Chapter 60: Ketut reads the Truth
The silence in the open-air living pavilion was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the distant sigh of the sea and the frantic chirping of geckos hidden in the rafters. Ketut’s words, spoken with the quiet certainty of someone who knew, hung in the humid air.
"Thirty years?" Bruce finally rasped, his voice rough. He stared past the frangipani trees framing the infinity pool, his swirling hazel eyes – currently a turbulent mix of stormy blue and shocked gold – fixed on some unseen point over the darkening ocean. The kaleidoscope of emotions Ketut saw there – disbelief, a shard of pity, profound confusion – mirrored the tension coiling through his muscular frame. "She... dreamt? For thirty years?"
Camille moved first, her hand finding Bruce’s arm, a grounding touch. Her dark eyes, usually warm with shared secrets, were sharp, assessing. "Accidental job application, my ass," she muttered, low and fierce. "She hunted you down, Bruce. Like prey." The scent of her jasmine perfume, usually comforting, now felt cloying against the heavier scent of night-blooming flowers.
Lena snorted, crossing her arms under her small, perky breasts. Her thick thighs flexed as she shifted her weight. "Predator got lost in her own trap, huh? Serves the bitch right." Her gaze flickered towards the secured door leading to where Rosa was being held. "Threatened us, tried to mess with our family... and now she wants mercy? Because she’s been pining? Please."
Jasmine, leaning against a teak pillar, tilted her head. The moonlight caught the green fire in her eyes. Her incredible curves, showcased in a simple silk slip, seemed relaxed, but the tension radiated from her stillness. "Pining is one thing," she said, her voice a low purl. "Planning is another. Wayan said she came alone, clean. That takes guts. Or desperation." She pushed off the pillar, the movement fluid, predatory. "Let’s hear the sob story. See if the tears match the tune Ketut heard."
Erika, the newest addition, stood slightly apart, her startling blue eyes wide, absorbing the dynamics. Her pale skin seemed luminous in the dim light. "Thirty years is... a long time to hold onto one person," she murmured, her Icelandic accent softening the words. "It sounds... painful."
Ketut stepped closer to Bruce, her slim form almost vibrating with the intensity of the connection she maintained with him and the residual echoes from Rosa. "The dreaming," she whispered, placing a hand lightly on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "It wasn't just fantasies, sayang. It was... life. A whole life built around you in her head. Children. A home. She never let you go. When she saw you here, with all of us..." Ketut shuddered slightly. "It was like her world shattered. The reality didn't match the dream she’d lived in for decades. The threats... that was the shrapnel."
Bruce closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. The gold in his irises dimmed, replaced by a deeper, troubled green. Loyalty to his wives warred with the visceral weight of Ketut’s revelation – the sheer, desperate scale of Rosa’s fixation. The memory of their younger selves, fleeting and long buried, flickered unwanted: shared laughter, the scent of her hair, a connection severed abruptly decades ago. He hadn't dreamt of her. Not once. His life, his love, his everything stood around him now.
"Okay," he breathed, the word heavy. He looked at each of his wives – Camille’s fierce protectiveness, Lena’s simmering anger, Jasmine’s cool assessment, Ketut’s empathetic understanding, Erika’s quiet observation. They were his anchor, his present, his future. "Okay. Bring her in. Wayan stays." His voice firmed, the hazel in his eyes solidifying into a resolute blue-gold. "Lights on. Let’s see what thirty years of dreaming looks like."
Camille squeezed his arm. Lena muttered, "This oughta be good." Jasmine just watched, a slight, dangerous curve to her lips. Ketut nodded, her gaze never leaving Bruce, reading the shift in him – the hard edge beneath the pity.
Wayan, a silent, watchful shadow near the entrance, gave a curt nod and disappeared into the gloom. Moments later, he reappeared, guiding Rosa forward.
The woman who entered was a ghost of the sharp-tongued chef who had briefly infiltrated their lives. Gone was the brittle anger, the calculated malice. The woman before them was hollowed out. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, held a depth of exhaustion and raw, unfiltered despair that was almost shocking. Her skin was pale, stretched tight over high cheekbones, her posture slumped as if the weight of those thirty years pressed physically upon her. She wore simple, rumpled clothes – nothing like the crisp chef whites. She looked like she hadn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks.
She flinched as the full light of the pavilion hit her, her gaze darting nervously before locking onto Bruce. A choked sound escaped her lips.
"Bruce..." The single word was a broken whisper.
Lena let out a short, derisive laugh. "Wow. You clean up… interesting."
Camille shot Lena a silencing look, though her own expression remained hard. Jasmine watched like a hawk, her green eyes missing nothing. Erika looked genuinely taken aback by the woman's visible suffering. Ketut leaned slightly into Bruce, her hand still on his chest, a silent conduit.
Bruce didn't move. He simply looked at Rosa, taking in the devastation. The vibrant woman he’d known briefly, decades ago, was unrecognizable. What stood before him was pure, distilled obsession, worn thin and ragged. "Rosa," he acknowledged, his voice carefully neutral. "You asked to speak. To throw yourself at our mercy. After everything." He paused, letting the accusation hang. "Ketut tells us you dreamed."
A fresh wave of tears welled in Rosa's eyes. She trembled, wrapping her arms around herself. "You... you don't understand," she stammered, her voice thick. "It wasn't just dreaming. It was... breathing. Living. You were the air. Every man... every relationship... it was just... searching for you. A pale imitation. A placeholder." She looked around wildly at the five women surrounding Bruce, her gaze lingering on each with a mixture of awe and crushing defeat. "And then... Bali. A job. A whim, I thought. Fate, I hoped. And there you were. But not... not mine." Her voice cracked. "Never mine again. Just... watching. These... goddesses..." She gestured weakly towards the wives. "Sharing you... sharing themselves... with... with..." She couldn't seem to articulate the rest, her gaze dropping to the polished floor.
"With the big black cocks Bruce loves watching us take?" Jasmine supplied smoothly, her tone icy. "Yeah, we do that. Happily. For him. For us. You got a problem with the program, chef?"
Rosa flinched as if struck. "No! I... I just..." She looked back at Bruce, desperation flaring. "I thought seeing me... you'd remember. You'd feel it again. The way it was. The way it should have been. But you didn't even know me!" The last word was a wail. "You looked right through me. Like I was... staff. Like I was nothing!" Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. "The threats... the stupid messages... it was the scream of that 'nothing'. Trying to make you see. Make you hurt like I was hurting. I was... insane." She met Bruce's gaze, her own filled with a terrifying emptiness. "I know that now. I see what I am. What I threw away... what I never really had."
The silence stretched again, heavier than before. The only sound was Rosa's ragged breathing. Bruce felt Ketut's fingers press slightly against his chest; the colors swirling in his eyes were a tempestuous blend of pity, revulsion, and the iron resolve to protect his family.
"You tried to harm us, Rosa," Bruce said, his voice low but carrying clearly. "You threatened the people I love. The life I've built. There are consequences for that." The blue in his eyes hardened to glacial ice.
Rosa nodded frantically, tears streaming freely now. "I know. I know. I deserve prison. Or worse. Cast out. Ruined. I don't care anymore." She took a shuddering breath, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "But before you decide... before you have Wayan... 'put me out'..." She swallowed hard, her eyes locking onto Bruce's with an unsettling intensity. "Let me show you. Just once. Let me show you the dream. The life I carried. The children... your children... as I saw them. As I loved them. In my head, for thirty years. Please... Bruce. Let me give you that. Let me prove... prove it wasn't just malice. Prove it was... this broken, twisted... love. Then... do what you want with me."
She stood there, trembling, utterly exposed, offering the only thing she had left: the haunting, detailed fantasy world she’d inhabited for half her life. The request hung in the fragrant Balinese night, obscene and tragic, a raw nerve laid bare against the backdrop of the shimmering infinity pool and the vast, indifferent sea. The wives exchanged glances, a spectrum of reactions from hardened disbelief (Lena) to stunned silence (Erika) to calculating consideration (Jasmine, Camille). Ketut felt Bruce’s heart pound beneath her palm. The decision wasn't just about mercy; it was about stepping into the depths of a thirty-year delusion. The momentum shifted, poised on the edge of a profound, unsettling abyss.
A gecko chirped sharply from the bamboo rafters, shattering the heavy stillness that had settled after Rosa’s plea. The humid air clung, thick with frangipani and desperation. Bruce remained motionless, Ketut’s palm warm against his chest, her gaze locked onto the swirling tempest in his hazel eyes – deep green warring with icy blue flecks, gold sparks flaring briefly.
"Show me?" Bruce’s voice was low gravel, devoid of inflection. He didn’t move his gaze from Rosa’s shattered, tear-streaked face. "The dream?"
Lena exploded. "Oh hell no! Are you kidding me?" She jabbed a finger towards Rosa. "She tried to poison Camille’s favorite orchid! Sent those creepy-ass emails! Now she wants story time? Screw that!" Her booted foot tapped impatiently on the cool stone floor.
Camille’s hand tightened on Bruce’s arm. "It’s a manipulation, Bruce," she stated flatly, her dark eyes narrowed. "Pure theater. She sees we aren't kicking her off the cliff immediately. This is her Hail Mary." She glanced at Ketut. "What’s really swirling in that head besides sad fantasies?"
Ketut inhaled slowly, her slender frame leaning subtly closer to Bruce. Her focus intensified, peering deeper into the emotional kaleidoscope Rosa projected. "The dream… it is her reality," Ketut murmured, her voice barely audible above the distant surf. "Vivid. Detailed. Years of mornings, meals, arguments… a son with your eyes, Bruce. A daughter with her laugh. The ache… it’s bone-deep." A frown creased Ketut’s brow. "But underneath… a current. Sharper. Darker." She paused, concentrating. "Not just longing now. Panic. Like… she’s running out of time."
Jasmine uncrossed her arms, a predator uncoiling. She took two silent steps towards Rosa, her silk slip whispering. "Running out of time for what, Rosa?" Jasmine asked, her tone deceptively soft. Her green eyes held Rosa’s, unblinking. "Finish your puzzle. What’s the sharp thing Ketut feels?"
Rosa flinched, shrinking back from Jasmine’s imposing presence. Her trembling intensified. "N-nothing! Just… proving it wasn’t hate! Just… misplaced…" Her voice faltered.
"Mmmhmm," Jasmine hummed, unconvinced. She looked back at Bruce. "Let her talk. Let’s hear the bedtime story. Might be… enlightening." She flashed a quick, sharp grin at Lena. "Worst case, Wayan’s got her."
Erika stepped forward tentatively, her pale skin glowing faintly in the lantern light. "Thirty years is… unimaginable," she said softly, her Icelandic lilt gentle. She studied Rosa’s hollowed cheeks, the sheer exhaustion radiating from her. "To hold onto something that tightly… it must have broken her long before she found you. The threats… maybe that was the sound of the break." She looked at Bruce, her blue eyes wide and earnest. "Understanding isn’t forgiving. But maybe… closure?"
Bruce finally moved, lifting his hand to cover Ketut’s where it rested on his chest. He squeezed gently, seeking her anchor. He scanned the faces of his wives – Lena’s fierce scowl, Camille’s protective glare, Jasmine’s cool assessment, Ketut’s troubled insight, Erika’s unexpected compassion. His family. His world. The storm in his eyes calmed slightly, settling into a watchful, deep-sea green.
"Alright," Bruce breathed, the word hanging heavy. He locked eyes with Rosa again. "You get five minutes, Rosa. Describe this… life. The one you built without me." His voice hardened, the underlying steel undeniable. "And then Ketut tells us if it matches what she sees inside you. If she smells a lie…" He didn’t finish the threat, letting the silence speak louder than words. He gestured towards a low teak bench near the pool’s edge. "Sit."
Rosa stumbled forward, collapsing onto the bench like her legs gave out. She wiped fiercely at her eyes, smudging tears across her pale skin. She took several shuddering breaths, her gaze fixed not on Bruce, but on the shimmering expanse of the infinity pool reflecting the star-strewn sky.
"It started… after Barcelona," she began, her voice raw but steadier now, focused inward. "That stupid fight over the apartment lease… you walked out. Said you needed space." She gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "Space became thirty years." She closed her eyes. "But in my head… you came back. The next day. Apologetic. We got the apartment together." Her voice softened, took on a distant quality. "You were a trader. Successful, but not… not like this." She gestured vaguely at the luxurious villa. "We fought about money sometimes. Passionately." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Made up passionately."
Lena rolled her eyes dramatically. Camille remained stone-faced. Jasmine leaned a hip against a pillar, watching intently. Erika perched on the arm of a nearby chair, listening. Ketut stayed fused to Bruce’s side, her eyes half-closed, absorbing the emotional resonance.
"Our son," Rosa continued, the words spilling faster now, infused with a desperate, possessive warmth. "Mateo. Dark hair like mine, but your eyes… those impossible hazel eyes. Serious little boy. Loved building things. Legos, then models." Her hands sketched shapes in the air. "He’d sit on your lap while you worked at your desk… quiet, just watching." She swallowed. "Our daughter… Sofia. Fiery. My laugh, you always said. Your stubbornness." A real smile flickered. "She drove you crazy climbing everything. Trees. Furniture. Once, the neighbor’s garage roof."
Bruce stood immobile, a statue etched in moonlight. Ketut’s breath hitched slightly. "It’s… coherent," Ketut whispered near his ear. "Detailed textures. Smells – Mateo’s crayons, Sofia’s strawberry shampoo. Emotions… fierce love, frustration, pride." Her brow furrowed deeper. "But the panic… it’s spiking. Why now?"
Rosa’s voice cracked. "Sofia got sick," she rasped, the words thick with remembered terror. "Ten years ago. Leukemia. In the dream." Tears streamed freely again. "You were… a rock. Holding me up. Selling everything for treatments. Sitting by her bed night after night… reading Tolkien." She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "She beat it. She’s strong. Like you." She opened her eyes, staring directly at Bruce, pleading. "She’s graduating university next month. Architecture. Mateo’s an engineer. Married. A baby girl… your granddaughter." Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. "Allegra."
The name hung in the air. Jasmine’s predatory stillness intensified. Erika’s hand flew to her mouth. Lena looked momentarily shaken. Camille’s jaw tightened. Bruce felt a tremor run through him, quickly suppressed. The sheer, horrifying detail of the delusion was staggering.
Ketut gasped softly, her fingers digging slightly into Bruce’s shirt. Her eyes snapped open, wide with sudden, chilling realization. "It’s not just memory," she breathed, her voice tight with alarm. She looked up at Bruce, her dark eyes filled with dread. "It’s… prophecy. Or obsession twisted into it. She doesn’t just remember this dream-life… she believes she’s lived parts of it. Sofia’s graduation… Mateo’s child…" Ketut’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "She thinks… she thinks that future… is real. And being here… rejected… she thinks it’s destroying it. Erasing her children."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the geckos were still. Rosa stared at Ketut, a terrifying mix of confusion, defiance, and raw fear twisting her features. "They are real!" she hissed, her composure shattering. "They exist! You can't take them away! Allegra…!"
Bruce’s hazel eyes hardened into chips of glacial jade. The pity evaporated, replaced by cold, protective fury. The abyss wasn't just unsettling anymore; it had yawned wide, revealing the true depth of Rosa’s fractured reality – a delusion so profound it demanded action. His wives shifted subtly, instinctively closing ranks around him, their expressions hardening into masks of resolve. Wayan, a silent shadow near the door, tensed, ready. The shimmering Balinese night suddenly felt charged, dangerous, the air crackling with the imminent, irrevocable decision Bruce had known was coming. The momentum wasn't just shifting; it was plummeting.
The momentum wasn't just shifting; it was plummeting. Rosa’s shriek – "They are real!" – echoed off the villa’s high ceilings, raw and jagged, cutting through the humid night air thick with frangipani and panic. Her eyes, wide and desperate, darted between Ketut and Bruce, pleading for validation of a reality that existed only inside her fractured skull.
Bruce didn’t hesitate. The glacial jade in his eyes solidified. "Wayan." His voice was low, flat, a command stripped bare. "Now."
The Balinese security man moved like a shadow given form. He crossed the polished stone floor silently, his hand closing firmly but not cruelly around Rosa’s upper arm. She flailed, a trapped bird. "No! Allegra! Mateo! You can't!" Her voice cracked, dissolving into incoherent sobs, her body collapsing against Wayan’s strength. "He’ll erase them! Please, Bruce, don’t let him take my babies!"
Lena snorted, the sound harsh in the sudden quiet after Rosa’s outburst. "Jesus Christ. She’s completely bugfuck." She crossed her arms tighter, her thick legs planted firmly. "Glad that’s settled. Toss her in the sea, Wayan."
Camille watched Rosa being guided firmly towards the villa’s interior entrance, her expression unreadable. "Not the sea, Lena," she murmured, her voice tight. "Somewhere… contained. Somewhere she gets help. Or stays contained." She glanced at Bruce, seeking confirmation. "Right?"
Bruce exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to release some of the coiled tension in his shoulders. He kept his gaze fixed on Rosa’s retreating, crumpled form until she and Wayan disappeared into the gloom of the hallway. The frantic energy she’d brought dissipated, leaving behind a heavy, uneasy stillness. The chirping geckos cautiously resumed their chorus.
"Yeah," Bruce finally rasped, turning towards Camille. His hand found hers, squeezing tightly. "Contained. Help. Whatever it takes to keep her away." He looked around at his wives, his hazel eyes scanning each face – Lena’s simmering anger, Camille’s pragmatic concern, Jasmine’s watchful stillness, Ketut’s lingering distress, Erika’s wide-eyed shock. "You all okay?"
Ketut leaned heavily against him, her earlier vibrancy dimmed. "She believed it," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Every detail. The graduation… the baby… it was as real to her as this stone under my feet." She shuddered. "The panic… it was terror. Terror that we were destroying her world."
Jasmine pushed off the pillar she’d been leaning against. "Her world was built on sand," she stated coolly, walking towards the infinity pool’s edge. She stared out at the dark expanse of ocean, the pool lights casting shimmering reflections on her silk slip. "Threatening sandcastles." She turned back, her green eyes catching the light. "Still. Thirty years. That’s a long damn time to live in a dream."
Erika moved closer to the group, wrapping her arms around herself against a sudden, non-existent chill. "It’s… horrifying," she breathed, her Icelandic accent softening the harshness of the word. "To be trapped like that. Alone with ghosts." She looked at Bruce. "What happens to her now?"
Bruce ran a hand over his face, the weariness settling deep. "Wayan knows people," he said vaguely. "Discreet clinics. Secure facilities. Places where she can’t hurt anyone. Especially herself." Or us, hung unspoken in the air. He pulled Ketut closer, feeling the slight tremble in her slim frame. "It’s handled."
Lena uncrossed her arms, her posture relaxing marginally. "Good riddance," she muttered, though the usual fire in her voice was banked. She walked over to the wet bar tucked discreetly beside a towering monstera plant. "Anyone need a drink? Seriously. My nerves are shot." She grabbed a bottle of top-shelf tequila without waiting for an answer.
Camille managed a small, tight smile. "Make mine a double, Lena." She turned to Bruce, her dark eyes searching his. "You sure you’re alright? That was… intense."
Bruce met her gaze, the swirling colors in his eyes finally settling into a warmer, familiar green-gold – the shade Ketut associated with his deep, anchoring love for them. "I’m fine," he said, pulling Camille into the circle with Ketut. "Because you’re all here." He looked at Jasmine, still by the pool, and Erika, hovering nearby. "All of you. That’s what’s real."
Jasmine turned fully, a slow, deliberate movement. Her gaze swept over the group huddled together – Bruce holding Camille and Ketut, Lena pouring drinks, Erika watching with compassionate eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched Jasmine’s lips. Not quite a smile. More like… acknowledgment. She walked back towards them, her bare feet silent on the stone. "Real is good," she said, her voice low. She stopped just outside the tight circle, her incredible presence a palpable force. Her green eyes locked onto Bruce’s. "Real needs protecting."
She didn’t move closer, but her stance shifted subtly. Guarding. Watching the perimeter. The newest wife, the wild one, slotting instinctively into the unspoken formation protecting their core. The infinity pool reflected the stars and the silhouette of their fractured, resilient family against the vast, dark sea. The immediate threat was receding, hauled away into the villa's depths, but the night felt charged, fragile. Jasmine’s watchful stillness, Lena slamming tequila shots, Erika’s quiet empathy, Camille and Ketut pressed close to Bruce – they were the bulwark. The only reality that mattered. The silence stretched, thick with the aftermath and the unspoken question of what dawn would bring.