The club was hidden in the depths of Gotham, far away from downtown and tucked into the corner of a small neighborhood, camouflaging amidst a grocery store and a row of small apartments. Although his business tended to take him all over the city, Bruce found he had never ventured into this area before. For such a popular starlet to perform there, he was surprised it wasn't in a bigger, more public-friendly venue.

But then again, maybe she wanted it that way.

He had arrived "fashionably late" as he liked to call it-not on purpose, of course, but because his work kept him busy. Being the head of one of the most powerful and influential mafias in Gotham had its pros and its cons. He was sure that a good majority of the men he presided over would kill for the position he had, but he didn't want it. In fact, he had no choice but to take it over when his parents unexpectedly. With the help of his father's closest friend, Bruce managed to keep what his father had built.

He was genuinely surprised that she had returned to the city after all of this time. He glanced out of the window and towards the club, seeing a poster for the event on the side of the building. Her stage name was "Poison Ivy," but he had known her Pamela Isley. It was a clever name, he'd give her that, and it fit her well. He had assumed that once she had gained as much fame as she did, she would be off somewhere, living in a warmer climate with whatever man she would let into her heart for the time being. A part of him, the more optimistic side, wondered if he still had a chance to find his way back there.

Shaking his head as if to shake that thought away, Bruce let out a long sigh and fixed his tie. He wore suits nearly every day, but he decided to wear his most favorite: all white with a black tie. Simple, but sharp. His clothes happened to be black and white, but his emotions certainly weren't. He had never felt his nervous before. His work made him see and do things that would make anyone uncomfortable, but after one of his men uttered her name earlier that afternoon, his mouth went dry. He knew he had to see her.

"Uh . . . Mr. Wayne? It's 7:55. The show will start soon." Bruce's driver piped up, which brought him back to reality, making him snap out of his deep thoughts.

Clearing his throat, Bruce pulled back his sleeve to check out his watch. "Yes, you're right. Thank you, Ben." He didn't know what else to say because he felt as though he couldn't think or breathe.

Bruce climbed out of the back of the car and made his way to the door, his heart beating fast in his chest. For some reason, he felt as though he was going back in time, even if the span would only be a year and a half. He knocked on the door and after a couple of seconds, it opened magically from the inside and without any more hesitation, he walked into the club.

Like any club, there was cigarette smoke hanging low in the air while people softly chatted with each other, one hand holding a cigarette or their alcoholic beverage of choice. Bruce wasn't the biggest fan of smoking, but he did it anyway because everyone else did. He especially lit up multiple cigarettes when his job became stressful. The taste wasn't pleasant, but he craved the sensation whenever his head felt like he was going to explode.

The ladies were completely drenched in jewelry that sparkled as much as the candles on the tables. The men were in their finest suits, tailored to perfection. It appeared Bruce wasn't the only person who wanted to see the red-headed vixen sing.

Unlike any other club he had been to, it was incredibly small and Bruce had a hard time finding a table since he had arrived late. He searched for a couple of minutes before he found a table for one towards the back. Because of the wine stains on the table cloth and the used cigarettes lounging in the ash tray, Bruce assumed that a couple had been sitting there, but had left before the performance started. He didn't mind since he preferred sitting in the back, wanting to be a silent surveyor rather than up close to the stage.

Whatever lights that were on dimmed, signaling the start of the performance. The conversations of the various couples died down and their attention all went to the stage as they started to clap in anticipation. Bruce kept his eyes glued to the curtains, his heart rate picking up again. He couldn't wait to see her. Had she changed or was she the same Pamela she was when she had been with him? He hoped for the latter.

The curtains drew back on the stage, revealing a small piano with the accompanist sitting at the bench. He nodded his head in recognition of the applause, his lips pulling into a wide smile. He then turned his body and held out his hand to the other side of the stage, showing the audience that that was where Pamela was going to enter. It wasn't long until the red head joined her accompanist on the stage, making Bruce take in a quiet gasp. She still looked incredible.

She wore a long, green gown that hugged her curves. Her dress looked like it was made of satin because the fabric was glossy underneath the lights of the stage. Her elbow-length gloves matched, naturally, and she had a red rose tucked behind her left ear. Her crimson lips pulled into a smile of warm gratitude and she took a couple of seconds to nod her head, recognizing the audience's applause just like her accompanist had done earlier.

No, Bruce thought, fame hadn't changed her one bit.