Page 21 of Orc'd At A Wedding
I feel miserable.
When I step out of the bathroom, Olog is already dressed, standing by the window in a charcoal suit that fits him so perfectly it borders on obscene. He turns when he hears me, his eyes sweeping over me in a quick, assessing glance before he nods once.
"You look appropriate for the event," he says.
Appropriate.
Not beautiful. Not stunning. Appropriate.
I force a smile. "Thanks. You too."
He inclines his head, his expression neutral, and gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"
The rehearsal dinneris being held in a private garden terrace overlooking the ocean, strung with delicate lights and decorated with enough white roses to supply a royal wedding. The guests are already gathering, champagne flutes in hand, their laughter carrying on the warm evening air.
I take a deep breath and let Olog guide me down the stone path, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back in a gesture that looks possessive and protective and feels like absolutely nothing.
My Aunt Susan spots us immediately and waves, her smile sharp.
I wave back, my own smile just as sharp, and brace myself for round two of invasive questioning.
But before Susan can corner us, my cousin—the bride—intercepts, pulling me into a perfume-drenched hug and gushing about how happy she is that I could make it. She's radiant, glowing, utterly in love, and I paste on my brightest smile and tell her she looks beautiful because she does, and because it's not her fault that her happiness makes me feel like I'm drowning.
Olog stands beside me, silent and immovable, his presence drawing stares from every corner of the terrace.
The bride's eyes flick to him, widen slightly, and then she leans in and whispers, "Bliss, oh my God, you didn't tell me he was?—"
"Huge?" I supply.
She laughs, delighted. "I was going to say gorgeous, but yes, also huge. Where did you find him?"
"Mutual friends," I lie smoothly, the story we agreed on. "We've been together for a few months."
She beams at me, squeezes my hand, and then floats off to greet another guest, leaving me alone with Olog and the growing, uncomfortable silence between us.
I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server and take a long sip.
This is going to be a very long night.
Dinner is a multi-course affair,each plate more elaborately garnished than the last, served on tables draped in white linen and set with crystal and silver. I'm seated between Olog and a distant cousin I barely know, which should be a relief except Olog's continued silence is louder than any conversation.
He's playing the part perfectly, of course.
He pulls out my chair. He refills my water glass. He leans in when I speak and nods at appropriate intervals, his body language screaming attentive boyfriend.
But there's no warmth in it.
No humor.
No trace of the dry, deadpan charm that made me laugh last night or the fierce protectiveness that made my heart skip when he removed my ex's hand from my wrist.
He's a flawless, empty performance, and I hate it.
I pick at my food, barely tasting it, and drain my champagne faster than I should.
Across the table, my ex and his fiancée are holding hands, whispering to each other, looking every bit the perfect couple. She's stunning, blonde and polished and wearing a dress that probably costs more than my rent, and every time she laughs at something he says, I feel the knife twist a little deeper.
I reach for my champagne again and realize the glass is empty.
