Page 20 of Orc'd At A Wedding
The words land like a slap.
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him that I wanted it, that I started it by crawling all over him in my sleep, that the onlything he compromised was my ability to pretend I'm not wildly, inappropriately attracted to my fake boyfriend.
But he's already buttoning his shirt with quick, efficient fingers, his jaw set, his expression locked down into something so rigidly neutral that it's obvious he's not going to hear a word I say.
Fine.
I throw the covers back and stalk to the bathroom, my throat tight and my chest aching with a humiliation I have no right to feel. He's doing his job. That's all this is. That groan, that hand on my hip, the way his body responded to mine—that was just biology. Just an involuntary physical reaction that he's now mortified about because I'm the client and he has a five-star rating to protect.
I slam the bathroom door harder than necessary and turn on the shower, cranking the water as hot as it will go.
I'm an idiot.
A complete, delusional idiot who somehow convinced herself that the fake boyfriend she hired off an app might actually be into her, when the reality is that he's a professional doing exactly what I'm paying him to do.
The water scalds my skin, and I stand under the spray until my face is hot enough that I can pretend the wetness on my cheeks is just steam.
The rehearsal dinneris at six.
We have four hours to get ready, which should be plenty of time, except Olog spends the entire morning acting like I'm a client he's never met before, his interactions polite and distant and so painfully professional that I want to scream.
He asks if I need assistance selecting an outfit.
He offers to steam my dress.
He inquires about my preferred timeline for hair and makeup.
Every word is courteous and helpful and completely, devastatingly empty.
I tell him I'm fine. I tell him I can handle it. I tell him he doesn't need to hover, and he nods once, his expression unreadable, and retreats to the far side of the suite where he proceeds to sit in the armchair and review the rehearsal dinner itinerary on his phone like he's prepping for a military operation.
I yank my makeup bag out of my suitcase and dump the contents onto the bathroom counter with more force than necessary.
This is fine.
This is exactly what I asked for.
A fake boyfriend who looks the part and plays his role and doesn't get emotionally involved.
The fact that I'm now emotionally involved is my problem, not his.
I line my eyes with sharp, angry flicks of the eyeliner pencil, my hand steadier than it has any right to be. My reflection stares back at me, pale and tight-lipped and wearing the same forced, everything-is-fine expression I've been using on my family for the last twenty-four hours.
I'm so tired of performing.
I'm so tired of pretending I'm okay when I'm not, of smiling through passive-aggressive comments and invasive questions and the constant, grinding pressure to prove that I'm successful and happy and completely unbothered by the fact that my ex-boyfriend is getting married to someone who isn't me.
I wanted this weekend to be different.
I wanted to walk into that rehearsal dinner on the arm of someone who made me feel safe and seen and like I was worth defending, and for a few hours last night, I actually felt that way.
Now I just feel stupid.
I finish my makeup, twist my hair into a sleek low bun, and step into the pale silk dress I bought specifically for this dinner. It's beautiful, expensive, and deeply uncomfortable, the kind of dress that requires standing up straight and sucking in and moving carefully so nothing shifts out of place.
I smooth the fabric over my hips and stare at myself in the mirror.
I look perfect.
