0001. CHAPTER ONE
— growth, seven years' worth of it

SOMETIMES, ALL SOMEONE NEEDS IS A PERSON TO BE THEIR ANCHOR, TO BE THEIR LIGHTHOUSE THAT GUIDES THEM BACK HOME AFTER THEY ARE OUT AT SEA. Harlow Finley thought she had that. Growing up she knew exactly who she could count on to be there. Who she could look out onto the crowd of people and make out with. He was there. He was always there. Someone that stood tall amidst the waves that tried to drown her, especially when they were in Gotham. A city that swallowed people whole only to spit them out, bruised, calloused, and scarred, A city that bred the very evil that it was being destroyed by. She needed someone to guide her back to the world's good things. To remind her of the hope, which was a funny thought. Bruce Wayne was never the light that Gotham or the world needed. He hadn't had much of it to spare after his parents died. In his eyes, the very heart of Gotham left that night that they died in a darkened alley. He lost hope for the city then, watching them bleed at his feet. Harlow and Bruce found lighthouses in each other, two separate guiding lights on different ends of the horizon. Just enough to keep them wading in the water away from the turbulence but not enough to bring them ashore. Enough to keep their heads above the water, keep them from drowning and falling deeper into the darkness they were surrounded by. It is like a floatation device that lets them stay up without anything else. Until one day, Bruce Wayne's light went out, and Harlow Finley suddenly found herself sinking with no way to return to the surface.

The ring that sat on her finger only grew heavier, making her realize how the things she had been fed and the things he had said were all lies. Every breath that had left his lips, the whispers spoken into her skin while moonlight cast a faint glow on them both. Every promise of being there forever, just as they had been as children, fell to the ground. It was like she could see it happening right before her eyes — the glass shattering around her. Leaving her heart exposed to the world, an open wound for anyone to take their stab at. Because Bruce Wayne did plenty of things, but making the final blow was not one of them. He left in the dead of night, darkness protecting him. Gone with nothing more than a whisper in the wind. He didn't stop to tell her goodbye or to give her an official break-up. Instead, Harlow Finley found herself nursing a broken heart as she mourned a relationship that wasn't even over. Yet, that broken heart came at the same time as her biggest exams and her struggling her way through medical school.

Returning to Gotham for her residency almost broke her, seeing the city where she grew up with Bruce Wayne. Walking through the halls of her family home where she had made countless memories with Bruce, the same home where she realized she loved him. It was like yesterday, despite well over ten years since the discovery came to her mind, that she lay in bed. Thoughts ran around her mind, keeping her awake at night as she spun a CD to try and calm them. The manor was silent — her parents were tucked away on the opposite side, Margaret two floors beneath her. Harlow had been left to nothing but her own thoughts, in a room surrounded by photos of her and Bruce, along with photos of her and Rachel. She couldn't ignore the butterflies. Not anymore. She remembered what it felt like to think that the fine line between friendship and love was normal. To have her brain so fully convinced that everyone felt the same way about their best friend. That everyone's heart buckled in, their world caved through, and they fell to worship at their feet in their own mind for their best friend. Silently wishing, and hoping, waiting, for the day that they admit to the same feelings. To the fact that all they'd imagined was their lips touching, a gentle hand caressing their cheek with a tenderness they had only thought of before. Harlow was never much of a reader, she never had the time to be one. But she remembered that night clear as day, as the faint hums of Fleetwood Mac bounced from wall to wall, her hands running across the bookshelf full of broken spines and hand-me-downs from her mothers. Books that Harlow had always meant to read but never did. Until that night, she needed to understand what the poets said about love.

How it was a feeling that rushed through a person's chest, a warmth that floods them as they think about the object of their affection. A simple flower that blossoms and grows under the light that is their smile. The deeper she fell into the odes and ballads that people poured their hearts and souls into explaining, the more she realized her love wasn't platonic. It hadn't been for years. And she swore then that she had mourned her friendship with Bruce Wayne. She knew there was no coming back for her. Her heart was his long before she even knew what it was like to have one. In some way, Harlow believed he had always had her heart. He had always owned a small piece of it. That night was the night she realized it was all his. His calloused hands held it in them, it was up to him about what would happen. Harlow couldn't help but laugh about it now, how naive she was to believe that the sad prose about love being lost would never be her. She wished she could tell herself that it was worth it, that loving Bruce Wayne, and losing Bruce Wayne, it all made her stronger.

All she thinks it did was make her better at protecting her heart from the things that could hurt it. More calloused, cold, calculated. Whatever the tabloids wanted to say about her — GOTHAM'S SWEETHEART TURNED BITCH!, as the headlines read. It made her a better surgeon, she never wanted her heart to be on her sleeve. Not anymore. Self-preservation came at its finest, after all, she lost the man she loved (the man she was set to marry in just a few months after his disappearance), and two years later, she lost her father, her mother following soon after. Harlow wasn't sure she would have survived had she not cut her heart off of her sleeve. Had she not shut down in order to protect herself. Margaret had watched it all as Harlow let herself drown among the rest of the people of Gotham. As she fell right into the title that every tabloid wanted to write about someone who was rich and famous in their own right. A sad tale of how they've fallen, drunken stumbles, and joints left behind as she gets pulled away from clubs. Of course, none of those stories hit the pages. Instead, the tabloids got to write about Harlow Finley who was suffering from heartbreak. The same Harlow Finley working at a hospital was plastered with the names of her former (now presumed dead) fiancé's parents on it. Poor Harlow Finley, who just couldn't catch a break. Poor Harlow Finley, who was on the verge of breaking down herself.

She knew what they were saying, she knew what they were keeping out of their pages too. That was the company, she was sure. Finley Incorporated keeping their best interests in mind — they (as in the board) couldn't keep the business afloat if the only Finley left was partying up a storm and leaving a smoking trail of both men and women (and extremely candid photos of the morning after walk of shame back to her car), so what else could they do except buy most of the tabloids and keep them from running the scoops that they wanted to do. Enough to keep Harlow from being known by the city of Gotham as someone self-medicating her broken heart. Of course, it slowed down when she actually got into residency, when she was working in the hospital and was learning while making a difference. Like a switch turned on, she wanted her parents (especially her father, who she knew had limited time left) to be proud of her for who she had become. For the doctor, she was going to be, even if he wasn't going to see it, and the person she would grow into being.

She liked to think that her parents would be proud of her now. Hell, she was proud of herself now. But even as she wakes up in the arms of another man, a man she knew felt more for her than she did him, she couldn't help but wonder if Bruce would have been proud of her. A thought she should never have — he was dead (presumably), and he had left her, high and dry with nothing to cling onto. She shouldn't worry about whether or not he would be proud of her. It shouldn't matter to her. Yet, it did. A quick breath fell from her lips as she listened to Jonathan's breathing change, his legs stirring as he woke up. For a moment, she has the thought of closing her eyes, pretending that she had been asleep the entire time. Because she knew he would ask what she was thinking about. He always did. It was something he liked to do. Ask about how she slept, how she was feeling, and what she had to do for the day, even if he knew the answers to all of them. The gesture only made her heart hurt worse, but pretending to be asleep and having him wake her up seemed a better option. Less likely to hurt her heart.

Until his hand gently traces her face, like he was committing her to his memory. Taking in the view of the beams of sunlight peeking through the blinds onto her face. Falling onto the golden blonde curls that adorned her head, faintly allowing him to see the faded away freckles from the week of summer that Gotham is given, slightly chapped lips that were opened (on purpose) to allow her breath to flow through. She felt seen, like a person looking through a window, only to find someone staring right back at them. It was hard to keep her eyes open or a smile from forming on her lips as Jonathan gently traced her features, fingers ghosting across the slope of her nose and tugging ever-so-slightly at her bottom lip. She let her eyes flutter open, his baby blues (a light, pale blue that she would almost describe as lifeless about anyone else) (so entirely different from how Bruce's eyes looked, from the bits she could remember of them, the blue was deeper, like falling into the waves of the ocean) staring right at her. He gave her a smile, then a kiss to her cheek and another to the edge of her lips, smiling more as Harlow leaned her body into him. The blankets had pooled to her waist throughout the night, the thin material of Jonathan's shirt providing little warmth as she tried to burrow herself into his warmth. So much so she could feel his chest rumble with laughter, one that started off slow and built into something else. She felt him shift underneath her, accommodating the extra weight she had put onto him with a soft sigh. Harlow listened to the faint hum of his heartbeat, the feeling of getting lulled into that false sense of security of everything being okay. The last time she had felt comfortable like this, the last time she had even thought about letting her heart come out to rest against her sleeve, it had been crushed and nearly unfixable. His voice cut through the silence, "What time is your breakfast this morning?"

"Ten," Harlow replied sleepily. "I'll have to leave here by nine to get back in time and get ready."

"Should probably be getting up now then," Jonathan pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Wouldn't want you to have to skip getting ready."

"I think you would, actually."

Jonathan laughed, "It doesn't matter what I think, I know, not even think, you're one of the most gorgeous women I've ever laid eyes on. So, of course, I'd believe that extra sleep is more important."

"But," Harlow drawled, sensing the word and idea coming from him — she smiled a little at his huff. "Come on, you know you had one."

"It's part of your routine and helps you feel more prepared, especially for these meetings. So," Jonathan pulled his arms away from her, giving the blonde woman a chance to roll out of the bed. He gave her a soft smile, watching as she grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed it out of her face. Harlow placed her palms flat against the mattress, her eyebrow quirked for him to finish his sentence, "Go get ready."

Harlow chuckled, leaning farther to kiss him. It was a simple kiss, merely two lips slotted onto one another. She watched as his eyes shut as if he was taking in the moment and committing it to an arsenal of memories he had of them together, her heart sank at the thought. The idea of him being more committed to this than she was — she knew it was true, but it was still something that hurt her heart. Because her lips were against his, all she could think about was how different he was from Bruce. Or, when she really thought about it, just how much she couldn't remember about Bruce anymore. He had become a faded memory, much like a photo left in the sun for too long. Burned out of her mind with nothing that could bring it back. Because no matter how much she wished, she waited, she begged for God (or any other higher power, anything, she was willing to believe in anything if it fixed her life again) to bring him back to her. To send him walking through her front door with a sorry smile and a half-assed apology. Those she could deal with, those she could handle. At least he would be there. At least that meant she had a chance to see him again, to remember what he smelled like, to cradle his face tenderly and softly love him again. Feel his chest rumble as he leaned against her back to whisper something obscene into her ear, she would do anything for that to happen again. And then the guilt set back in, here she was after spending the night with a man who was there. Pulling back, Harlow gave him another smile, "When are you free next?"

"Not sure," Jonathan placed one of his hands over the top of hers, "I can call you and let you know."

"Or just text me," A brow tilted in response from him. "It is the twenty-first century, Jon, you can just text. Besides, I'm not sure I'll be able to answer a call at work."

Jonathan sighed as he sat up in bed, his hand moving up to cup her cheek. Harlow forced herself to react to his touch like she used to instinctively do for Bruce's. She leaned her head into Jonathan's outstretched hand, eyes fluttering slightly as she forced a dopey smile to tear through her lips. He gave her another quick kiss, "I'll text then."

"And maybe we can do this at mine next?"

"What? Don't like slumming it with the lesser off, Doctor Finley?"

Harlow rolled her eyes as she walked to the door of his small bedroom, leaning over her shoulder to retort, "You and I both know I'm not afraid to get a little dirty."

A smirk grew on both of their faces, Harlow watched as his eyes shined differently from what they were mere moments before, "Go get ready for your meeting."

"I'll see you later."

"Hey, Harlow," Jonathan called out to her as she was in the hallway, making her stop and turn around with a smile, "I love you."

The wave holding off just above her head decided to hit them, another pang of guilt flowing through her veins. It was like the dam broke, everything within her was flooding with guilt as she looked at a man who wasn't what she wanted. He wasn't Bruce Wayne and that was an unfair task to put on him — there was no way he could ever be Bruce Wayne. Jonathan Crane was a man who was there for Harlow Finley, a man who had supposedly convinced himself that he was in love with her as well. That was enough to make Harlow bite her bottom lip, contemplating what she was supposed to say. She had only said those words to a few people in her life — her parents, Margaret, Alfred, and Bruce Wayne. And Bruce was the only person who had said it in the same fashion as Jonathan, Harlow knew in her heart that the feeling she had for the latter was not the same as what she had for Bruce. Jonathan watched her slightly, he knew what to expect when he said those words. Despite all of her best efforts, Harlow Finley was an easy person to read. Especially when she got comfortable — Jonathan had seen her in some of her most relaxed states, and it was easy enough to see that she held herself back from anything. She kept herself locked away, safe and sound from anything that could hurt her again. They both knew that the other knew. Harlow was sure he knew about her inability to give herself to him, her unwillingness to trust other people with her heart.

"I'll see you," Harlow nodded at him, Jonathan nodded back, a sad smile on his lips.

Tucked away from him in her car, Harlow let out a frustrated scream. It wasn't at him, at least she didn't think it was, but rather the entire situation. Some of her wished she could say it back even if she didn't mean it, but the words catch in her throat, and she can't will herself to say them anymore. Another thing Bruce took with him when he left was something she was still learning about today. She ran her hands across her face, trying to forget that moment and act as if it had never happened. She knew that she couldn't think about it any longer, not if she wanted the meeting to go right. Not if she wanted to get her point across and have it make sense. She needed her argument to be clear — she needed them to understand and give her what she wanted and what Gotham needed. Harlow started her car, leaning to press on the bluetooth function and call Margaret. A few rings go through before she picks up, "Master Harlow."

"Margaret, how many times do I have to?"

"Your name is the one that signs my checks," the blonde could tell she was smiling (a coy smile, one Margaret loved to give when she was fucking with her) on the other side of the phone. "To what do I owe the pleasure of the call? I'm assuming something about the breakfast, which is well underway and will be ready on time. And I can hear you're in the car, so I'm assuming you're returning from Doctor Crane's then?"

"I'm on the road now," Harlow sighed.

"I'll be sure to have your outfit laid out."

"You don't need to ..."

"No, but I want to."

A beat. "Okay."

Margaret sighed, "That's not why you called, though, now is it?"

"He said I love you, Margaret."

"Oh dear," Margaret let the sarcastic remark leave her lips, "sound the alarms, a man she's been dating for almost eight months just told Harlow Verity Finley that he loves her! The worst possible thing in the world has occurred."

"Margaret," A snap left her lips before she could fight it, the tone at which her name came out was not very pretty. "You know it's not that."

"And you and I both know he's not coming back," Margaret retorted. "If you're looking for me to be the bad guy again, look elsewhere. I can't keep being your place for words of wisdom when you clearly don't want to take them. Bruce Wayne is gone, he's dead. It's okay for you to move on. It's okay for you to let your heart go to someone else. The world isn't suddenly stop turning because you let someone else in. But you also need to let yourself in again, you've been walking around your life like it isn't yours. Playing it safe, keeping yourself from having fun at the fear of losing yourself to your sorrows again. It's time to let him go, let everything he did and didn't do to you go."

Harlow bit at the inside of her cheek, she knew that Margaret was right (she always was, not that she would ever tell her that), and she had the right intention for her. But, another part of Harlow (the one hopeful part that never wanted to believe Bruce was dead like the rest of Gotham and the world had) refused to think he was gone. He couldn't be dead, not when he had so much left to do and to clear up. She knew, in reality, he could be — she saw it every day with trauma surgery. People could be okay one minute, shot the next, and dead within seconds. Their entire life could change within a blink, and they could be gone, despite having been there just a second ago. Their entire life can change, and suddenly, they can't do everything they had planned on doing. They can't tell anyone they love them one more time, they can't say goodbye, and they can't do so many different things they can't do anymore. Things that leave the people they care for reeling, looking for comfort in everything they had said before. She wasn't comfortable with what he said before he left, and she couldn't even tell you what happened. So much of that day was blocked out of her memory. Harlow could remember the trial, holding his hand as he prepared to speak at the hearing, watching as he stood up and dropped it. She remembered how heavy the ring sat on her finger and how it glistened in the light as she watched Bruce walk out of the courtroom, herself rising quickly to follow him.

He hadn't said anything to her before he left, after watching the very man who murdered his parents get killed, Harlow watched as Rachel pulled him away. That was the last time she had seen him, the last time he had said anything to her was that morning. But it wasn't enough to make her feel like she needed to remember. Not in comparison to the things he had said before, the declarations of love he let slip as his hands traveled across her body. He lovingly stated the whispers and confessions of love as they fell asleep, his lips ghosting across the shell of her ear. She remembered everything except for the last things he had said to her. Perhaps she was saving herself a world of pain, or maybe it was just an unremarkable day until she had the hindsight. The future changes the past, right? If she could go back and redo it all, would she?

Harlow wasn't sure.

Finley Manor came into view, the call with Margaret having ended long before she even got out of Gotham. A sigh left her lips, eyes glancing from the road to the clock in the car, making sure she was good (and she was, leave it to her to always be on time for the non-official schedule she follows day by day) to get ready and be sure the meeting went smoothly. Her shoulders tensed as she thought about the meeting, how much she had forgotten what she was going to say all because her mind was stuck on Bruce Wayne. It had been seven years without him, seven years he was gone, yet he was a memory etched so deep into her brain. A stain she couldn't get out of no matter how hard she tried, he was stuck with her, and she couldn't escape it. Every inch of the house she lived in had memories of Bruce Wayne, every place she looked, she could think of a time they had done something. A time when Bruce had made a joke or said something she took interest in. She could remember the places on the grounds where they played hide-and-seek, the places she always looked, and the places he had hidden in. He was such an integral part of her life, she couldn't forget him even if she wanted to. And some days, that made it hard to focus on the things she wanted to focus on. Days like today, focusing on her meeting and expressing Gotham's need for better healthcare, were clouded by her lack of resolution with Bruce.

By her guilt for stringing Jonathan Crane, who had just openly admitted his feelings to her, serving his heart on a silver platter, despite knowing her heart had never been returned by the last person who had it. This ran deeper than Bruce leaving her, Harlow knew that much. It was why her father never beat her down about taking over the business and supported her on her track to medicine. Harlow Finley was amazing at keeping her mind on track until something suddenly changed her train. Especially when it came to things she dreaded doing. Her father had seen that when he brought her into meetings at Finley Incorporated at an early age, she always managed to find something else to do or focus on instead of the meeting at hand. Besides, Jacob Finley knew he didn't need his daughter to take over the business. Sure, it would have been nice to continue the family legacy, but she would still be the primary shareholder (in all of its 62% glory) and would be the one to make a final say. He had been training someone to fill his shoes for the inevitable day he left the world — he was okay with that. Harlow was fine with it as well. She could learn if the day came and wanted to know more about the business. But she found that even years after her father's death, she had no pull to understand the workings of the business. She knew information about it, of course, she was on all the emails and the head of the board. She was kept in the loop for the basics about how the company was doing and the new business ventures they were leaping into. And she could use her voice to go against something they couldn't fight — not that she had done that more than once (and when she had, she liked to believe it was reasonable, especially with what she was bringing to the table for the meeting today). Had it not been for the fact that she was working on something for this meeting, something she had been working on (or planning at the very least) for years and needed to see put into action. Working in Gotham's hospitals only cemented the need for it, the fact that there was such a lack of healthcare across the population. Seeing that medications were so far out of reach — something she knew was more than just a Gotham problem, but more a problem with the country and the failing medical systems — for the people who needed them most. Medications that her company, one of the leading companies in pharmaceutical creation and sales, created were out of reach to those who lived in the city that supported it. Harlow Finley watched people live on the streets with no way to escape it, a cog in a broken machine that no one was willing to fix. Harlow knew there was more that could be done, more that could be said, and things that she could push for.

A sigh fell from her lips as she walked into her home, eyes glancing over all the decorations lining the halls and how the hall had been meticulously cleaned to look put together. Harlow was sure the home was almost always like that, she couldn't remember when it didn't look put together. But she could say it was the first time she walked into her home and was instantly hit with the aroma of food, enough food to feed everyone on the board. It had been years since the walls of Finley Manor had hosted more than two or three people at a time. Long enough that Harlow forgot what it was like to have her home smelling like baked goods. To walk in and know it would be full of people, people who would be carrying on conversations. A home that was soon going to be used for exactly what it was meant to be — hosting parties and meetings that made the Finley family look good. Harlow smiled at the thought, how many board meetings had happened within the very rooms and walls of this home? It had been part of her family for hundreds of years, longer than she could remember being told. There had to have been countless meetings that the walls of her family home had heard, a history soaked into the wood beams and layers of paint and wallpaper decorating them. Harlow hoped, in some odd way, that she would make a part of that history that the walls of her home would come to love, something that her children (if she has them) would be able to add to. Even if it were small, Harlow couldn't help but wish she would do something to live up to her family name.

Margaret came rushing through the archway that opens into the dining room and kitchens, an exasperated look on her face, "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to get ready for that meeting of yours, Doctor Finley?"

"What?"

"The meeting is in an hour, I suspect you want to get cleaned up."

Harlow took that (re: her tone) as a reason to glance down at herself, fingers tugging at the stretchy material of her tank top and leggings with a huff. Margaret gave her a soft smile, hand wrapping around the blonde's upper arm, "Everything is ready for you upstairs. I pulled out the dress you bought a little while ago, and your curling iron is on the counter for you to plug in before getting dressed."

"What would I do without you, Margaret?"

The woman laughed, "That I'm not sure of, Doctor Finley."

"Harlow."

Margaret shot her a look at the correction, "You earned your title."

"And you helped raise me, Harlow is perfectly fine."

"Go get ready, I'll greet anyone who gets here early."

Growing up in one of the richest families in Gotham, Harlow found she got to be pretty fucking good at getting ready in a pinch. Between the galas that she was forced into attending, the small work functions that still required her to have a flawlessly painted face and hair to be practically perfect, or just being a teenager who left everything to the last minute, including getting ready for dates that would inevitably end up on the front page of the tabloids. Which meant by the time she had the black dress on her body and her hair curled just enough that it looked well styled like she meant for it to look that way, not to mention the added touches to her make-up that made her look a little less exhausted, only one person from the board had even stepped foot into her home. She stood on the stairwell, her arms leaning against the banister as she watched Margaret interact with the man who took her father's place. Neither of them had noticed the blonde, lost in their separate world of conversations where her father's successor seemed to be winning Margaret's heart. Harlow couldn't help but roll her eyes at the sight (in a good way, she had made fast friends with her father's successor), "Marcus, don't you have something better to do than flirt with Margaret?"

"No, actually," Marcus turned on his heels, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dress slacks, "I have nothing better to do."

"Totally not like you run a multi-billion dollar company," Harlow walked down the rest of the stairwell, stopping her trek before him. He smiled at her, a raised brow as the blonde crossed her arms. "Scale of one to ten, how are you expecting this to go?"

"One being bad and ten being exactly what you want coming from it?" Harlow nodded to his clarification. "I'd give it about a six."

"How many on the board are you expecting will fight it?"

"All of them, probably. For different things, too," Marcus sighed. "They're older and stuck in their ways, they fight me on a daily basis because my ideas are too 'radical' for their liking."

Harlow rolled her eyes, "I'm starting to feel like we need an age limit for how long people can stay on the board."

"I don't think that would go over well," Marcus shrugged. "As much as I would love for it to be set in place, they may claim the young people are going against the old people."

"Can't have that," Harlow laughed.

"You've got numbers to back up what you want to do, which matters most. Not to mention you're passionate about it. To hell with what the other board members want or the edits they want you to make, you don't have to follow along with them."

"Yeah, but that means pushing my name down their throat."

"So? You're a Finley, don't let them shame you for using that to your advantage. Your father taught me that the first day I shadowed him."

Harlow felt a smile form on her face at the mention of her father, he was never ashamed to take charge of their family name. He taught her how to use her voice, to take advantage of the place her name put her. Something never felt right about it — not in this kind of circumstance. It was one thing for her to use her name when hosting a charity gala, or when she spoke out against things happening in Gotham, but pushing her name down the throats of people to get what she wanted? It felt wrong, dirty, just like what everyone wanted to have in order to get ahead. Especially in Gotham, she was no stranger to the corruption that coursed through the veins of the city. Harlow went to respond again, her mouth falling open and then the doorbell rang. Her blue eyes glanced from the door to Margaret who was walking towards it, Harlow felt the words catch in her throat. The sight of the other board members, many of whom Harlow recognized from her father's time as president of the company and head of the board, only further pushed down the thoughts she had. She gave them all a smile, one she had perfected a long time ago. One that dazzled most people who didn't know her well enough to understand when her smiles were faked.

Like herding sheep, Margaret herded them all into the dining room so they could sit at the table and eat the breakfast. Harlow sat at the head of the table, watching as everyone else followed suit and sat at other points on the table. The smile had yet to fall off of her face while they walked through the room and sat down, she kept it on her until they all settled down and had food on their plates. Once they were all eating on the food prepared, Harlow decided it was time to start the meeting. She placed her coffee mug down on the table next to the glass of water Margaret placed for her, "I want to get this started by saying thank you all for coming here, I know this isn't normally where we have the board meetings so I appreciate you all coming out of your way to come here."

"Thank you for inviting us," One of the older board members, Harlow believed his name was Carter, responded. "It's been quite some time since we've stepped foot in your family home."

Harlow nodded in response, finding no words that she could use to respond instead, "Well, I'll hand this off to Marcus, but the quicker we can get out and get back to our other plans."

"Already itching to get us out the door, Miss Finley?"

Harlow felt her eye twitch at the use of the wrong title — it was one thing when Margaret called her by her name, she wanted that, but someone who worked for the company and was part of the board? It wasn't alright, she couldn't stand when it happened to her at galas or at company functions. Let alone at her own dinner table during a board meeting, a board meeting where everyone was reminded about her status and her degrees beforehand. Sharing a look with Marcus, Harlow spoke again, "It's doctor, actually. I'd appreciate if you use the right title for my name."

"I didn't mean any offense with that," The man began.

Harlow cut him off with a sickeningly sweet smile, "I'm sure you didn't sir, it's just complementary. You would have never done such a thing to Doctor Thomas Wayne when he was alive, correct?"

She knew it was a low blow bringing up his name, no one would dare argue her point, not when the Wayne's were brought up and used as an argument point. The man sat back in his seat, a sputtered breath leaving his lips, but nothing being said otherwise. Narrowing her eyes, Harlow listened as they talked through other things that a board meeting normally follows through: the budget (and where they may lose people or things to keep with it), new business ventures, ventures that failed in the last quarter. All of which were things that Harlow had read and seen before in the emails sent between the board members, these were nothing new to her. Up until her venture came into topic — she swore she could hear the ocean in her ears with how loud her heart was racing, the blood roared through her veins and came to it's place in her head. It had been a while since she felt that kind of stress. Stress was different in medicine, she wasn't out of her element there. She had done years of schooling and training to be there, to understand what they were talking about and learning. But here? Surrounded by a table of people who knew the ins and outs of how to run a business, people who spoke the language fluently meanwhile Harlow found herself at an impasse where she could barely understand the words that left their lips as they spoke.

"Doctor Finley," he spoke, enunciating the use of her earned title, "would you care to explain more about this project of yours?"

Harlow cleared her throat, "Right, well. All of the numbers and figures are in the papers, I figured that would be what matters most to you guys. But for a little backstory, I wanted to do something to help the people of Gotham. Not much unlike what the Wayne's, especially Doctor Wayne, were trying to do. Medicine and healthcare are practically inaccessible to most of Gotham and when they can get it, they can't afford it. They deserve quality healthcare, they deserve to be healthy and safe. We can talk all we want about helping the people of Gotham, trying to change the way of life, but no one can survive a good life if they're incapable of getting medical help. They can't be expected to hold down a job if they're constantly sick, which puts them at a higher risk of being caught on the streets again."

"It's a respectable feat, Doctor Finley, but let's be realistic here."

"You want to be realistic? Alright, fine. Let's talk about the countless times I've had repeat gunshot wounds come into my operating room. Let's talk about the fact that in just the past month, I've had to call thirty times death for different people, that's the realistic part of what Gotham is. We live in luxury, me more than anyone else here in this room, so believe me when I say this is necessary. This is needed, we need to give back to Gotham. They've given us everything that we have and we've spat on them and ignored them for long enough."

"Doctor Finley, your passion for this is admirable, but ..."

"There is no but! We as a company can afford this and overtime, we can benefit from it. If you cared to look into the paperwork, sir, you would see my plans for it. I know we can't shell out money for everything and not expect a way to bring it back in, I also know that no one other than myself and Marcus who grew up in the bowry understand just how bad Gotham is. The sheltering and divide that occurs between the people with money and the majority of Gotham that will never see what you bring home in a month over their entire lifetime."

Harlow felt herself lose her breath, her hand shakily falling onto the table after she spoke. The room was silent before another board member spoke again, "Would we have to fulfill the entire proposal right away? Or would we be able to start off in pieces, break it up over time."

"It wasn't my plan to have this be separate, we have the funds right now to make this entire thing real. To bring the entire plan alive, to give them healthcare that's affordable. Drugs that can help save them, ones that we are charging well above however much it costs to make, we can make that accessible for them. None of you have walked out on the streets of Gotham recently, you guys only know what they want you to know, you'd like to believe and follow along with the idea that Gotham is on the up and up. Homelessness has gone down, right?" She watched as they all nodded in response. "Sure, but it's on a technicality. Do you know how many of them are living in slums, in buildings that should never allow people in them. Buildings that should have been torn down years ago. Gotham City has built my family, built this business, they are everything that ruins in our veins. It's about damn time that we give up a little to help them, they need it and they deserve it."

"Doctor Finley, we don't have the funds."

"That's bullshit, you and I both know it," Harlow snapped. "I hate to do this, I really do. But last time I checked, my name is on sixty-two percent of the shares for the company, making me the largest owner. Do you know what that means?"

"Doctor Finley, I urge you to think this through."

"This has been thought through, I have worked my ass off for five years to get to this place, sir. I'm not going to sit back and have someone who doesn't know the extent of work that went into this tell me what I can and can't do with my own company. I may have declined to take over the company in the same respect as my father, but that's not what I wanted to do. Marcus is far better than I ever would have been at the job, and I commend him for it. Because I would have never been able to sit down and do it, I would have never been able to listen to this and hear the business ventures day in and day out. All I know is that this is something that matters to me, something that I need to see come to life."

Marcus let out a slight cough, diverting the attention back to him, "Well, I believe it's pretty clear, but your proposal has been approved Doctor Finley." That was enough to send the other board members filing out of the room, leaving Harlow in there with Marcus. Having only been a few years older than each other, Marcus was always someone that Harlow liked seeing in the business. It was nice, different to have someone close in age to her that worked there when she visited her father. He sighed, "So much for not using your name."

"I knew it was going to happen the minute they called me miss instead of doctor."

"Pulling the Wayne's into it was kind of," Marcus tilted his head.

"I'm the one who grew up around the Wayne's, am I not? I know the Gotham elite's like to argue that we shouldn't follow in their footsteps because Thomas nearly bankrupted Wayne enterprises combating poverty, but that's not what we should be focusing on."

"And I agree," Marcus stood up, walking over to place a hand on her shoulder. "There's a reason this is going to happen, you've worked your ass off to get it here. Let me take over now, I've got it from here. You've just gotta trust me."

Harlow rolled her eyes playfully, "Like I don't already."

"There's the Harlow I know and love," Marcus smiled. "I knew it was just a matter of time before you came back to us."

"Hey! Seven years worth of growth and yet I'm being told I'm the same person everyone remembers me as."

"Isn't that a good thing? It means despite everything that's happened, which saying a lot happened would be an understatement, you've never lost the things you cared the most about."

Harlow stayed silent, she knew there were parts of his statement that were lies. She had lost things she cared the most about and she wasn't going to get them back, no matter how much she wanted them back. Even just for a fleeting moment to say goodbye, she would give anything to see Bruce one more time. To hold him in her hands, to memorize the shade of blue that his eyes held, she would do anything for that chance again. She had lost plenty over the seven years, but she tried to not let the world see it. They didn't need to know that she had lost herself, that the world was seeing the fake smiles and mask worn by a woman who was a shell of who she once was. That Gotham City fell in love with a woman who was so burnt out, so tired of everything and everyone around her, over and over again. She didn't need to tell them that, didn't need to tell the city and the people who had just learned to love her again about how much she lost herself through a breakup. Most people would tell her to get over herself, to stop moping, and get back to normal.

Harlow Finley wasn't sure what normal was, not anymore. All she knew was that the world didn't look the same, and her future didn't feel as bright when she thought about it not having Bruce in it. Her years following his disappearance felt dull, and lifeless. Not much different from the color beige that people paint their walls in an effort to appeal to the masses. That was different from what she had come to know and love, Bruce was the one who painted her life with bright and beautiful colors. Colors of which she couldn't look at the same without him there.

And maybe that was something she needed to work on, or at least she needed to teach herself how to paint with all the colors she's been missing.

AUTHORS NOTE!

^ Bruce when he just goes full emo watching Harlow and Jonathan from far away (thats a lie he's not even here yet but I promise he will be when he gets there) (creeper Bruce just sitting there like ... uh ... that's my girl) (except she's not)

Anyways! let me know your thoughts with this new chapter ahhh!! I personally love this rewritten one so much 🤠🫡 it's literally one of my favorite things to reread rn 😭. Yuh, anyways, they're sexy. All three of them (Bruce, Harlow, and Jonathan, I have problems).