Page 1 of Orc'd At A Wedding
CHAPTER 1
BLISS
I'm going to throw up in a very expensive sink.
The bathroom mirror doesn't lie, which is deeply unfortunate because right now I look like I've been personally victimized by the concept of family obligation. My carefully applied mascara has migrated south thanks to the humid panic sweating I've been doing for the last twenty minutes, and there's a concerning lipstick smudge on my front tooth that I'm just now noticing. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I grip the marble countertop, real marble, because my cousin Anastasia wouldn't dream of getting married anywhere that didn't require a small business loan just to attend, and breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Try not to think about how the jasmine perfume I sprayed on three hours ago has now congealed with my stress sweat into something that smells like expensive regret.
My phone sits on the counter next to a basket of rolled hand towels that are somehow both pristine white and completely intimidating. The screen glows with that horrible countdown timer I set.
31 minutes until pre-wedding cocktail hour.
31 minutes until I have to walk into that dining room and prove to my entire extended family that I am not, in fact, a romantic disaster who got dumped six months ago and has been subsisting entirely on takeout and spite.
I grab my phone and open the app again, even though I've checked it approximately four hundred times since I booked this absolutely unhinged solution to my problems. The profile is still there. Still real. Still my last desperate chance at winning the breakup.
Olog G.
Service: Professional Plus-One
Rating: (287 reviews)
Specialties: Formal Events, Family Functions, Intimidation
The profile picture is basically useless—just a dark silhouette that could be anyone from a retired bouncer to a very large shadow. But those reviews. God, those reviews are magnificent.
"Olog made my sister's wedding bearable. 10/10 would fake date again."
"Showed up on time, remembered my fake backstory perfectly, and made my ex-boyfriend cry. Flawless service."
"I hired him to intimidate my judgmental parents. They now ask about him every week. Send help."
I'd laughed when I first read them, sitting on my couch in my apartment three weeks ago, rage-scrolling through my cousin's engagement photos while eating ice cream directly from the container. The idea had seemed absurd. Hiring someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a weekend. Paying actual money to manufacture a relationship impressive enough to shut down my Aunt Susan's passive-aggressive commentary about my biological clock.
But then Anastasia's wedding invitation arrived, cream cardstock so thick it could double as body armor, printed with gold leaf that probably cost more than my car payment, andsuddenly the idea didn't seem absurd at all. It seemed like survival.
I check the app again. The little location dot shows he's close. Very close. The estimated arrival time has ticked down to "arriving now," which means I need to stop hiding in this bathroom like a coward and actually go meet the man I've hired to convince my family I'm not dying alone.
The man I've literally never seen a clear picture of.
The man whose profile lists "intimidation" as a specialty, which should probably concern me more than it does.
I fix my lipstick, wipe the smudge off my tooth, and try to fluff some life back into my hair. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks like she's about to commit a crime, which feels appropriate given I'm essentially committing fraud against my entire family tree.
The silk dress I'm wearing, navy blue, tasteful, hideously expensive—fits perfectly, which means it's absolutely going to betray me the second I start sweating through the fabric from sheer social anxiety. My heels are tall enough to make my calves look good and high enough to guarantee I'll twist an ankle before Sunday.
I shove my phone into my tiny designer purse, the one I bought specifically for this wedding because Anastasia's save-the-date included a passive-aggressive note about the dress code being "elevated resort formal," which apparently means I can't bring my normal purse because it has a visible coffee stain on the bottom.
One more deep breath. One more moment of preparation.
I can do this. I've survived worse. I've survived my last performance review at work. I've survived that time I accidentally replied-all to a company email with a rant about the coffee machine. I can survive two days of my family if I have the right backup.
I push open the bathroom door and step into the lobby.
The space hits me immediately with that specific kind of wealthy-person-resort energy that makes my bank account weep. Vaulted ceilings. Enormous windows overlooking the coast. Furniture that looks like it was designed by someone who hates the concept of comfort but loves the aesthetic of "vaguely Scandinavian suffering." There are roughly six hundred white orchids scattered throughout the space in arrangements that probably cost more than my college tuition.
And standing near the raw bar, because of course there's a raw bar at two in the afternoon, is Brandon.
