Page 41 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Alright, tough guy." My father clicks his pen with decisive finality. "How much is my daughter paying you to tolerate this family for the weekend?"
The words hit me hard.
Olog's expression goes completely blank, that professional mask slamming down so fast I almost miss it.
"Excuse me?" His voice is dangerously quiet.
"Don't play dumb." My father's tone is flat, businesslike. "I've been in corporate negotiations for thirty years. I know a hired actor when I see one. So let's skip the performance and cut to the numbers. How much?"
CHAPTER 12
OLOG
Ilook at the man holding his checkbook like a weapon. My fingers curl into fists as I hide them at my side.
This is what Bliss has been dealing with her entire life.
Not just disappointment or high expectations, but this. This casual, public humiliation. This assumption that nothing about her could possibly be worth genuine affection without a financial transaction backing it up.
Her father stands there with his pen poised, waiting for me to name my price like I'm some kind of mercenary he can buy off and dismiss.
Behind him, several relatives have stopped mid-conversation to watch. I can see Aunt Susan clutching her wine glass with barely concealed glee. The ex-boyfriend has materialized near the bar, arms crossed, smirking.
They want this. They want to watch Bliss's carefully constructed defense crumble. They want proof that she had to pay someone to care about her.
I feel Bliss arrive at my side, her breathing uneven, her hand instinctively reaching for my arm.
"Dad, stop," she says, her voice tight. "This is not?—"
"Stay out of this, Bliss." Her father doesn't even look at her. "I'm handling it."
"You're embarrassing her," I say quietly.
"I'm protecting her." He clicks the pen again, impatient. "From whatever scam you're running. So. How much?"
The word "scam" lands like a slap.
I take a slow breath through my nose, cataloging the threat level of every person in this circle. Calculating exactly how much damage I could do with my bare hands if I chose violence.
I choose words instead.
More effective. More permanent.
"She couldn't afford my genuine interest, sir." My voice drops to that low, dangerous register that makes humans instinctively back up. "It is freely given."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Her father's pen freezes mid-click. Aunt Susan's wine glass pauses halfway to her lips. Even the nearby string quartet seems to falter.
"Excuse me?" Her father's face flushes red.
"You heard me." I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. "Your daughter didn't hire my affection. She hired a date for a wedding. What happened after that is between her and me, and it is none of your business."
"Now listen here?—"
"No." The word comes out flat and final. "You listen."
I take one step forward, and her father takes two steps back.
