Page 8 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"You brought a camping mat to a five-star resort."
"I bring it everywhere." He unrolls it along the length of the floor beside the bed with the practiced ease of someone running a well-rehearsed drill, then straightens up and smooths the front of his jacket. "Floor sleeping is not a punishment, Bliss. I've slept in significantly worse conditions on a client booking."
"Olog—"
"The floor arrangement is non-negotiable." His silver eyes meet mine directly, and there's something in the steadiness of his gaze that is somehow both deeply professional and completely unreadable. "My rating reflects consistent boundary maintenance. I will keep it that way. You take the bed. You sleep. You wake up rested and confident for whatever social combat your aunt has planned for tomorrow morning. That is what you're paying for."
I open my mouth, close it again, and decide that this is a battle I will revisit later when I have more bandwidth.
"Fine," I say, turning toward my suitcase. "But if your back is ruined by Sunday, I'm leaving you a four-star review and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
"Noted." A pause, and I think I catch something fractionally close to amusement in his voice. "I'll survive the four stars."
I givemyself twenty-five minutes to get ready, which is not enough time given that my cousin Petra has essentially weaponised this entire weekend as a showcase for how perfect her life is. The welcome mixer is "casual," which in Vance family language means everyone will be dressed like they're attending a fashion week after-party while aggressively discussing investment portfolios. I pull on the emerald silk dress I'd earmarked for tonight, wrestle my hair into something my blowout can still support, and add enough mascara that I look awake rather than like someone who has been stress-sweating in a resort bathroom for the better part of an hour.
Olog has changed in the bathroom with the door firmly shut and emerges in a fresh iteration of the same devastating suit silhouette, dark navy this time, the jacket sitting perfectly across the breadth of his shoulders, his eyes cutting across the room to find me in the mirror.
"You look good," he says, in the same tone he'd use to confirm a scheduled itinerary item.
I turn around. "Thank you. You look—" I gesture at the entirety of him, because there isn't a concise word for what he looks like. "Extremely effective."
Something moves in his expression. Not quite a smile. The architectural suggestion of one.
"Ready?" he asks.
I check my phone. 5.48pm. Aunt Susan is already down there.
"No," I say honestly. "But let's go."
The south patiois the kind of outdoor space that gets photographed for magazine spreads and then quietly exists as a backdrop to family tension for the rest of its natural life. White-clothed high tables clustered across sun-warmed stone, theocean visible beyond the balustrade, fairy lights already threaded through the overhead canopy even though the sun hasn't fully set. A string quartet plays something inoffensive near the far wall. Waiters move through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes and artfully stacked canapés, and everywhere I look there are people I've known since childhood who will, within sixty seconds of eye contact, find a way to ask why I'm not married yet.
The Vance side of the family has a specific talent for weaponising concern.
I spot Petra first, luminous in cream, her fiancé attached to her arm like a well-dressed accessory, holding court near the balustrade with the easy confidence of someone who has never once doubted that the world was arranged specifically for her comfort. She hasn't seen me yet.
I spot Brandon second, standing near the bar looking like he's already rehearsed whatever smug, loaded comment he plans to open with when we cross paths again.
I spot Aunt Susan third, and she has already spotted me.
She is a woman of sixty-two who dresses like she's forty-five, drinks like she's twenty-two, and has the conversational instincts of a professional interrogator. She's wearing deep burgundy and holding a very large glass of Chablis, and she is already moving in our direction with the deliberate, unhurried momentum of a ship that has identified its port.
"Incoming," I mutter, barely moving my lips.
Olog's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady through the silk. "I see her."
"Her name is Susan. She will ask how we met, how long we've been together, whether I've been to a gynaecologist recently?—"
"The gynecologist question seems unlikely."
"You don't know Susan."
He applies the faintest pressure against my spine, anchoring me in place rather than letting me drift backwards, which is what every instinct I have is currently demanding.
Aunt Susan arrives in front of us like a weather event, her gaze moving from my face to Olog with a manner that cycles through surprise, assessment, and sheer, undisguised curiosity in approximately one second flat. She is not a woman who bothers pretending. It's one of the few things I've always half-respected about her, right up until she turns that particular quality on me.
"Bliss." She kisses the air beside my cheek. "You look thin. Are you sleeping?"
"Great to see you too, Susan."
