Page 37 of Orc'd At A Wedding
His jaw is set, his expression unreadable, and I wonder what he's thinking. Is he counting down the hours too? Is he regretting what happened in the restroom? Is he already planning his exit strategy for when the contract expires and he can finally escape my disaster of a family?
"Stop," he whispers, not looking at me.
"Stop what?"
"Spiraling. I can feel you overthinking from here."
I huff out a breath.
"I'm not spiraling."
"Bliss."
"Fine. I'm spiraling a little. But I have excellent reasons."
He squeezes my hand gently.
"We'll talk after," he says, his voice low and steady. "I promise. But right now, I need you to breathe and trust me."
Trust him.
Such a simple request. Such an impossibly complicated concept for someone who spent the last two years learning that trusting people—especially men who seem too good to be true, is a guaranteed path to disappointment.
But when I look up at him, when I see the absolute certainty in his expression, and I’m able to let air back in my lungs.
"Okay," I whisper.
The music shifts, signaling the start of the processional, and everyone rises to their feet. I stand automatically, still holding Olog's hand like it's the only thing tethering me to reality.
The bridal party begins their choreographed walk down the aisle, bridesmaids in blush pink, groomsmen in charcoal gray, everyone moving with the kind of practiced precision that suggests multiple rehearsals and possibly threats from the wedding coordinator.
Then Anastasia appears, resplendent in a gown that probably required its own zip code for transportation, and the crowd collectively inhales.
She does look beautiful. I can admit that objectively, even though she once told the entire family at Thanksgiving that my career in nonprofit communications was "cute" in a tone that made it clear she thought it was anything but.
The ceremony itself is mercifully short. Traditional vows, a reading from Corinthians that my mother sobs through dramatically, and then the officiant is pronouncing them married and everyone is clapping.
Olog claps politely, his expression professionally pleasant, and I'm suddenly struck by how surreal this entire situation is.
I brought a rented Orc to my cousin's wedding. I had sex with said rented Orc in a bathroom. And now we're sitting here pretending to be a normal couple while a literal countdown timer ticks away the hours until our arrangement expires.
My life has become a rom-com written by someone on an experimental hallucinogen.
The recessional music starts, and the happy couple sweeps back down the aisle in a shower of rose petals that someone's going to have to clean up later. The wedding coordinator immediately starts directing guests toward the cocktail hour on the terrace while they reset the space for the reception.
Olog rises smoothly, offering me his hand.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
We join the flow of guests making their way toward the terrace, where I can already see elaborately decorated tables laden with enough appetizers to feed a small nation.
My mother intercepts us before we make it ten feet.
"Bliss! Darling!" She kisses the air beside both my cheeks, her perfume overwhelming. "Wasn't that just beautiful? I cried through the entire ceremony."
"We noticed," I say, trying to sound affectionate rather than exasperated.
