Chapter 105: Jasmines Out
The villa felt unnaturally quiet after the gym confrontation, the air thick with unspoken fault lines. Jasmine found Lena on the lower terrace by the infinity pool, the one overlooking the valley’s dizzying green expanse. Lena was perched on the edge, legs dangling over the crystal water, back rigid, staring out at the view as if it held answers. Her cheek, though not visibly marked yet, seemed to thrum with the memory of Jasmine’s verbal assault.
Jasmine approached slowly, the click of her sandals on the cool stone unnaturally loud. She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, not meeting Lena’s eyes. "Look," she started, her voice tight, lacking its usual confident lilt. "About… what I said. In the gym." She swallowed, the apology sticking in her throat. "Maybe it came out… harsher than I meant."
Lena didn’t turn. Her voice, when it came, was low and brittle, cutting through the humid air like shards of ice. "Harsher than you meant?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "Save it, Jaz. I’m not walking on eggshells because your fucking pride is bruised. Not anymore." Finally, she swiveled her head. Her dark eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or desire, were flat, hard chips of obsidian. "He does everything. Everything for us. Builds this fucking paradise. Worships the ground we walk on. Shares us with gods-know-who just because it turns him on. Would literally die for you. For any of us." Lena’s voice rose, trembling with a fury that mirrored Jasmine’s own, but colder, sharper. "And it’s still not enough for you, is it? You’re picking a fight with me, but we both know who you’re really pissed at. The man who’d bleed out for you without a second thought. Your husband, Jaz. You’re mad at Bruce."
The accusation landed like a physical blow. Jasmine flinched, the carefully constructed dam of her anger cracking. Denial surged, hot and defensive. "Shut up!" she snapped, stepping closer, her hand instinctively rising. "You don’t know shit about what I feel!"
"I know you hit the bag imagining it was me!" Lena shot back, standing so fast she almost overbalanced. She was inches from Jasmine now, her shorter frame radiating defiance. "I know you can’t stand that he enjoys talking stocks with me! That he finds my fucking company easy when his brain is fried! It’s pathetic, Jasmine! You’re fighting with a ghost because you’re too scared to tell him you need more!"
Something inside Jasmine shattered. The guilt, the shame, the fury at Lena for being right, the terror of confronting her own deeper insecurities – it coalesced into a white-hot spark. Before thought could catch up, her open hand flew.
CRACK!
The sound was obscenely loud in the serene setting. Lena’s head snapped violently to the side. A collective gasp echoed from the terrace above – Camille, Mystique, Erika, and Sophia, drawn by the escalating voices, frozen witnesses. Lena staggered back, one hand flying to her face. A thin trickle of bright red blood immediately welled beneath her nostrils, dripping onto the pale stone and the turquoise water below.
Bruce was already moving. He’d been crossing the upper terrace, drawn by the commotion, and saw the blow land. His usually swirling hazel eyes weren’t turbulent; they were arctic. Hard, flat chips of blue ice. He descended the steps to the pool terrace in three long, silent strides, moving with a terrifying, contained lethality.
Jasmine stared at her own hand, then at the blood on Lena’s face. Horror flooded her features, replacing the rage, turning her dark skin ashen. "Lena…? Oh God… Lena, I’m sorry, I didn’t—"
"Jaz." Bruce’s voice cut through her stammering, low, guttural, devoid of any inflection. It was the voice of absolute command, the voice that brooked no argument. He didn’t look at Lena yet, didn’t look at the blood. His entire focus was on Jasmine, pinning her where she stood.
Jasmine recoiled as if he’d struck her. Tears welled, spilling over. "Bruce, I—"
"Let. Go." The words were bitten off, sharp as shrapnel. He didn’t specify what she needed to let go of – her anger, her guilt, her place there in that moment.
"Bruce, please, I didn't mean..." Her voice broke.
"NOW!"
The single word cracked like a whip. Jasmine flinched violently. Her defiance, her fury, her very presence seemed to crumple under that command. She took a shaky step back, then another, tears streaming freely now, her gaze flicking between Bruce’s terrifying stillness and Lena’s bleeding face.
Bruce turned his head, finally looking at Lena. The ice in his eyes fractured for a microsecond, revealing a depth of pained fury that made the watching wives hold their breath. Ketut, ever perceptive, was already darting forward, pushing past the frozen tableau. She reached Lena just as the younger woman swayed, a sob catching in her throat, her legs buckling slightly. Ketut wrapped a slim arm around her waist, pulling her gently away from the pool’s edge, murmuring low, soothing Balinese words.
"Come, sayang, come with me," Ketut whispered, her voice a balm against the violence. She guided Lena towards the villa entrance, pulling a clean linen napkin from a nearby table, pressing it gently to Lena’s nose. Lena leaned into her, trembling, the blood stark against her tan skin and the white linen.
Bruce watched Ketut lead Lena inside, his jaw a granite ledge. Then his gaze swung back to Jasmine. He didn’t speak. He simply moved towards her, not touching her, but his presence was an inexorable force. Jasmine backed up instinctively, step for step, until they reached the steps leading back to the main villa level. He stopped. She stopped. He didn’t look at the other wives. He just gestured with his head, a silent, terrifying command: Move.
Jasmine, utterly broken, shoulders slumped, tears cutting tracks through the sweat and anger on her face, turned and stumbled up the steps. Bruce followed a pace behind, a silent, implacable shadow. He didn’t touch her, but the space between them crackled with his controlled rage. They moved past Camille, Mystique, Erika, Sophia – a silent procession of shame and fury. Camille’s calm facade was shattered, her eyes wide with shock and a dawning horror. Mystique watched Bruce, her expression unreadable but intense. Erika looked pale and sick. Sophia pressed a hand to her mouth.
Bruce walked Jasmine through the villa’s echoing silence, past the wide-eyed stares of Erika and Sophia frozen near the orchid display, past Mystique leaning rigidly against a carved wooden pillar. Jasmine’s pleas were a ragged counterpoint to his heavy footsteps on the polished teak floor. "Bruce, please," she choked out, stumbling slightly as they neated the ornate iron gate separating the main villa grounds from the winding jungle path leading down to the staff quarters and guest bungalows. "I'm so sorry, I lost control, I didn't—"
He stopped abruptly at the gate, turning to face her. His swirling hazel eyes were flat, devoid of their usual warmth, a terrifying stillness in their depths. "Violence," he stated, his voice low and gravelly, each word falling like a stone, "and disrespect towards your sister-wife, towards anyone under this roof... is not tolerated, Jasmine." He unlatched the heavy gate with a sharp metallic clang. "Get out. Now." He held it open, his gaze fixed on the dense foliage beyond, refusing to meet her tear-filled, pleading eyes.
"Don't do this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, Bruce. Where will I go?"
"Now!" The command cracked through the humid air, sharp and final. Jasmine flinched as if struck again. Defeat slumped her shoulders, draining the fierce vitality from her posture. With a shuddering sob, she stepped through the gate. Bruce slammed it shut behind her, the iron ringing with finality. He turned without a backward glance and strode away, disappearing swiftly into the labyrinth of frangipani trees and manicured pathways, swallowed by the lush green embrace of the compound.
Hours bled into the late afternoon. The villa remained unnervingly quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Ketut had cleaned Lena’s split lip and bruised cheekbone, applying a cool compress. Lena sat curled on a deep sofa in the main living area, trembling slightly despite the warmth, her eyes hollow. Mystique paced near the windows overlooking the valley, her brow furrowed. Erika and Sophia huddled together on another sofa, speaking in hushed, anxious tones. Camille moved with purpose, checking rooms, scanning terraces, her calm facade finally cracking into visible worry. She knelt before Lena, taking her bruised face gently in her hands. "Lena, my love," Camille murmured, her dark eyes searching Lena’s, "Can you take me? To the spot? The place you two hide out? We can’t find him anywhere."
Lena blinked, the request piercing her daze. She nodded, a small, shaky movement. "Yeah," she rasped, her voice raw. "Yeah, I know." She pushed herself up, wincing slightly. Camille offered a steadying arm, her touch firm and grounding. They slipped out a side door onto a narrow, hidden path overgrown with ferns and trailing bougainvillea, leaving the others watching their retreating backs with silent apprehension.
The path wound steeply down through dense jungle, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The roar of the surf grew louder, replacing the villa’s oppressive silence. They emerged onto a crescent of pristine white sand tucked into a secluded cove, shielded by towering black cliffs. Turquoise water lapped gently at the shore. Lena stopped abruptly, her breath catching. Camille followed her gaze.
Bruce sat submerged to his waist in the shallows, his back to them, facing the open ocean. The late sun glinted off the mostly empty bottle of amber bourbon clutched loosely in his hand, resting on his thigh beside the water. His broad shoulders, usually held with effortless power, were slumped. The rise and fall of his back was uneven. As Lena and Camille approached silently across the soft sand, they saw it: glistening tracks cutting through the salt spray and sweat on his cheeks. Tears. Freely flowing. Unchecked.
Camille stopped, her hand tightening instinctively on Lena’s arm. Bruce didn’t turn. He seemed unaware of their presence, lost in a private abyss. His eyes, when Lena cautiously moved around to see his profile, stared blankly at the horizon. The swirling green, blue, and gold was gone, replaced by a dull, flat emptiness. The vibrant intensity that usually drew them all in was extinguished, leaving only a terrifying void. Camille leaned close to Lena, her whisper barely audible over the sighing waves, thick with disbelief and dread. "Dios mío... Lena. I’ve never seen him like this."
Lena pulled away from Camille’s steadying hand and took the final steps across the sand alone. The water soaked her sandals instantly as she waded towards him. "Bruce?" Her voice was a rasp, raw from crying and the blow. He didn’t react, staring blankly at the horizon where the sun was beginning to bleed orange into the turquoise sea. The bourbon bottle glinted, nearly empty, clutched like an anchor in his massive hand resting on his wet thigh. The rise and fall of his shoulders wasn't the rhythm of breath; it was the shudder of suppressed sobs.
She knelt beside him in the shallow water, the coolness seeping through her thin sundress. "Bruce?" She reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched his bare shoulder. His skin was cold, damp with salt spray and sweat. He flinched, a tremor running through him. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned his head. Those mesmerizing hazel eyes, usually swirling galaxies of green, blue, and gold, were flat. Dull. Empty. Like storm-wracked glass. He blinked, focusing with immense effort.
His gaze landed on her face, on the darkening bruise blooming across her cheekbone, the faint trace of dried blood Ketut hadn’t entirely wiped away near her nostrils. A spark, a flicker of life, ignited deep within the emptiness. A faint wash of green bled into the grey-blue of his irises. "Lena?" His voice was shredded, unrecognizable. "My love…" He lifted a heavy, shaking hand towards her bruised face, stopping just short of touching it. "Are you… are you ok?" The words were thick, choked.
"It hurts a bit," Lena whispered, catching his hovering hand and pressing his palm gently against her uninjured cheek. His skin felt rough against hers. "But Ketut took care of me." She turned her head, nuzzling into his palm, kissing the calloused skin. "She cleaned it. Put something cool on it. I’m ok, Bruce. Really." She tried to infuse her voice with strength, but the tremor betrayed her.
He stared at her, tears welling again, spilling over and tracing paths down his stubbled cheeks, mingling with the saltwater. He looked at his hand on her face, then back at the bruise, the sight visibly gutting him anew. "I failed," he choked out, the words raw and jagged. "I’ve failed you all. I failed Jasmine." A harsh, humorless laugh tore from him. "Why? Why did I think I could take care of seven wives? What fucking arrogance." He pulled his hand back from her face as if burned, staring at the ocean again, not really seeing it. "Stupid.Pathetic. Ultimate hubris."
He wasn’t speaking to them anymore. The words tumbled out, low and broken, a torrent of self-flagellation directed at the indifferent sea. "What do I do now? Jasmine’s gone. Banished. By me." He squeezed his eyes shut, agony contorting his features. "She hit Lena? My fucking Lena?" The disbelief and fury resurfaced, twisting his voice. "She fucking hit her!" He slammed his fist down onto the surface of the water beside him, sending a spray upwards. "Jaz... I love you." The fury dissolved as quickly as it flared, replaced by a crushing wave of despair. His body convulsed, shoulders heaving. "But I’m just… not enough."
The dam broke. The mighty Bruce, the commanding presence who held their chaotic world together, the man whose will was law within the compound, crumpled. Great, wracking sobs tore from his chest, raw and guttural, shaking his entire frame. He dropped the bourbon bottle into the shallows, not caring as it bobbed away. He buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, his cries echoing off the black cliffs – a sound of utter, devastating ruin. Lena didn’t hesitate. She threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against his cold, wet back, burying her face in his shoulder, holding onto him as he shattered. "You are enough," she wept against his skin, her own tears hot on his salty shoulder. "You are, Bruce. We’re here. We’re all here." Camille, tears silently streaming down her own face now, waded out and knelt on his other side, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead against his temple, adding her silent strength to Lena's whispered pleas. They clung to him in the cooling water, anchors against the storm of his grief, the vast, indifferent ocean stretching endlessly before them.
The waves lapped cold around their knees, Bruce shuddering between Lena and Camille like a great felled tree. His sobs finally subsided to ragged, wet gasps, the sound raw and desolate against the rhythmic sigh of the sea. "Can't... breathe," he rasped, his head hanging low, seawater dripping from his chin onto the surface below.
"Shh, mi vida, shh," Camille murmured, pressing closer, her arms tightening around his waist. Her voice, usually so controlled, trembled. "Lena, help me. We need to get him up." Together, they hauled his immense, waterlogged weight. Bruce stumbled, his legs unsteady, his eyes vacant pools reflecting the dying light. He moved like a ghost, allowing them to guide him out of the surf and onto the cool sand.
"Camille! Lena!" Mystique's voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the twilight. She stood at the jungle path entrance, Erika, Sophia, and Ketut close behind, their faces pale masks of worry in the fading light. They must have followed the trail down. Seeing Bruce's slumped, broken form, Mystique surged forward, her long legs eating up the sand. "Jesus, Bruce." She slid under one of his arms, taking his weight from Lena. Erika rushed to his other side.
"His eyes," Ketut whispered, frozen a few steps away. She stared, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, Bruce... they're... empty." The swirling, captivating colors were utterly extinguished, replaced by a flat, dull grey, like ash. The vibrant man who commanded rooms, who devoured life, was hollowed out. All the wives stared, a collective intake of breath sharp in the salt air. This was the man who’d face down armies for them, kill without hesitation. Broken because Jasmine hadn't thought he was enough.
"Home," Camille commanded, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual steel, though tears still tracked through her makeup. "Now." They half-carried, half-dragged him up the steep, winding path, his feet scraping on the stones. He offered no resistance, just the awful, rhythmic hitch of his breath. The villa lights glowed ahead, a stark contrast to the consuming dark of the jungle and the desolation clinging to him.
Inside the cavernous master bathroom, steamy air already swirling from the pre-run shower, they eased him down onto the marble bench. "Clothes off," Camille ordered softly, her fingers already working on the buttons of his soaked linen shirt. Mystique knelt, wrestling with the laces of his water-heavy boat shoes. Lena peeled his clinging shirt off his shoulders, revealing the sculpted muscle now slack under damp skin. Erika and Sophia gently worked his shorts and boxers down his legs. Ketut stood back, clutching towels, her dark eyes wide and sorrowful, still fixed on Bruce’s unnervingly blank stare.
"Bruce, look at me," Camille said, cupping his face. He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting towards her voice but not truly focusing. "We need to get you clean, amor. Into the shower." He didn't move. Mystique and Erika lifted him under his arms again, guiding his naked, unresisting body into the huge, open rainfall shower. Hot water cascaded over them all instantly, soaking their clothes, plastering Camille’s dark hair to her face. She didn't flinch. "Lena, soap."
Lena grabbed a bar of sandalwood soap, her hands trembling as she lathered it. She started on his broad back, the muscles knotted with tension even in his stupor. The warm water sluiced dirt and salt from his skin. Camille moved to his front, her small hands gentle but firm as she washed his chest, his shoulders, the strong column of his throat. "I failed her," Bruce choked out suddenly, his voice a wrecked echo under the drumming water. He flinched as Camille’s soapy hand brushed near the bruise on Lena’s cheek visible just beside him. "Look what she did... because of me." A sob tore from him, raw and guttural. "I wasn't enough for her. Not strong enough. Didn't give her... enough."
"Shut up, Bruce," Mystique growled, her voice thick with emotion. She grabbed a sponge, scrubbing fiercely at his arm as if she could scour away his pain. "You give everything. Everything." Water streamed down her face, indistinguishable from tears. "That bitch made her choice. A violent, fucking stupid choice."
"Don't," Camille warned softly, but her eyes held the same fire. She tilted Bruce’s face up into the spray, washing away the tear tracks, the salt, the bourbon stink. "You are the heart of this family. Our strength." She kissed his wet forehead. "This is not your failure. It’s hers. Her weakness." He closed his eyes, fresh tears mixing with the shower spray. "Not... enough..." he whispered again, the mantra of his breaking.
Ketut, unable to bear the distance, stepped into the shower fully clothed, pressing a soft washcloth gently to Bruce’s stubbled jaw. Sophia began washing his legs with slow, soothing strokes. They worked silently around him, a ritual of cleansing, of reclamation. Erika poured shampoo into her hands, massaging it into his hair, her fingers working his scalp with surprising tenderness. The steam thickened, wrapping them in a cocoon of shared grief and unwavering presence. Slowly, methodically, they washed the sea, the sand, the evidence of his collapse from his skin. They washed, and he wept, his body shuddering under their ministrations, the words "not enough" a broken murmur lost in the water’s roar.
Finally, the water ran clear. They turned it off. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and Bruce’s fractured breathing. Ketut and Sophia wrapped thick, soft towels around him, patting him dry with infinite care while Camille, Lena, Mystique, and Erika quickly stripped off their own soaked clothes, grabbing towels for themselves. They moved him, still pliant, into the dim coolness of the vast bedroom.
The massive bed, draped in white linen, seemed to swallow him as they lowered him onto it. He lay on his back, staring at the high ceiling, the awful emptiness back in his eyes. Without a word, Camille crawled onto the bed beside him, stretching out along his left side, her curvy frame pressing flush against him, one small hand resting over his heart. Lena mirrored her on his right, nestling her head carefully on his shoulder, avoiding her bruised cheek, her leg hooking over his thigh. Mystique lay beside Lena, her long arm reaching across Bruce’s chest to tangle fingers with Camille. Erika curled against Mystique’s back, her pale skin glowing in the low light. Sophia settled at the foot of the bed, resting her head near Bruce’s calf, one hand on his ankle. Ketut, the last, slipped in beside Camille, her slim body fitting perfectly, her hand resting lightly on his stomach.
A living blanket. A fortress of flesh and devotion. Seven points of contact, radiating warmth. Lena kissed the damp skin of his shoulder. Camille pressed her lips to his bicep. Myst