Chapter 11 Bliss
BLISS
Iswipe the notification away with trembling fingers, watching the little reminder disappear from my screen like it never existed.
Twelve hours.
The numbers burn themselves into my brain, a countdown timer I can't ignore no matter how hard I try to focus on anything else.
Twelve hours until the contract expires. Twelve hours until I find out if everything that just happened in that restroom was real or if I'm the world's most pathetic, delusional client who confused exceptional customer service with genuine affection.
"Bliss?" Olog's voice is low and concerned. "Are you alright?"
I paste on my brightest, most convincing smile—the one I've perfected over years of family gatherings where I've had to pretend everything is fine.
"Absolutely. Just wedding jitters. You know how it is."
His silver eyes narrow slightly, and I can tell he doesn't believe me for a second, but the wedding coordinator is already herding us toward the ceremony space with the manic efficiency of someone who has seventeen tasks on her clipboard and exactly four minutes to complete them all.
The outdoor venue is, predictably, stunning. White chairs arranged in perfect rows on manicured lawn, an elaborate floral arch dripping with roses that probably cost more than my rent, and a string quartet playing something classical and vaguely emotional.
My cousin Anastasia has spared absolutely no expense, which is deeply unsurprising considering she spent the last six months sending the family group chat updates about centerpiece options like she was negotiating international peace treaties.
Olog and I are directed to our seats—thankfully not in the front row where my mother is already dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief despite the ceremony not having started yet.
We're in the fourth row, close enough to be appropriately attentive but far enough back that I can breathe without my Aunt Susan leaning over to whisper pointed commentary about my life choices.
Olog settles into the chair beside me, and the delicate white furniture creaks ominously under his weight. He glances down at it with mild concern.
"These chairs were not designed with structural integrity in mind," he murmurs.
I bite back a laugh.
"Welcome to luxury weddings. Everything is beautiful and nothing is practical."
He shifts carefully, testing the chair's limits, then apparently decides it will hold and relaxes fractionally. His hand finds mine on the armrest, his massive fingers threading through mine with devastating gentleness.
The warmth of his palm against mine sends a flutter through my chest that has absolutely nothing to do with fake dating and everything to do with the fact that twenty minutes ago this man had me pinned against a bathroom counter telling me he was falling for me.
I glance up at him, studying his profile. He's watching the ceremony space with that same focused intensity he brings to everything, like he's mentally cataloging exits and potential threats even at a wedding.
His jaw is set, his expression unreadable, and I wonder what he's thinking. Is he counting down the hours too? Is he regretting what happened in the restroom? Is he already planning his exit strategy for when the contract expires and he can finally escape my disaster of a family?
"Stop," he whispers, not looking at me.
"Stop what?"
"Spiraling. I can feel you overthinking from here."
I huff out a breath.
"I'm not spiraling."
"Bliss."
"Fine. I'm spiraling a little. But I have excellent reasons."
He squeezes my hand gently.
"We'll talk after," he says, his voice low and steady. "I promise. But right now, I need you to breathe and trust me."
Trust him.
Such a simple request. Such an impossibly complicated concept for someone who spent the last two years learning that trusting people—especially men who seem too good to be true, is a guaranteed path to disappointment.
But when I look up at him, when I see the absolute certainty in his expression, and I’m able to let air back in my lungs.
"Okay," I whisper.
The music shifts, signaling the start of the processional, and everyone rises to their feet. I stand automatically, still holding Olog's hand like it's the only thing tethering me to reality.
The bridal party begins their choreographed walk down the aisle, bridesmaids in blush pink, groomsmen in charcoal gray, everyone moving with the kind of practiced precision that suggests multiple rehearsals and possibly threats from the wedding coordinator.
Then Anastasia appears, resplendent in a gown that probably required its own zip code for transportation, and the crowd collectively inhales.
She does look beautiful. I can admit that objectively, even though she once told the entire family at Thanksgiving that my career in nonprofit communications was "cute" in a tone that made it clear she thought it was anything but.
The ceremony itself is mercifully short. Traditional vows, a reading from Corinthians that my mother sobs through dramatically, and then the officiant is pronouncing them married and everyone is clapping.
Olog claps politely, his expression professionally pleasant, and I'm suddenly struck by how surreal this entire situation is.
I brought a rented Orc to my cousin's wedding. I had sex with said rented Orc in a bathroom. And now we're sitting here pretending to be a normal couple while a literal countdown timer ticks away the hours until our arrangement expires.
My life has become a rom-com written by someone on an experimental hallucinogen.
The recessional music starts, and the happy couple sweeps back down the aisle in a shower of rose petals that someone's going to have to clean up later. The wedding coordinator immediately starts directing guests toward the cocktail hour on the terrace while they reset the space for the reception.
Olog rises smoothly, offering me his hand.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
We join the flow of guests making their way toward the terrace, where I can already see elaborately decorated tables laden with enough appetizers to feed a small nation.
My mother intercepts us before we make it ten feet.
"Bliss! Darling!" She kisses the air beside both my cheeks, her perfume overwhelming. "Wasn't that just beautiful? I cried through the entire ceremony."
"We noticed," I say, trying to sound affectionate rather than exasperated.
She turns her attention to Olog, giving him the same assessing look she usually reserves for expensive handbags she's considering purchasing.
"And Olog, how wonderful to see you again. Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Very much, Mrs. Vance," he says smoothly. "The ceremony was lovely."
"Yes, well, Anastasia has always had exquisite taste." She pauses meaningfully. "Unlike some people who insist on working in nonprofits instead of pursuing proper careers."
I feel Olog's hand tighten fractionally on mine.
"I find Bliss's work admirable," he says, his tone still perfectly polite but with an edge that makes my mother blink. "Dedicating one's career to service requires conviction. It's impressive."
My mother opens her mouth, clearly preparing to launch into her usual speech about how admirable doesn't pay for waterfront property, but my father appears beside her with two glasses of champagne.
"There you are," he says, handing one to my mother. "They're about to make their first toast." He glances at Olog with barely concealed curiosity. "And you must be the mysterious boyfriend we've heard so much about."
"Olog Glore," Olog says, extending his hand.
My father shakes it, and I see him try very hard not to wince at Olog's grip.
"Ronald Vance. Bliss's father." He withdraws his hand carefully. "So. What is it you do, Olog?"
Oh God. Here we go.
"I run a personal services company," Olog says without missing a beat. "I specialize in high-level client support."
It's not technically a lie. It's just strategically vague enough to sound impressive while revealing absolutely nothing.
My father nods thoughtfully.
"Personal services. Interesting. And how did you and Bliss meet?"
Olog launches into our carefully constructed cover story about cliff diving and a shared love of outdoor adventure, delivering it with the same deadpan sincerity that makes everything he says sound completely plausible.
My father listens, nodding occasionally, his expression growing more skeptical by the second.
"Cliff diving," he repeats. "You don't strike me as the outdoor adventure type, Bliss."
"People can surprise you, Dad."
"Indeed." He takes a sip of his champagne, studying Olog with the same calculating expression I've seen him use in business meetings. "Well. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other better during the reception."
It sounds like a threat.
My mother links her arm through my father's.
"Come along, Richard. We need to find our table before Susan claims all the good seats." She throws me a bright smile. "We'll see you two inside!"
They sweep away, and I exhale slowly.
"That went well," I mutter.
"Your father doesn't trust me."
"My father doesn't trust anyone who isn't a corporate lawyer or a hedge fund manager. Don't take it personally."
Olog guides me toward the terrace, where guests are already clustering around high-top tables and attacking the appetizer stations with the kind of strategic aggression usually reserved for Black Friday sales.
We claim a spot near the terrace, and Olog immediately positions himself so he has a clear view of the entire space. I recognize the stance, he's in protection mode, cataloging faces and exits even though the only real threat here is my Aunt Susan's passive-aggressive commentary.
A server appears with a tray of champagne flutes, and I grab one gratefully. Olog declines with a polite shake of his head.
"Still on duty?" I ask, trying to sound teasing instead of anxious.
He glances down at me, his expression softening.
"Always when I'm with you."
My heart flips like fish out of water.