Page 22 of Orc'd At A Wedding
Olog refills it without a word.
"Thanks," I mutter.
He nods.
I'm about to say something, anything, to break the terrible, suffocating silence when my ex's fiancée stands, smoothing her dress, and starts to make her way around the table.
She's smiling.
It's not a friendly smile.
She weaves through the other guests, champagne glass in hand, her heels clicking on the stone terrace, and she approaches with the kind of creeping dread that tells me something bad is about to happen.
She stops beside my chair, her smile widening.
"Bliss, hi! I don't think we've officially met. I'm Charlotte."
I force a smile. "Hi, Charlotte. Congratulations."
"Thank you!" She beams, and then her heel catches on the terrace stone.
She stumbles.
Her arm swings out.
And a full glass of red wine arcs through the air and splashes directly across the front of my pale silk dress.
I gasp, the cold liquid soaking through the fabric instantly, staining the ivory silk a deep, spreading crimson.
Charlotte claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with exaggerated horror. "Oh, Bliss, I am so sorry! I'm so clumsy!"
The terrace goes silent.
Every single person is staring.
I look down at my dress, at the wine dripping onto my lap, at the ruins of the outfit I spent two hours perfecting, and something inside me just... breaks.
CHAPTER 8
OLOG
Imove on pure instinct.
One second, I'm sitting rigid and controlled beside Bliss, maintaining the professional distance I've forced between us all day. The next, I'm on my feet, my body angled directly in front of hers, intercepting the full trajectory of the wine as it arcs through the air.
The cold liquid hits my chest with enough force to splash, soaking through my pristine white dress shirt in an instant. The fabric clings to my skin, the red wine spreading across the expensive cotton like blood, but Bliss stays dry behind me, protected by the sheer width of my shoulders.
The terrace is silent.
Charlotte stands frozen, her empty wine glass dangling from her fingers, her mouth open in shock. She wasn't expecting me to move. She wasn't expecting anyone to move. The stumble was deliberate, the angle too perfect, the timing too calculated.
I saw it the moment her heel shifted.
I lock my eyes on hers, and I don't blink.
My expression doesn't shift. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. I let the full weight of my presence settle over her, thekind of cold, predatory focus that makes prey animals freeze mid-step, and I watch the color drain from her face.
Her bottom lip trembles.
