Melanie Walker walked into the foyer of her penthouse. Dressed in a sharp grey pants suit, her blond curls tumbled down her back, pulled away from her face by a black diamond comb. Dropping her bag, she looked around at the mess that she had left after her parent's death: it was gone.

"Ms. Walker?" a maid gasped, dropping her duster.

"Hello," Melanie said curtly.

"You're dead!" cried the maid.

"Hardly."

"You've been declared legally dead miss," the maid said, "the money's gone."

"No," Melanie smiled coldly, "the money is in an account in my mother's name. I had it moved before I came here."

"Let me get that," the maid said picking up her bag and carrying it into the master bedroom, "is it just you?"

"Just me," Melanie said.

"How long will you be staying miss?"

"A while," Melanie replied, "I have business to attend to."

"You did know tonight is the Gala? An invitation arrives for you every year."

"Sent by whom?" Melanie asked curiously pulling out the black crepe invitation as delicate as a bat's wing. On a small white card was a hand written note, "Just in case you're back," Melanie read, "who sends these cards?"

"Mr. Wayne miss," the maid.

"He's still alive?" Melanie frowned.

"Oh yes Miss, he won't go for a long time," the maid said, confused. Melanie nodded and turned to her wardrobe. The attire said formal. The maid ducked out while she stood in front of her wardrobe. Bruce Wayne was still alive? She had been gone for almost ten years and yet so little had changed. Melanie narrowed her eyes and darted back to the invitation. Turning the small white card over, she felt icy chills run down her spine.

T. M. Wayne

As in Terrance McGuiness Wayne.

"Terry," she narrowed her eyes. She hadn't betted on him staying in Gotham past high school, much less being adopted by his former mentor.

"Is Mr. Wayne married?" she called out. The maid was by her side in a flash.

"No miss, he's living with someone though," she said.

"Who?"

"I do not know her name," the maid said, "she's dark, reddish hair—"

"Max," Melanie said.

"Yes miss," the maid nodded.

"Does she go to all formal events with him?"

"Never see one without the other," she said.

"RSVP for me," Melanie instructed, "it seems I'm going to the ball this evening."

Terry leaned against the wall, wishing he could rip off the tuxedo and cursing the dress code. But he had to keep up appearances as Bruce Wayne's heir. His black hair had grown out a bit, though Max was after him to cut it. She stood a bit farther away, dressed in a black gown, her cropped red hair framing her smiling eyes, talking on the phone. The two lived together—but in Wayne Manor that meant she lived ten minuets from him.

She was in charge of the technical side of his operation. She was the home base, sending weapons, information and anything else he could need to him while he was off being Batman.

"Terry," Max said, "Terry listen to me that was Justin."

"What?" Terry asked, referring to Max's private eye, "he said—" but the roaring in his ears her out. Standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in a black gown that sparkled in the dim light was Melanie Walker. Her piercing eyes surveyed the room as it seemed to survey her back. Her blond hair was pulled back, showing her features were still china-doll perfect. Terry almost forgot to breath as longing, stronger than anything he'd felt before tugged at him. Her eyes caught his and she winked before slipping into the crowd.

Suddenly Terry found himself going after her. He'd catch glimpses of blond hair, black silk and pale skin, but he couldn't find her. He felt rather ridiculous, almost like a lovesick teenager, but his mind pushed those thoughts away and urged him to go faster. Finally he burst through the double glass doors and onto the balcony overlooking Gotham.

"Melanie," was all Terry could say. Melanie turned around and looked at him closely. He looked like a billionaire playboy: expensive suit, clean shaven, perfect haircut all the generic traits. But one thing kept her from casting him aside, his eyes. They belonged to a much older man, someone more dead than alive.

"Hello Terry," she said leaning against the balcony, "it's been a while."