Some say that our lives are defined by the sum of our choices but it isn't really our choices that distinguish who we are . . . it's our commitment to them. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not.
(Oliver Q./OC)
"When you believe in what you do, you find a way to make it work [...] you find yourself someone you never have to apologize to." McKenna Hall, S01E17
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Oliver chose my ring.
He didn't have to say it; anyone else would have given me a diamond. His was a round-cut emerald, set in white gold.
The stone seemed to catch the laugh, green fire igniting like a distant star in its centre. And though the round-cut was traditional, there was a reason for that; it fractured the light to spectacular effect.
He'd given me an emerald.
I loved it.
The wedding was over, but we weren't done.
Oliver and I were seated together at a small mahogany table set aside in an equally tiny room on the fourth floor of the hotel . . . while our guests made their way to the reception. We would be joining them soon, but first, responsibility.
This wallpapered closet only just fit our witnesses, and the two sets of attorneys hired specifically to facilitate our union.
. . . the contract itself printed on expensive cream parchment. No less a legally binding agreement. Oliver's solid presence relieved me; I would have hated sitting at that table by myself.
The Queen family's team of attorneys, and my own lawyers, advocating for my family's interests in this marriage, stood in segregated lines across from us.
As serious, and solemn, as a funeral procession.
Behind us, our witnesses; my parents, Oliver's mom, and his step-father, Walter.
As was required, our contract was read to us one last time. Too late now to make any adjustments. To change our minds. A formality. Just as ceremonial as the exchanging of rings.
This was weird.
Who would have thought the post-wedding, pre-reception half-hour would have been more nerve-wracking than the build-up to having to kiss a near-total stranger in front of an audience of four hundred people?
I could still taste him.
Feel the firm warmth of his mouth on mine.
Not exactly an unpleasant memory. Brief, but memorable. I had to actively resist the urge to lick my lips.
Finally, mercifully, the older gentleman in a smart gray suit finished reading. Our contract, printed on that fancy cream paper, was slid across the glossy table.
This was it.
My dad set a reassuring hand on my bare shoulder, and then withdrew. Moira shifted, her sparkling dress hissing on the carpet. My hands clenched in my lap.
