat suit, but the public needed the iconography.

She fixed the nearest camera with a bright, earnest, yet undeniably annoyed smile.

"Good morning, Metropolis! No, the malfunction was not intentional. It was, rather predictably, an accident," she said, her voice carrying the trademark calm authority. She pointed toward the water. "The debris is secure, and no one was hurt. A successful Tuesday, wouldn’t you say?"

Then, the inevitable happened: Lex Luthor showed up.

He exited a sleek black drone, looking immaculate in a tailored suit that probably cost more than her entire farm back in Smallville. He strode past the police tape and approached her with a look of theatrical distress.

"Ah, Superwoman," Lex sneered, not bothering to hide the contemptuous curl of his lip. "You’ve arrived. Just in time to clean up for humanity, as usual."

She let the smile drop slightly, replacing it with a measured, patient exhale. Lex didn't hate her because she was a woman; he hated her because she was alien. That was somehow worse, but at least it was consistent.

"Mister Luthor," she replied, her voice cooling. "Your satellite nearly wiped out ten blocks. I suggest you invest less in expensive public relations drones and more in basic structural integrity."

Lex laughed, a short, sharp sound for the cameras. "Always the blunt instrument, aren't you? It's simply amazing how quickly you Kryptonians can swoop in and fix the messy problems of Earth, isn't it? If only we fragile humans possessed the inherent strength to stop technology that we ourselves designed from failing."

Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard she gave herself a migraine. Now was the time for the sarcasm she usually reserved for Bruce.

"I’m sorry, Lex," she cooed, tilting her head. "Did you design this specific satellite to fail and fall on innocent civilians? Because if so, I’m happy to say I’ve ruined your master plan. Again."

The crowd chuckled nervously. Lex’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed—a clear sign she’d hit a nerve.

"You should really learn to appreciate the complexity of human innovation, alien. You’re only here because you fell out of the sky and landed on our hard work."

"I’m here because your hard work was about to flatten a lot of good people, Lex," she said, her tone suddenly professional and stone-cold. "Now, if you’ll excuse me. Unlike you, I have a deadline."

With a final, sharp glare at the bald billionaire, Superwoman launched into the sky, leaving the choppers and the reporters shouting in her wake.

Five minutes later, Claire Kent stumbled through the double doors of the Daily Planet, hair slightly wind-mussed and her blouse crooked, looking the exact opposite of the pristine woman who had just delivered the world’s most powerful insult to Lex Luthor.

She slammed her briefcase onto her desk right as Perry White's voice boomed from his office.

"KENT! Where is the copy on the LexSat crash?! I need a lead for the late edition five minutes ago! Don't tell me you were stuck in traffic, Kent, because I saw Superwoman take off right over the Daily Planet building!"

Claire sighed, sinking into her chair. She was a super-powered alien goddess who could fly around the sun, and yet, the biggest challenge of her life was still getting her copy in on time for a difficult, but beloved, editor.

She pulled the keyboard closer, rubbing her forehead. "I'm on it, Chief," she mumbled to herself. "And for the record, the traffic was abysmal, even when you weren't technically in it."

Chapter Text

The morning sun of Theskira was not a gentle light; it was an invigorating fire. It struck the marble walls of the Temple of Hera and glittered off the polished bronze of the Great Arena, where the young men of the island completed their morning rituals.

They were the Spartians, the custodians of an impossible ideal. Their island, sheltered by divine mist and unwavering tradition, was a paradox: a society of men, created only to protect women, isolated entirely from the world they swore to defend.

At the epicenter of the cacophony—the rhythmic clang of shield on shield, the grunt of exertion, the shouted lessons of history—stood Daniel.

He moved with a fluid grace that seemed to defy his powerful build. His skin, bronzed by the eternal summer of Theskira, glistened with sweat, and his dark eyes were fixed with intense concentration. He wore the traditional leather vambraces and a linen chiton, moving not as a man trained for war, but as a force of nature disciplined for peace.

He was sparring with Apollo, a Spartian well over a decade his senior and a close companion in training. Apollo lunged, a swift, deliberate strike aimed at Daniel’s unarmored flank. Daniel didn't block; he shifted, absorbing the momentum with his shoulder, spinning Apollo around and pressing his training spear gently against the older man’s throat.

"Yield, Apollo," Daniel spoke, his voice deep but devoid of malice.

Apollo laughed, recognizing the mastery. "I yield, Daniel. You always find the angle of least resistance. Why waste strength on a block when a redirection accomplishes the goal?"

"Because," Daniel replied, lowering the spear and offering his hand to his friend, "a true defender does not seek to break his opponent, but to neutralize the conflict. We fight for defense, not domination. That is the core of our vows."

The Vow was the lifeblood of Theskira, woven into every physical lesson, every philosophical debate, and every prayer offered to the Goddesses.

The island itself was a testament to that philosophy. Created millennia ago after the first great age of violence, when humanity’s developing world was ravaged by the unchecked aggression of men, Theskira was consecrated by the highest of the Olympian court. Hera, Athena, and Artemis, despairing over the suffering of the innocent, established a countermeasure. They created the Spartians: a nation of immortal male champions, born from the very essence of truth and discipline, whose strict mission was to ensure that such brutality could never again extinguish the light of civilization.

Their worship centered on the female divine—Hera, the sovereign Mother; Athena, the strategist; Artemis, the hunter and protector. Only Ares, the God of honorable battle, was granted a place among their male pantheon, teaching them to wield the spear and shield with surgical precision.

They were taught the brutal history of "Man's World"—the endless cycles of conflict driven by ego, greed, and the abuse of power, especially against women. This history fueled their dedication to isolation and their strict adherence to the most sacred of their oaths: They would never interfere with the outside world unless faced with an evil so profound it threatened the very foundation of life and honor.

As Daniel wiped the sweat from his brow, he felt a looming shadow—not a threatening one, but a regal one. King Hippolytus, his father, observed the exercises from a stone balcony overlooking the arena.

Hippolytus, born directly of the will of Hera, was a figure of quiet, immense authority. He was the embodiment of the Spartian ideal of compassion coupled with strength. Yet, as he looked at his son, he carried a slight, ancient melancholy.

Daniel was perfection. He possessed the physical prowess required of a champion, the diplomatic skill to quell a rising feud among the younger Spartians, and a profound, innate sense of justice.

But Hippolytus had always dreamed of a daughter. He had hoped that the next heir would be a female champion, a mirrored reflection of the Goddesses who created them, a final, undeniable statement to Man’s World that true strength lay in the feminine principle. It was a yearning born of prophecy and deep cultural desire.

Yet, there was Daniel.

The King descended, his armor shining, drawing the attention of every Spartian.

"Report, Daniel," Hippolytus commanded, his voice warm.

Daniel snapped to attention. "Training is complete, Father. Focus today was the third principle of the Vow: To defend without anger, and to conquer only through conviction."

"And did you achieve this conviction?"

"I believe so," Daniel replied, meeting his father’s gaze, his strong will evident in the clarity of his eyes. "We trained to disarm, utilizing the philosophy taught by the Priestesses: that violence is merely the failure of understanding. My challenge remains the swiftness required to intervene."

Hippolytus placed a heavy, reassuring hand on Daniel's shoulder. "Intervention is the final choice, my son. Not the first. The purpose of Theskira is to train the mind first. You embody the philosophy better than any who have come before. You possess the necessary compassion to see the potential for goodness in all things, and the courage to protect that potential."

He paused, looking out over the misty sea that separated Theskira from the tumultuous world. "The world is calling for a champion, Daniel. That much, the omens tell us. But the champion must be perfect. He must be the culmination of millennia of learning."

The pressure of that destiny was immense, yet Daniel bore it easily. It was not a burden; it was his inheritance, his honor.

"I have dedicated my life to the Vow, Father," Daniel affirmed. "I live only to carry the message of Theskira. If the world requires the Mantle of the Defender, I will wear it with honor, upholding the truth and the peace established by the Goddesses."

Hippolytus smiled, a mix of pride and relief washing over him. He had wanted a daughter, yes, but looking at the magnificent, courageous, and diplomatic young man before him, he knew that Daniel was exactly what the world needed—a protector who understood that greater strength lay in the refusal to destroy.

"Go now, Daniel. Study some ancient texts. "

Daniel bowed low. Turning to retrieve his shield and spear, he exchanged a quick, conspiratorial wink with Apollo—a small flicker of humor and humanity amid the weighty traditions.

He was the Heir of Theskira, and his isolation was about to end. The long, disciplined years spent on the hidden island had forged him into the perfect champion; now, the time had come for that perfection to be tested.

Chapter Text

The Metropolis mid-morning rush was in full swing, turning 'The Daily Grind' cafe into a vibrant, cacophonous ecosystem fuelled by caffeine and deadlines. Clara Kent, however, wasn’t sipping her black coffee; she was staring intensely at a printout crumpled between her hands, radiating a furious heat that could rival her own solar absorption.

Lois Lane, immaculate as always in a power blazer and sharp lipstick, leaned across the small bistro table, watching her protégé with concern.

“Spit it out, Smallville. That look usually means you’ve either discovered definitive proof of alien life or you’ve read something truly stupid in an anonymous blog.”

Clara didn’t look up. Her voice, usually soft and melodic, was a low grindstone of annoyance. “Oh, it’s not just a blog, Lois. This trash made it into the Metropolis Post op-ed section. Front-page feature. Complete with a truly dazzling artist’s rendition of Superwoman looking like a disappointed aerobics instructor.”

She smoothed the paper out with a sigh that bordered on a growl, tapping a sharp fingernail on the offending article’s title: ‘Superwoman: Too Much Muscle, Not Enough Message.’

“Just listen to this brilliance,” Clara said, her tone dripping with industrial-strength sarcasm. “The esteemed Mr. Jonathan Reed posits that Superwoman’s ‘relentless focus on raw power distracts from her feminine mission.’ He then goes on to suggest her ‘overly stylized, high-coverage armour screams insecurity, rather than empowerment, alienating the very audience she hopes to inspire.’”

Clara leaned back, crossing her substantial arms, the very action highlighting the physique she carried—a physique that made her feel like a tank in a world built for compact sedans. She tried to keep the sting of the critique out of her eyes, but it was impossible.

“So, in short,” Clara summarized, fixing Lois with a level, exasperated stare, “saving the city from a three-story kryptonite-powered robot only counts if she’s wearing something that gives this troglodyte writer a better view of her knees.”

Lois’s expression hardened immediately. She was fiercely protective of her best friend, even if she had no idea that ‘Smallville’ and ‘The Woman of Tomorrow’ were one and the same.

“He’s an idiot, Clara,” Lois stated flatly. “And a coward. He’s taking a cheap shot at the strongest, kindest person we have because he fundamentally can’t handle the idea that a woman can be powerful without catering to his pathetic gaze.”

Clara felt a profound wave of gratitude, a warmth that countered the media’s cold, demanding glare. Lois was a rock, and her immediate, blunt defence was exactly what Claire needed.

“But the stupidity of it, Lois!” Clara pressed, her voice rising slightly. “They criticize her for not being ‘marketable’ enough. She’s too serious. Too strong. Too… covered up. I mean, they’re practically demanding she fights parasitic alien brain slugs in a bikini. They call her armour ‘prudish.’ I call it ‘not wanting to lose three layers of skin to frostbite at Mach 3,’ but apparently, the public needs more cleavage to process the gravity of an interdimensional threat.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting her inner frustration boil over. This had been the struggle from day one. When Clark first appeared, the focus was laser-focused on his power, his alien origins. When Clara appeared, the focus quickly shifted to her aesthetic, her motivations, and her suitability as a woman for the role. She had the patience of a saint when dealing with catastrophic emergencies, but this wilful, gendered ignorance grated on her nerves like nothing else.

“And the body comments,” Clara muttered, dropping the sarcasm for a moment of genuine vulnerability. “She’s built like an Amazon, she’s strong, and they treat that like a weapon pointed at them, not a benefit to the world. It’s always ‘bulky’ or ‘unflattering.’ God forbid a woman who can stop a train looks like she can stop a train.”

Lois reached out and placed a reassuring hand over Clara’s. “Look at me, Clara. Superwoman doesn’t operate on vanity. She operates on necessity. She has saved this city—and the planet—more times than this little man has changed his socks. She is the epitome of what the world needs: competence, unrelenting goodness, and the capacity to lay the smack down on cosmic tyranny.”

Lois leaned in conspiratorially. “They hate her because they can’t control her. Lex Luthor hates her because she’s an alien threat to his superiority. But these columnists? They hate her because she’s a successful woman who doesn't need their approval, or their critique, to define her mission. The fact that they have to stoop to criticizing her wardrobe and muscle tone proves how toothless their actual arguments are.”

Clara managed a small, genuine smile. Lois, ironically, had articulated Clara’s own inner philosophy perfectly. She was Superwoman, and that was freaking awesome, regardless of what some petty columnist thought of her armour’s neckline.

“You’re right,” Clara conceded, taking a large gulp of the now-cold coffee. “It’s just… exhausting. Sometimes I want to find the writer and just politely, very politely, explain the concept of Newton’s third law to him from the ceiling.”

“Don’t waste your energy, Smallville,” Lois advised, checking her watch. “Lex Luthor is holding a press conference in an hour, and I have a feeling he’s going to use the general paranoia around Superwoman to announce some new, shiny piece of corporate nonsense. We need to be ready to call him out on his BS. And trust me, calling out Luthor is far more satisfying than educating a fashion critic.”

Clara nodded, gathering her strength and crumpling the offensive article again. The sarcasm, the edge, and the blunt judgment of stupidity were already returning, channelled now toward the next target.

“Fair enough,” Clara said, standing up. 

Chapter Text

Theskira was not a barracks; it was a cathedral carved from marble and sun. Its halls were quiet, lined with olive trees and punctuated by training grounds where the disciplined echo of shield meeting spear replaced the clutter of Man’s World. This island of eternal summer, populated solely by immortal men, was designed to cultivate intellect first, and physical prowess second.

Daniel, now a tall, powerfully built young man, spent his mornings under the rigorous tutelage of the Master of Lore, Diogenes, in an open-air amphitheater known as the Lyceum. Today’s lesson was not in military tactics, but in the history of human failure—the foundational text of the Spartian mission.

“The greatest enemy we face,” Diogenes stated, his voice calm and resonant as he paced before the seated students, “is not foreign aggression, nor a single warlord. It is the insidious belief that power equates to ownership, and that ownership confers the right to violence.”

Daniel leaned forward, his customary compassion already etched into his focused expression. “Master, we review the Age of Scars again. The records are clear—the diplomatic failures, the starvation, the mass migrations. But why the singular focus on the plight of the women?”

Diogenes stopped, turning to face Daniel directly. “Because, Daniel, women have historically been the canary in the coal mine. Their subjugation, their violation, their silencing—these are the absolute proof that a society has abandoned justice. They become the currency of man’s wars, the spoils of his failure. When the diplomacy fails, who pays the first and highest price?”

The other students were silent. They had been raised on this grim history, but Daniel felt it with a palpable, aching sorrow.

“That is where the Ares Principle is born,” Diogenes continued, tapping his stylus against a stone tablet. “In Man’s World, Ares was often debased—the God of senseless rage. Here, he is revered as Ares Protégé—the Guardian of the Weak. He is the courage to stand between the victim and the aggressor. He is the discipline to wield overwhelming force only for defense, never for conquest.”

“It is a paradox,” another student, Damon, noted heavily. “We are trained to be the most formidable warriors in existence, yet our ultimate instruction is inaction, unless absolute evil forces our hand.”

“Precisely,” Diogenes affirmed. “To be a Spartian is to possess the power to destroy, but the wisdom to refrain. You are the deterrent. You are the perfect champion we train, Daniel, because you must embody the antithesis of the toxic masculinity that crippled Man’s World. Your strength must be a comforting shield, not a crushing fist.”

Later that day, Daniel sought refuge and truth in the hallowed Temple of Mnemosyne, the island’s vast Library. It was not a place of scrolls, but of crystalline memory—vaults containing preserved records, holographic simulations, and silent testimonies compiled by the Goddesses themselves.

He stood before the Gallery of Shattered Diplomacy, a section dedicated to the global conferences and peace treaties that inevitably collapsed into war. The visual simulations showed leaders shaking hands, only to be followed by the immediate, inevitable betrayal.

A chill ran through him. “Look at the arrogance,” Daniel murmured, tracing the ghostly image of a 20th-century statesman. “They truly believed their own words. Yet, the moment their pride was challenged, they reverted to tooth and claw.”

He moved further, toward the heart of the temple, a dark vault known as the Silent Archive, which held the unbearable history of the vulnerable. He saw the records of women enslaved, silenced, and subjected to institutionalized terror. Unlike the sanitized histories of Man’s World, here the cruelty was laid bare, preserved so that the Spartians would never forget why they had taken their oath.

“The weight of this history,” Daniel whispered to the silence, his brow furrowed, “it feels too heavy to carry, Master.”

Diogenes, who had followed him, placed a steady hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “It is the weight of the Atlas, my prince. But we do not ask you to carry it alone. We ask you to carry the lessons of it. The history here is the roadmap to peace. It shows us where compassion failed, where truth was abandoned, and where men prioritized ego over life.”

Daniel took a deep, steadying breath, his strong will asserting itself over his immediate sorrow. “I understand the vow now, more than ever. We must be so much more than men. We must be the correction.”

“You already are, son,” Diogenes replied, his voice thick with pride. “You possess the fundamental truth: you do not fight because you hate what is before you, you fight because you love what is behind you.”

Chapter Text

The sounds of the Daily Planet newsroom, the rhythmic clack of keyboards, the impatient ringing of phones, and the ever-present low roar of frustrated journalists were muffled by the thick oak door separating Clark Kent’s office from Perry White’s.

Clara strode in, a folder full of hard-hitting municipal corruption notes tucked under her arm. She wore her standard workplace uniform: a comfortable, slightly oversized button-down shirt paired with trousers that allowed for maximum movement. She looked professional, but definitely not high-fashion.

Perry White didn't look up from his desk until he’d slammed a red pen down onto a headline. "Kent. Shut the door. Sit."

Clara obeyed, taking the seat across from his cluttered desk. "Good morning, Chief. Did you see the draft on the city zoning scandal? It’s solid gold."

Perry grunted, pushing the zoning draft aside. "It's fine. But we've got bigger fish to fry than crooked city council members arguing over parking permits, Kent. We need circulation. We need sizzle. We need a name."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the mahogany, fixing her with one of his trademark intimidating stares. "We need Bruce Wayne."

Clara raised a perfect eyebrow. "Bruce Wayne? The elusive billionaire playboy? Sure, if you want a puff piece about how many yachts he owns this week. I was under the impression we were a newspaper, not a celebrity gossip column, Chief."

"Watch the sarcasm, Kent. I’m serious," Perry snapped, though he didn't sound genuinely angry, merely frustrated. "Wayne is an enigma. He buys companies like I buy coffee. He sponsors charities that vanish overnight. He's been photographed twice this decade, and one of those was a very blurry picture of his back leaving a bar in Monaco."

"And you think I can get him?" Clara asked, a slight, teasing smile playing on her lips. "I’m sure Lois Lane has his phone number on speed dial right after the one for the best shoe sale in Metropolis."

"Lois gets the scoops that need a punch in the face. You," Perry said, pausing to actually look at her attire, "you have patience, Clara. You’re charming, you’re persistent, and frankly, you look harmless. He’ll let you in because he won’t see you coming. We need a profile. Not just socialite gossip. We need to know who the hell Bruce Wayne actually is behind the tabloid covers."

Clara sighed, her earlier enthusiasm for the zoning story draining away. "Fine. Bruce Wayne. I’ll start making calls to seven different personal assistants this afternoon. What's the angle? Philanthropist? Troubled genius? Or just deeply misunderstood alcoholic?"

"The angle is the story. Get in there and get it," Perry dictated. He then picked up a small, heavy piece of card stock, a high end invitation. "This is a gala invitation. Wayne usually skips his own events, but this is a charity he’s heavily invested in. You're going. It's your entry point to Gotham society."

Clara took the card. The paper felt like silk. "A charity gala. Right. I assume I can wear my trench coat and sensible flats?"

Perry massaged his temples. "No, Kent. And this is the part I need you to listen to very carefully. You are going into Gotham high society. You are not covering a fire. You represent the Daily Planet. You need to look the part. You need to look… expensive."

Clara’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. This was the one thing she truly hated about her job when it intersected with the privileged world. It wasn't just superficiality; it was the required performance.

"You need to wear something structured, Kent," Perry continued, oblivious to her discomfort. "Something that fits. Something that says, 'I belong here.' That sweater vest you’re wearing looks like something your grandmother knitted out of old hay. This crowd respects money and presentation, and if they don't respect you, they won't talk to you."

Clara leaned back, crossing her arms. The playful teasing edge hardened into genuine sarcasm. "So, you’re saying that in order to be seen as a serious journalist, I have to parade around looking like a glorified mannequin? Because last I checked, my integrity was in my reporting, not in the thread count of my outfit."

"It's optics, Kent! Don't be deliberately stupid!" Perry thundered. "Look, I know you like your baggy clothes, and I respect that you dress for comfort, but you’re trying to interview a man who likely spends more on his socks than your entire annual salary. You need to look sophisticated. You need a suit jacket that doesn't scream 'farm girl attending her first city fair.'"

Clara swallowed, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. She knew exactly what Perry meant by "structured" and "fits." It meant revealing shapes and lines she spent her entire life trying to hide. Her self-consciousness, a constant companion since her teenage years, always flared up when she was forced to put her body on display.

"So, the price of journalism is abandoning personal comfort and dignity," Clara muttered dryly, playing the words off as a cynical observation rather than a personal dread. "Crystal clear, Chief. So, I need a tailor, a stylist, and probably a bodyguard to keep me from setting fire to the first silk scarf I see."

Perry pointed at a small ledger on his desk. "Expense it within reason. Get something dark, tailored, and serious. I want this profile to be the best damn piece of journalism we've run all year. Don't come back with fluff, Kent. I want the real Bruce Wayne, not the champagne-soaked caricature."

Clara pushed herself up from the chair. She adjusted the collar of her 'hay-knitted' shirt, a final, small act of defiance.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Chief," she said, her voice dropping into a low, promising register. "I’ll get you the real Bruce Wayne. If he’s as elusive as you say, he’s going to need more than an expensive suit to keep me from digging up his secrets."

She pulled the door open, pausing only to add one last blunt remark. "Just try not to have an aneurysm when I hand in the receipts for the ridiculously expensive and completely unnecessary jacket."

Perry just waved her out with a frustrated gesture.

Clara closed the door, the noise of the newsroom washing over her again. She walked back to her desk, the heavy card stock of the gala invitation feeling like lead in her hand.

"A structured outfit," she whispered to herself with deep, resigned sarcasm. "Right. Because the biggest challenge in catching an elusive billionaire is definitely finding a shirt that doesn't show off too much."

She tossed the invitation onto her desk and immediately opened her laptop, the hunt for information on Bruce Wayne now officially underway—but first, the much more terrifying hunt for a mandatory, and deeply uncomfortable, power suit.