Page 36 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Ready to face the firing squad?"
She loops her hand through my elbow, squaring her shoulders.
"With you? Absolutely."
We move the bench away from the door, unlock the deadbolt, and step back into the hallway just as a harried-looking wedding coordinator rushes past.
"There you are!" she gasps, clutching her clipboard. "We've been looking everywhere! The processional starts in five minutes—everyone needs to line up immediately!"
Bliss squeezes my arm.
"Show time," she murmurs.
I cover her hand with mine.
"Let's go win you a breakup."
CHAPTER 11
BLISS
Iswipe the notification away with trembling fingers, watching the little reminder disappear from my screen like it never existed.
Twelve hours.
The numbers burn themselves into my brain, a countdown timer I can't ignore no matter how hard I try to focus on anything else.
Twelve hours until the contract expires. Twelve hours until I find out if everything that just happened in that restroom was real or if I'm the world's most pathetic, delusional client who confused exceptional customer service with genuine affection.
"Bliss?" Olog's voice is low and concerned. "Are you alright?"
I paste on my brightest, most convincing smile—the one I've perfected over years of family gatherings where I've had to pretend everything is fine.
"Absolutely. Just wedding jitters. You know how it is."
His silver eyes narrow slightly, and I can tell he doesn't believe me for a second, but the wedding coordinator is already herding us toward the ceremony space with the manic efficiency of someone who has seventeen tasks on her clipboard and exactly four minutes to complete them all.
The outdoor venue is, predictably, stunning. White chairs arranged in perfect rows on manicured lawn, an elaborate floral arch dripping with roses that probably cost more than my rent, and a string quartet playing something classical and vaguely emotional.
My cousin Anastasia has spared absolutely no expense, which is deeply unsurprising considering she spent the last six months sending the family group chat updates about centerpiece options like she was negotiating international peace treaties.
Olog and I are directed to our seats—thankfully not in the front row where my mother is already dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief despite the ceremony not having started yet.
We're in the fourth row, close enough to be appropriately attentive but far enough back that I can breathe without my Aunt Susan leaning over to whisper pointed commentary about my life choices.
Olog settles into the chair beside me, and the delicate white furniture creaks ominously under his weight. He glances down at it with mild concern.
"These chairs were not designed with structural integrity in mind," he murmurs.
I bite back a laugh.
"Welcome to luxury weddings. Everything is beautiful and nothing is practical."
He shifts carefully, testing the chair's limits, then apparently decides it will hold and relaxes fractionally. His hand finds mine on the armrest, his massive fingers threading through mine with devastating gentleness.
The warmth of his palm against mine sends a flutter through my chest that has absolutely nothing to do with fake dating and everything to do with the fact that twenty minutes ago this manhad me pinned against a bathroom counter telling me he was falling for me.
I glance up at him, studying his profile. He's watching the ceremony space with that same focused intensity he brings to everything, like he's mentally cataloging exits and potential threats even at a wedding.
