Chapter 7 Bliss
BLISS
Igasp.
Not because I'm shocked to find myself wrapped around him like I'm trying to win a full-body wrestling championship, but because the sound he just made with that deep, chest-rattling groan that I felt more than heard, has turned every nerve ending in my body into a live wire, and I'm suddenly, acutely aware of exactly what I'm pressed against.
"No," I say, and my voice comes out breathless and entirely too honest.
His hand flexes against my hip, his fingers spreading wide enough that his palm covers an absurd amount of skin, and his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach drop straight through the mattress.
For one perfect, suspended moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
For one perfect, suspended moment, I want him to kiss me more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
Then he moves.
Not toward me.
Away.
He extracts himself from the bed with the kind of rigid, mechanical precision that makes it very clear this is not a gentle untangling but a tactical retreat, his massive body going tense and controlled as he physically removes himself from the equation.
The sudden absence of his heat leaves me cold, the mattress dipping and then springing back as he stands, and I'm left lying there in a tangle of sheets, staring up at him in complete confusion.
"I apologize." His voice is flat, professional, utterly devoid of the rough edge it had thirty seconds ago. "That was inappropriate."
I blink.
"What?"
He doesn't look at me. He crosses to the chair where his perfectly folded clothes are stacked, his broad back to me, every line of his posture screaming discomfort. "I violated the terms of our agreement. It will not happen again."
"Olog, I literally told you not to let go—"
"You were half asleep." He pulls a crisp white undershirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders before settling into place. "I should have maintained appropriate boundaries regardless of your state of awareness. I take full responsibility for the lapse in professionalism."
I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest, my brain struggling to process the abrupt shift from the heat of that moment to this cold, formal distance. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I compromised the integrity of the service." He reaches for his dress shirt, shaking it out with sharp, controlled movements. "It will not happen again."
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 only thing 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 dinner is 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.
I feel miserable.
When I step out of the bathroom, Olog is already dressed, standing by the window in a charcoal suit that fits him so perfectly it borders on obscene. He turns when he hears me, his eyes sweeping over me in a quick, assessing glance before he nods once.
"You look appropriate for the event," he says.
Appropriate.
Not beautiful. Not stunning. Appropriate.
I force a smile. "Thanks. You too."
He inclines his head, his expression neutral, and gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"
The rehearsal dinner is being held in a private garden terrace overlooking the ocean, strung with delicate lights and decorated with enough white roses to supply a royal wedding. The guests are already gathering, champagne flutes in hand, their laughter carrying on the warm evening air.
I take a deep breath and let Olog guide me down the stone path, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back in a gesture that looks possessive and protective and feels like absolutely nothing.
My Aunt Susan spots us immediately and waves, her smile sharp.
I wave back, my own smile just as sharp, and brace myself for round two of invasive questioning.
But before Susan can corner us, my cousin—the bride—intercepts, pulling me into a perfume-drenched hug and gushing about how happy she is that I could make it.
She's radiant, glowing, utterly in love, and I paste on my brightest smile and tell her she looks beautiful because she does, and because it's not her fault that her happiness makes me feel like I'm drowning.
Olog stands beside me, silent and immovable, his presence drawing stares from every corner of the terrace.
The bride's eyes flick to him, widen slightly, and then she leans in and whispers, "Bliss, oh my God, you didn't tell me he was—"
"Huge?" I supply.
She laughs, delighted. "I was going to say gorgeous, but yes, also huge. Where did you find him?"
"Mutual friends," I lie smoothly, the story we agreed on. "We've been together for a few months."
She beams at me, squeezes my hand, and then floats off to greet another guest, leaving me alone with Olog and the growing, uncomfortable silence between us.
I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server and take a long sip.
This is going to be a very long night.
Dinner is a multi-course affair, each plate more elaborately garnished than the last, served on tables draped in white linen and set with crystal and silver.
I'm seated between Olog and a distant cousin I barely know, which should be a relief except Olog's continued silence is louder than any conversation.
He's playing the part perfectly, of course.
He pulls out my chair. He refills my water glass. He leans in when I speak and nods at appropriate intervals, his body language screaming attentive boyfriend.
But there's no warmth in it.
No humor.
No trace of the dry, deadpan charm that made me laugh last night or the fierce protectiveness that made my heart skip when he removed my ex's hand from my wrist.
He's a flawless, empty performance, and I hate it.
I pick at my food, barely tasting it, and drain my champagne faster than I should.
Across the table, my ex and his fiancée are holding hands, whispering to each other, looking every bit the perfect couple.
She's stunning, blonde and polished and wearing a dress that probably costs more than my rent, and every time she laughs at something he says, I feel the knife twist a little deeper.
I reach for my champagne again and realize the glass is empty.
Olog refills it without a word.
"Thanks," I mutter.
He nods.
I'm about to say something, anything, to break the terrible, suffocating silence when my ex's fiancée stands, smoothing her dress, and starts to make her way around the table.
She's smiling.
It's not a friendly smile.
She weaves through the other guests, champagne glass in hand, her heels clicking on the stone terrace, and she approaches with the kind of creeping dread that tells me something bad is about to happen.
She stops beside my chair, her smile widening.
"Bliss, hi! I don't think we've officially met. I'm Charlotte."
I force a smile. "Hi, Charlotte. Congratulations."
"Thank you!" She beams, and then her heel catches on the terrace stone.
She stumbles.
Her arm swings out.
And a full glass of red wine arcs through the air and splashes directly across the front of my pale silk dress.
I gasp, the cold liquid soaking through the fabric instantly, staining the ivory silk a deep, spreading crimson.
Charlotte claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with exaggerated horror. "Oh, Bliss, I am so sorry! I'm so clumsy!"
The terrace goes silent.
Every single person is staring.
I look down at my dress, at the wine dripping onto my lap, at the ruins of the outfit I spent two hours perfecting, and something inside me just... breaks.