Chapter 107: Is he irreparably broken?
The late afternoon sun bled orange across the Bali sky, casting long, distorted shadows across the villa's terrace. Bruce sat slumped in a deep wicker chair, a half-empty bottle of Macallan 25 on the low glass table beside him, a tumbler clutched in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other. Thin trails of smoke curled upwards, vanishing into the heavy, humid air. Ten days. Ten days of this. The sharp lines of his jaw were blurred by stubble, his once-powerful frame seeming diminished beneath the loose linen shirt. His eyes, fixed on the distant, darkening jungle canopy, held no trace of their legendary hazel swirl. Just flat, unbroken grey ash. He lifted the tumbler, the ice long melted, and swallowed a large gulp of whiskey without flinching.
Inside, behind the floor-to-ceiling glass, the wives watched. A silent tableau of anguish. Camille stood closest to the glass, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her knuckles white. Ketut perched on the edge of a sofa, her gaze locked on Bruce’s profile, her face pale. Mystique leaned against a pillar, her stunning features etched with worry. Erika paced slowly, her long legs eating up the polished stone floor. Sophia sat beside Ketut, her sculpted body tense, her expressive eyes wide with helplessness. Lena stood slightly apart, near the open doorway to the terrace, her own gaze never leaving Bruce, the fading bruise on her cheekbone a stark reminder.
"He hasn't touched food," Camille finally said, her voice low and strained, breaking the suffocating silence. "Not a bite since... since she left. Just that fucking poison." She gestured vaguely towards the bottle outside. "I've tried everything, Ketut. Soft words, hard words, begging... I brought him his favorite sate lilit... cold. He doesn't even look at me. Doesn't answer. It's like shouting into a tomb."
Ketut flinched, her eyes never leaving Bruce. "The colors... Camille," she whispered, her voice trembling. "There's nothing. Just... grey. Ash. Like everything inside him burned out." She swallowed hard. "It's killing me, seeing him like this. How do we reach him? How do we show him he is enough? That he always was?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
Mystique pushed off the pillar, her voice a low rumble of frustration. "He built this whole fucking world. For us. For her. And she shattered it because she couldn't see it." She shook her head, her dark eyes blazing. "He needs to feel something besides this... this fucking void."
Erika stopped pacing, her startling blue eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. "We need to pull him back. Before he..." She couldn't finish the sentence. The image of Bruce standing on the cliff edge, the wind whipping his shirt, was seared into all their minds.
Camille turned, her gaze sweeping over them, landing finally on Lena. "Lena, that merger deal... the Tanaka acquisition. It was due today. There's no way..." She trailed off, the implication clear. Bruce, in this state, couldn't possibly have finalized the complex, multi-billion dollar agreement.
Lena didn't look away from Bruce. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but steady, carrying a fierce pride beneath the exhaustion. "I did it. All that time we spent wasn’t just us fucking. He was teaching me.” She finally turned her head, meeting Camille's eyes. "He taught me. Months ago. Showed me every step, every clause, every fucking negotiation tactic he uses. Said I had the sharpest mind for it." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, gone as quickly as it came. "I signed the documents as his authorized representative an hour ago. Sent the confirmation. Tanaka's team accepted."
A collective breath seemed to release in the room. Camille's shoulders slumped slightly, relief warring with deeper sorrow. "He taught you," she murmured, a flicker of the old Bruce surfacing in her memory – patient, proud, sharing his empire. "Of course he did."
Sophia spoke up, her Spanish accent soft but urgent. "That proves it, doesn't it? He trusted Lena. He knew she could handle it. He knew we could handle things. He built us strong." She looked towards the terrace, her voice dropping. "But how do we make him feel that strength? How do we drag him out of that grey?"
The silence after Sophia’s question thickened, broken only by the low thrum of the villa’s air conditioning and Bruce’s faint cough outside. Lena’s gaze remained fixed on his slumped form, the empty tumbler dangling from lax fingers. Her jaw tightened. How? The question echoed in the suffocating air. Before anyone could formulate an answer, the harsh electronic buzz of the gate intercom shattered the stillness, shockingly loud.
Camille jumped, her hand flying to her chest. "Who the hell...?" She moved towards the security panel near the entrance hall, Lena instinctively following, her protective instincts flaring. The others exchanged wary glances, tension snapping back into place. On the small screen, illuminated by the gate’s security light, stood a figure that made Camille suck in a sharp breath. Jasmine. Her face was pale, tear-streaked, eyes swollen and desperate. Her usually immaculate hair was tangled, her expensive silk blouse rumpled. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
"Let her speak," Lena said flatly, her voice devoid of warmth, eyes narrowed at the image on the screen. Camille hesitated, her expression conflicted, then pressed the intercom button. "Jasmine? What do you want?" Her voice was cold, clipped. Jasmine leaned closer to the camera, her voice crackling through the speaker, raw and urgent. "Open the gate. Please. Camille, Lena – I need to talk to you both. Now. It’s… immediate. Urgent. Please." The sheer desperation in her voice was undeniable. Lena met Camille’s eyes. A silent communication passed between them, forged in shared worry for the broken man on the terrace. Camille pressed the gate release.
They walked down the long, moonstone driveway in silence, the humid night air clinging to their skin. Jasmine stood just inside the now-open wrought iron gates, wringing her hands. She looked smaller, diminished, a far cry from the fiery woman who’d stormed out. As they approached, she took a shuddering breath, her eyes darting from Camille’s stony face to Lena’s, lingering on the fading bruise. "I’m not here to beg to be forgiven," Jasmine blurted out, her voice thick. "Or fight. Or ask for anything for myself. Fuck no." She swallowed hard, tears welling again. "I’m here for him. Because of what Lena told me."
Lena crossed her arms, her posture rigid, radiating icy fury. "What exactly did I tell you, Jaz? That you broke him?" Jasmine flinched as if struck. "Yes! And I fucking believed you! Because I saw it! I saw the deadness when I left, but I was too wrapped up in my own fucking hurt to realize..." Her voice cracked. "Lena… on the phone… you said he thinks it’s his fault. That he wasn’t enough. That he’s drowning." Tears streamed freely down her cheeks now. "He needs to know… needs to hear… it wasn’t his fault. None of it. It was mine. All mine."
Camille stared, her own anger momentarily eclipsed by shock at Jasmine’s raw admission. Jasmine pressed on, the words tumbling out in a desperate torrent. "I took everything he did – this villa, the trips, the way he fucking worshipped me – I took it all for granted! Like it was my fucking due! And then…" She looked directly at Lena, her expression agonized. "My jealousy… of you, Lena. Of what you have with him. That deep, easy connection. It fucking poisoned me. It poisoned us. I twisted his love, his generosity, into something ugly in my own head. I made it about lack, about him not giving me enough, when he gave me everything."
She took a step closer, her eyes pleading. "I need to fix this. I need to bring him back. For him. For all of you. You still need him. You need the Bruce who built this… this crazy, beautiful fucking world." Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. "He needs to come back to life. Because if I open a news feed one day and see ‘Reclusive Millionaire Commits Suicide’…" A violent sob racked her frame. "I’m going to fucking kill myself. I swear to god. The guilt… it would drown me."
She wiped savagely at her face. "So let me do this. Please. Let me try. For him. For you. If I can reach him… if I can pull him back from that fucking edge… I’ll leave. I’ll walk away and never come near any of you again. I promise. But he doesn’t deserve this torment. This… annihilation. And neither do any of you, living with his ghost." Her final words hung in the heavy air between them, a stark promise and a desperate plea wrapped in shared devastation. Camille and Lena stood frozen, the weight of Jasmine’s confession and suicidal ultimatum pressing down, the distant figure of Bruce on the terrace a silent, broken monument to the damage done. The path forward was terrifyingly unclear, paved with jagged edges of blame and a fragile, dangerous hope.
Camille’s eyes, dark with exhaustion and fury, locked onto Jasmine’s desperate face. Lena’s rigid posture radiated pure ice beside her. The silence stretched, thick with the jungle’s hum and Bruce’s faint cough from the terrace. Jasmine stood trembling, her tear-stained cheeks catching the fading light, looking utterly shattered. Finally, Camille gave a single, sharp nod. It wasn’t forgiveness; it was a grim calculation, a desperate gamble. "For him," Camille stated flatly, the words brittle. "Two minutes. Then you’re gone. Forever. Touch only to reach him, not yourself."
Lena didn’t nod. She didn’t speak. Her narrowed eyes, fixed on Jasmine, were consent enough – hard, unforgiving, but prioritizing Bruce’s shattered state over her own anger. Jasmine inhaled sharply, a ragged, grateful gasp. "Thank you," she choked out, then turned on unsteady legs, walking with jerky steps towards the terrace, towards the broken man silhouetted against the dying sun.
Bruce remained oblivious. The tumbler dangled precariously from his fingers, the cigarette burnt down to the filter between his knuckles, scorching skin he didn’t seem to feel. Jasmine stopped a few feet away, her shadow falling across his bare feet. "Bruce," she whispered, her voice cracking. He didn’t stir. The grey ash in his eyes didn't flicker. "Bruce, please." A little louder, infused with raw panic. Nothing. Just the dead stare, fixed on nothing. Jasmine sank to her knees on the cool stone beside his chair, her expensive trousers be damned. She reached out a trembling hand, but stopped inches from his arm, remembering Camille’s warning. "Bruce... God, please look at me. I need you to hear me."
His head turned, slow and mechanical, like rusted gears grinding. The grey eyes focused vaguely on her, through her, devoid of recognition or feeling. It was worse than contempt. It was absence. Jasmine flinched, a fresh wave of tears blinding her. "It wasn't you," she gasped, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "It was never you who wasn't enough. It was me. I was the poison. I twisted everything. Your love, your generosity… I turned it into some fucking deficit in my own sick head." Bruce’s gaze drifted away, back to the darkening jungle. The cigarette stub finally burned his fingers. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop it. Just let it sear.
"I was jealous!" Jasmine cried, her voice raw, scraping her throat. "Jealous of Lena! Jealous of how easy it was, how deep it went! I wanted that one thing, that core piece you have with her, and because I couldn't have that exact thing, I decided you gave me nothing! I was a fucking idiot! A selfish, destructive cunt!" She was sobbing now, leaning closer, her breath ghosting over his unresponsive face. "You built this whole fucking world! You loved me! And I threw it in your face like trash! I broke us! I broke you! Not because you weren't enough, but because I was too fucking broken to see what was right in front of me!"
A sound finally came from him. Not words. A low, guttural, utterly lifeless chuckle. It vibrated in his chest, devoid of humor, a dry rattle of despair. His lips twisted into something that wasn't a smile. Jasmine recoiled, horrified. "Please, Bruce! Please! Don't vanish! Come back!" She dared to touch his knee, just a feather-light press. "We need you. They need you. Camille, Lena... they’re drowning too, watching you fade. You have to fight! You have to come back to them!" His eyes, flat and grey, slid slowly back to hers, holding no spark, no response. The chuckle died, leaving only the suffocating silence and the burnt-meat smell of his own skin. Jasmine's hand fell away. Her shoulders slumped in utter defeat. She'd failed.
Lena moved then. She hadn't been watching Jasmine fail; she'd been watching Bruce. She saw the infinitesimal tremor in his hand holding the glass, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw when Jasmine mentioned her name. She crossed the terrace in three strides, her movements fluid and decisive. She didn’t look at Jasmine. She crouched down right in front of Bruce’s slumped figure, blocking his view of everything but her. Her dark eyes, fierce and unwavering, locked onto his dead ones.
"Enough," Lena stated, her voice quiet but razor-sharp, cutting through Jasmine's sobs. She gently, firmly, pried the smoldering cigarette stub from his burned fingers and crushed it out on the stone. She took the tumbler, its contents sloshing, and placed it firmly out of his reach on the table. Then, she took both his large, unresponsive hands in her smaller, strong ones. She leaned in close, so close her breath mingled with the whiskey fumes on his. "You listen to me, Bruce," she commanded, her voice dropping to an intense whisper that vibrated with absolute conviction. "You are our foundation. You are my rock. You built this family out of fucking love." She squeezed his hands hard. "What happened? It’s garbage. Jasmine’s garbage. Her jealousy? Trash. Her leaving? Good riddance to toxic trash." She saw the barest flicker, a microscopic fracture in the grey ash of his eyes. "But you? You are everything. You hear me?" She leaned even closer, her forehead almost touching his, her voice dropping to a fierce growl."You. Are. Fucking. Enough. For me. For Camille. For Ketut, Mystique, Erika, Sophia. Always." She held his gaze, pouring every ounce of her belief, her ferocious loyalty, into that stare. "Always, my love. Always."
The grey seemed to ripple. Just a tremor, deep within the ash. A hint of something buried beneath the crushing weight of despair. His fingers twitched weakly within hers. It wasn't life, not yet. But it was a fissure. A crack in the stone. Lena didn’t smile. She held on. Behind her, Jasmine watched, tears still flowing but silent now, witnessing a connection that had always been bedrock, a connection she had tried, and failed, to shatter.
The tension on the terrace was a living thing, thick and suffocating, even after Jasmine slipped away into the gathering darkness, her silhouette swallowed by the manicured path leading back to the gate. Camille emerged from the villa, her expression unreadable, Mystique and Erika flanking her like protective sentinels. Sophia and Ketut hovered near the doorway, their faces etched with worry. Bruce hadn't moved. He remained slumped in the chair, Lena still crouched before him, her hands clamped around his, her gaze locked onto his face, searching the grey ash for any sign of the swirling colors Ketut described. The crack Lena had sensed remained just that – a fragile fissure, not a breakthrough.
Mystique broke the silence. Her voice, usually a rich, confident rumble, was tight with controlled fury. "Alright. Enough of this passive fucking vigil." She strode forward, her tall, stunning frame radiating purpose. "He needs to feel something besides that fucking void. Something real. Something visceral." She stopped beside Lena and Bruce, looking down at him. "We all do." Her gaze swept over the other wives. "We need him. The real him. Not this ghost."
Camille understood instantly. A spark ignited in her own dark eyes, pushing back the exhaustion and sorrow. This was territory she knew. A language Bruce responded to, even if his conscious mind was lost. A language of pure, unfiltered sensation. "Yes," Camille breathed, the single word loaded with absolute agreement. She stepped forward, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder, feeling the tense muscle beneath the thin linen. "Bruce," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that vibrated with promise. "Look at me."
His head turned slowly, the grey eyes drifting towards her voice, still distant, still fractured. But he looked. Camille held his gaze, her other hand reaching down to the hem of her silk camisole. With deliberate slowness, she pulled it up and over her head, dropping it on the stone floor. Her small, perky breasts, tipped with dark, hard nipples from the charged atmosphere, were bared to the warm night air and his vacant stare. "See me, Bruce," she commanded softly. "Feel me."
Mystique didn't wait. She stepped behind his chair, her long fingers sliding into his hair, not gently. She gripped, pulling his head back firmly against her stomach, forcing his gaze upwards towards her own fierce beauty. "We're here, Bruce," Mystique growled, leaning down so her lips brushed his ear. "Your wives. Your life." Her other hand snaked around his chest, finding the buttons of his shirt. She ripped them open with a sharp tug, the fabric parting to reveal the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. "Feel this."
Lena, still crouched before him, moved her hands. She released his grip and slid her palms up his exposed thighs, pushing the loose linen pants apart. She didn't hesitate, didn't ask. Her fingers found the waistband of his boxers, hooked into them, and pulled them down. His thick cock, flaccid and heavy, spilled out into the humid air. Lena wrapped her hand around the base, feeling the cool, soft weight of him. "Feel this," she echoed Mystique, her voice rough with emotion. She leaned forward, her warm breath ghosting over his cockhead before her tongue snaked out, broad and wet, tracing the sensitive ridge. She licked him slowly, deliberately, a long, flat stroke from root to tip, tasting salt and skin.
Bruce gasped. A short, sharp intake of breath. It wasn't much, but it wasn't the dead silence. His eyes, locked on Camille’s exposed breasts, flickered. The grey seemed to swirl, a hint of muddy green surfacing deep within.
Camille smiled, a predatory, knowing curve of her lips. She reached behind her back, unclasping her bra, letting it fall. Then, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her flowing silk pants and pushed them down her thick legs, stepping out of them completely. Naked except for a tiny lace thong, she moved closer, her curvy body illuminated by the terrace lights. She placed a knee on the chair cushion beside his hip, then swung her other leg over him, straddling his lap. Her small breasts pressed against his bare chest. Her hand slid down between them, fingers finding Lena’s hand still wrapped around his cock. She guided Lena’s hand away, replacing it with her own, gripping him firmly. She was hot and wet against his thigh, the scent of her arousal mingling with the whiskey and night air.
"See what you do to me?" Camille breathed, grinding her soaking cunt against his thigh, leaving a slick trail. She squeezed his cock, feeling the faintest pulse of blood beneath her fingers, the first sign of reluctant life. "Feel how much I need you? How much we all need you?" She leaned down, capturing his lips in a fierce, demanding kiss. Not tender. Possessive. Hungry. Her tongue invaded his mouth, tasting the whiskey, claiming him.
Erika moved then. She approached Bruce's side, her long, pale limbs glowing in the low light. Her startling blue eyes were fixed on his face as Camille kissed him. Without a word, she lowered herself gracefully to her knees beside Lena. Her cool, elegant fingers joined Camille’s on his cock, stroking the thickening shaft with a slow, sinuous rhythm. "Come back, Bruce," she murmured, her Icelandic lilt soft but urgent. She dipped her head, her pale blonde hair falling forward like a curtain as she took the head of his cock into her mouth. Her lips stretched wide around his girth, her tongue swirling expertly around the sensitive crown, sucking gently.
Bruce groaned. A low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest and into Camille’s mouth. His hips twitched, a feeble attempt to push upwards into Erika’s hot mouth. The green in his eyes deepened, swirling with flecks of stubborn grey ash. Lena, watching his face, saw it. She rose from her crouch, her own need igniting. She didn't wait for invitation. She reached past Erika's bobbing head, her fingers finding Bruce's balls, rolling them gently in her palm, then tracing the sensitive skin behind them, pressing firmly.
Ketut, emboldened, stepped forward from the doorway, Sophia close behind. Ketut’s gaze was fixed on Bruce’s eyes. "Blue," she whispered, her voice trembling with hope. "I see... blue." She knelt beside Erika, her slim body pressing close. Her hand joined the tangle around his cock, her smaller fingers stroking alongside Erika’s, adding pressure. Sophia, radiating a fierce protectiveness, moved behind Bruce. She placed her strong hands on his shoulders, kneading the knotted muscles, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "We've got you, Bruce," she whispered, her Spanish accent thick. "Let go. Feel us. Come back to us."
Mystique, still holding his head back against her stomach, slid one hand down his chest, over taut muscle, her dark fingers finding one of Camille’s hard nipples. She pinched, not gently, making Camille gasp against Bruce’s lips. Mystique’s other hand snaked lower, dipping beneath Camille’s thong, finding her soaked cunt. "Ride him, Cami," Mystique commanded, her voice thick. "Make him feel it." She pushed two fingers deep inside Camille, curling them. Camille cried out, breaking the kiss, arching her back.
Camille’s eyes, dark with lust and tears, locked back onto Bruce’s. The green and blue were swirling now, fighting the grey, his pupils blown wide with shock and burgeoning arousal. His cock was fully hard in Erika and Ketut’s hands, thick and straining, veins pulsing. Pre-cum glistened on the tip where Erika’s mouth had been. Camille shifted her hips, her hand guiding the thick, blunt head of his cock to her drenched opening. She didn't ease onto him. She sank down hard, taking him in one deep, brutal stroke, her inner walls clenching instantly around his invading girth. "FUCK!" she screamed, the sudden stretch, the fullness, the friction, overwhelming. "BRUCE! FUCK! FEEL THAT?!"
He roared. A raw, animal sound ripped from his throat, primal and shattered. His eyes snapped wide, the blue and green flaring violently, momentarily obliterating the grey ash. His hips bucked upwards reflexively, driving himself impossibly deeper into Camille’s gripping heat. His hands, which had lain limp at his sides, surged upwards, grabbing Camille’s thick waist, fingers digging into her flesh, holding her impaled on him. The connection wasn't just physical; it was a desperate, grounding surge of sensation piercing the fog of despair.
Camille rode him with abandon, bouncing on his thick cock, her small breasts jiggling, her cries mingling with the wet slap of flesh. "YES! Oh god, YES! Feel me, Bruce! FUCK! Feel how tight I am for you! How much I fucking need this cock!" Mystique’s fingers worked relentlessly inside her, matching Camille’s rhythm. Erika and Ketut stroked the base of his cock, their hands slick with saliva and pre-cum. Sophia massaged his shoulders while Lena, kneeling beside Camille, reached around to pinch and roll Camille’s other nipple, her other hand sliding down to rub Camille's clit in tight circles.
Bruce was lost in the onslaught. Sensation detonated along every nerve – the intense pressure of Camille’s tight cunt milking his cock, Mystique's demanding fingers