Chapter 12 Olog
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.
Good.
"I have spent this entire weekend watching you people take shots at Bliss. Small comments. Passive-aggressive questions. Comparisons to her perfect cousin. Reminders that she's single, that she's not good enough, that she's somehow failed you all by simply existing as herself."
Aunt Susan opens her mouth.
"I wasn't finished."
She closes it.
"You want to know what I see when I look at your daughter?
" I don't wait for an answer. "I see someone who is smart enough to build a successful career, strong enough to survive this toxic family dynamic, and brave enough to walk into a wedding where she knew she'd be judged and still hold her head high.
I see someone worth defending. Worth protecting.
Worth choosing every single day without a contract or a paycheck involved. "
Bliss's hand tightens on my arm. I can feel her trembling.
"So no, sir. I will not be accepting your money. I will not be naming a price. And I will not tolerate you speaking to her this way ever again."
Her father's face has gone from red to purple.
"How dare you—"
"How dare you." I let the full weight of my size press into the space between us. "She is your daughter. Not your employee. Not your disappointment. Not your punching bag for every insecurity you project onto her. Your daughter. And you treat her like she's something you're embarrassed to claim."
"That's not—"
"It is exactly true." I cut him off again.
"I've been here less than forty-eight hours, and even I can see it.
Every conversation. Every introduction. Every time someone asks about her life, you deflect or change the subject like her accomplishments aren't worth mentioning.
When was the last time you told her you were proud of her?
When was the last time you defended her instead of tearing her down? "
Dead silence.
"That's what I thought."
Aunt Susan finds her voice. "You can't just waltz in here and lecture us about family dynamics. You don't know anything about—"
"I know enough." I turn my attention to her, and she actually flinches.
"I know that Bliss spent twenty minutes hiding in a bathroom before this wedding even started because the thought of facing you people made her physically ill.
I know she's been bracing for impact every time someone opens their mouth because she's learned to expect cruelty disguised as concern.
I know that every single one of you has spent this weekend trying to prove she's not good enough, and not one of you has stopped to ask if you're good enough for her. "
"This is ridiculous," the ex-boyfriend pipes up from his position near the bar. "She paid you to be here. Everyone knows it. Stop acting like—"
"Like what?" I turn on him, and he actually takes a step back. "Like I have functional emotional intelligence? Like I'm capable of seeing her value without a dollar amount attached? You had her, and you were stupid enough to let her go. That's on you. Don't project your regret onto me."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You've been circling her all weekend like a vulture, trying to undermine her happiness because it kills you that she moved on. Newsflash. She moved on. You're irrelevant. Accept it and leave her alone."
His girlfriend—the one who threw the wine—makes an offended noise.
I ignore her.
I turn back to Bliss's father, who is now gripping his checkbook so hard the leather is creaking.
"You want to write a check?" I gesture at the book.
"Fine. Write one to your daughter. Apologize for making her feel like she has to perform for your approval.
Apologize for turning her life into a competitive sport she can't win.
Apologize for standing here tonight and assuming the only way a man would want her is if she paid him. "
"You have no right—"
"I have every right. She gave it to me when she trusted me to stand beside her this weekend. And unlike every single one of you, I will not betray that trust by treating her like she's disposable."
Bliss's breathing has gone shaky. I can feel tears threatening at her composure, and I am done.
Done with this family. Done with this performance. Done pretending this is anything other than what it is.
Toxic. Corrosive. Unacceptable.
I take Bliss's hand, lacing my fingers through hers.
"We're leaving."
"The reception isn't over," Aunt Susan protests weakly.
"It is for us."
I guide Bliss through the crowd, my hand firm on the small of her back, physically shielding her from the stares and whispers erupting in our wake.
No one tries to stop us.
Good.
We walk through the elegant ballroom, past the ice sculptures and the champagne towers and the dance floor full of drunk relatives, and I don't look back.
Bliss is silent beside me, her breathing uneven, her hand gripping mine like a lifeline.
We push through the heavy glass doors and out into the night.
The cool air hits us immediately, sharp and clean after the suffocating atmosphere inside.
The venue is situated on a hillside overlooking the ocean, and the view is stunning. Stars scattered across a black velvet sky. Waves crashing against the rocks below. The distant lights of the resort twinkling in the darkness.
I lead her down the stone pathway away from the building, away from the noise and the judgment and the poison.
She's shaking.
I stop near a stone bench tucked into a private alcove, surrounded by night-blooming jasmine.
"Breathe," I tell her.
She tries. It comes out as a choked sob.
"They're going to hate me," she whispers.
"They already did."
"Olog—"
"No." I turn her to face me, my hands framing her face. "Listen to me. You don't owe them anything. Not your time. Not your energy. Not your emotional labor. Nothing. They made you feel small your entire life because it made them feel big. That ends tonight."
"But they're my family."
"Family is supposed to lift you up, Bliss. Not tear you down. What they've been doing isn't love. It's control. And you deserve better."
Her eyes are shining with unshed tears.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yes. I did."
"The contract—"
"Fuck the contract."
I pull out my phone, and her eyes go wide.
"What are you doing?"
"Ending this."
I open the gig app, navigate to our active booking, and hit the options menu.
Her hand shoots out, gripping my wrist.
"Wait. If you cancel, you won't get paid. You'll lose the rating. Your account—"
"It really doesn’t matter."
"Olog, you worked for this. You can't just—"
"Watch me."
I select Cancel Contract and the app immediately prompts me for a reason.
I choose Client Relationship Changed - Full Refund.
The confirmation screen loads.
Are you sure? This action cannot be undone. All fees will be returned to the client, and this booking will be permanently closed.
"Olog, please." Bliss's voice cracks. "Don't do this. You need this job. You need the rating. I can't let you—"
I hit Confirm.
The screen flashes.
Contract Cancelled. Refund Processed. Thank you for using RentADate.
I close the app and pocket my phone.
Bliss looks at me, her face pale in the moonlight.
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I'm not your employee anymore, Bliss. I'm not your fake boyfriend. I'm not your hired protection."
"Then what are you?"
I step into her space, backing her gently against the stone wall of the alcove, my hands braced on either side of her head.
"I'm the man who wants you so badly it's compromising my ability to think straight.
I'm the man who hasn't stopped thinking about you since the moment I walked into that lobby and saw you trying to look brave while falling apart.
I'm the man who is completely, irrevocably done pretending this is professional. "
Her breath hitches.
"Olog—"
"I don't want your money, Bliss. I don't want a five-star rating. I don't want a glowing review. I want you. Messy and stressed and sarcastic and real. I want the version of you that hides in bathrooms and mutters insults under her breath and falls asleep plastered against me. I want all of it."
"But the contract—"
"Is over. Cancelled. Done. Which means everything that happens from this moment forward is real. No performance. No service. No professional boundaries. Just you and me and whatever the hell this is between us."
She's crying now, tears streaming down her face.
"What if I mess it up?"
"Then we'll figure it out."
"What if my family—"
"Fuck your family."
She laughs, watery and broken and beautiful.
"You can't just say that."
"I just did. Multiple times. In front of witnesses."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
"You just torpedoed your entire rating over me."
"Worth it."
"Olog." She grips the lapels of my jacket, pulling me closer. "You don't even know me. Not really. This whole weekend has been a performance. You don't know what I'm like when I'm not drowning in family drama. You don't know if we're compatible outside of this nightmare scenario. You don't—"
I kiss her.
Hard and deep and desperate, pouring every ounce of pent-up frustration and desire and raw, unfiltered need into the press of my mouth against hers.
She makes a broken sound and kisses me back, her hands fisting in my shirt, dragging me closer.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"I know enough," I tell her. "I know you're brave and brilliant and funny.
I know you make me laugh. I know you smell like jasmine and champagne and home.
I know that when you look at me, I feel like I could take on the entire world and win.
I know that I haven't felt this alive in years, and I'm not walking away from that just because a contract ended. "
"But what if—"
"No more what-ifs, Bliss. No more spiraling. No more assuming the worst. We're doing this. Together. Starting right now."
She searches my face, looking for doubt.
She won't find any.
"Okay," she whispers.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She nods, more certain now. "Let's do this. Let's be insane together."
I kiss her again, softer this time, tasting salt and relief and the promise of something real.
When we finally break apart, she's smiling.
"So what now?"
"Now?" I glance back at the venue, where the reception is still in full swing. "Now we go back to the hotel, pack our things, and get the hell out of here."
"We're leaving early?"
"Unless you want to stay and endure more passive-aggressive toasts."
"God, no."
"Then let's go."
I take her hand, and we walk back toward the resort, bypassing the reception entirely.
The night is cool and clear, and for the first time all weekend, Bliss isn't performing.
She's just herself.
And she's mine.
Not because I was paid to claim her.
Because I chose to.
And I'll keep choosing her, every single day, for as long as she'll let me.