Page 79 of Orc'd At A Wedding
Another pause, longer this time.
Her mother's voice rises enough that I catch fragments through the speaker, tinny and sharp.
Family obligation. Embarrassing. Unacceptable.
Bliss closes her eyes.
"Mom, I'm twenty-eight years old. I'm allowed to spend the holidays however I want."
More shrill commentary from the phone.
Her fist tightens against me.
Her face cycles through three separate expressions in the span of four seconds, frustration, resignation, something that looks dangerously close to old grief, and my jaw tightens in response.
The binder has a full section on this.
I wrote it two months ago.
Scenario 14B: Maternal pressure campaign. Recommended response: physical proximity, non-verbal affirmation, tactical de-escalation. Do not intervene unless Bliss explicitly requests extraction.
I had added a footnote.
Exception: if she cries. Then all protocols are suspended.
"No, bringing Olog is not up for discussion," Bliss says, her voice hardening into something that sounds like armour but has cracks running through every syllable. "If he's not welcome, then I'm not coming. It's that simple."
A long, tense silence.
I can hear her mother breathing.
Then her mother says something in a low, deliberate voice that I cannot entirely make out, but I catch enough of it—your father's money, the trust, don't be naive, Bliss—and every drop of colour leaves Bliss's face like a tide going out.
Her lips part.
"That's not fair," she whispers.
Her voice has gone very small. The armour isn't cracked anymore. It's gone entirely. She sounds exactly like the woman who climbed into a rideshare with a fake binder and a desperate plan and whisperedplease just make them think I'm okaybefore we'd even reached the motorway.
I take the phone from her hand.
Bliss's mother sputters.
"Bliss will attend your holiday gala if and when she chooses to do so," I continue. "However, any further attempts to manipulate her attendance through emotional coercion or threats to her inheritance will be considered a direct hostile action. Do I make myself clear?"
"You have no right?—"
"I have every right. Bliss is my mate. Her well-being is my primary operational concern. If you wish to maintain a relationship with your daughter, I strongly recommend reevaluating your tactical approach."
I end the call.
The phone sits in my palm for precisely two seconds before I set it on the coffee table with the careful, deliberate restraint of a man choosing not to shatter it.
Bliss is staring at me.
Her eyes are very wide. Her mouth is open. The colour has not entirely returned to her face, but something new is moving in beneath the shock, something bright and disbelieving and, unless my emotional intelligence training is failing me catastrophically, deeply moved.
"Did you just threaten my mother?"
