The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched as his spouse perched on his lap, with their legs cross and slung over the side of his thigh. They were on a mission to test his limits, it seemed, their restless hands finding every possible object of irritation: his tie, the delicate cuffs of his sleeves, even his meticulously groomed hair. Each touch was like a deliberate jab aimed at unraveling his patience thread by thread.

Bruce kept his gaze fixed elsewhere, refusing to dignify their antics with direct eye contact. He wasn't about to grant them the satisfaction of seeing it writ large on his face.

They could probably glean from the crease in his brow, or the way his lips pulled into a thin line. 'Brucie' was waning, and at his own party, no less.

But then they struck his last nerve, cooing some ludicrous pet name in front of a crucial shareholder, and Bruce's forced smile faltered. Once the man had sauntered away, Bruce decided he'd had enough of playing the passive recipient of their torment.

In a swift move, Bruce's fingers delicately clasped their face, a gesture both firm and surprisingly gentle. Leaning in close, their faces almost touching, he let his voice drop to a low whisper, laden with a hint of mischief.

"How much longer do you intend to carry on with this charade, my dear?" His words were laced with a subtle challenge, a veiled warning. "Because if you think you're the only one who can play games, you're sorely mistaken. And I don't play fair."