Page 23 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"I—I didn't—" she stammers.
I take a single step forward.
She flinches.
"You will apologize to Bliss," I say, my voice low and flat and utterly devoid of warmth. "Sincerely. Now."
Charlotte's eyes fill with tears. Real ones, this time, born of genuine fear rather than performative shock. She turns to Bliss, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, Bliss, I?—"
"Save it," Bliss mutters behind me, her voice tight and raw.
I glance back at her.
She's staring down at her lap, her hands trembling, her shoulders hunched inward. The wine didn't touch her dress, but the humiliation did. The room is still silent, every guest watching, every conversation suspended, and I can see the exact moment it crushes her.
Her face crumples.
She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone, and bolts.
She doesn't look at anyone. She just moves, fast and desperate, weaving through the tables and disappearing through the terrace doors into the interior of the resort.
I don't hesitate.
I follow.
The resort isa maze of marble hallways and gold-trimmed doorways, but I track her easily. I'm taller than every other guest by nearly a foot, and I can see over the clusters of startled wedding attendees who scatter as I pass. I catch glimpses of her dark hair, pale dress, the sharp click of her heels on the polishedfloor—and I move faster, cutting through the crowd with the same efficiency I'd use to extract a client from a hostile environment.
She rounds a corner.
I still follow.
She pushes through a heavy wooden door marked with a discreet bronze plaque that readsWomen's Lounge, and the door swings shut behind her.
I pause outside, my hand flat against the wood, my chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.
Professional protocol dictates I wait.
I should give her space. I should respect the boundary. I should stand outside this door like the hired protection I am and let her compose herself in privacy.
But the sound that comes through the door—a choked, broken sob—obliterates every rule I've ever followed.
I push the door open and step inside.
The restroom is absurdly luxurious,all white marble and gold fixtures, soft lighting reflecting off polished mirrors. Bliss is bent over one of the sinks, her hands braced on the counter, her shoulders shaking with silent, desperate sobs.
She doesn't hear me enter.
I close the door behind me, reach back, and slide the heavy brass deadbolt firmly into place.
The sound echoes through the space.
Bliss gasps and spins around, her eyes red-rimmed and streaming, her carefully applied makeup smudged and ruined. She gazes at me, her mouth opening and closing, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
"Olog, you can't…this is the women's?—"
"I don't care," I say flatly.
She blinks, stunned into silence.
