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)
"I don't want there to be any confusion, Mr. Queen. My ability to keep you from harm will outweigh your comfort." John Diggle, 1.01
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Oliver came through for me.
I rode the elevator down from our penthouse suite with my borrowed bodyguard, making it to the lobby of the Aurelia Hotel, when my phone let out a chirp. I opened the text only because I saw who it was from.
We left him not five minutes ago. What? A name, that's what.
The first and last names of the man who was our driver the night before. Because I asked. He'd found it for me . . . because I asked . . .
I appreciated him for that.
What Oliver didn't know is that I already knew the man's name. I was partly kidding, mostly segueing into a reason to tell him where I was going – . . . to alibi my other errand - when I asked.
My husband's bodyguard escorted me to a rented car parked and waiting for us in front of the hotel.
The icy wind sweeping in off of the bay refreshing, invigorating, this early in the day. I caught myself turning my face into it.
The car was toasty warm inside.
Mr. Diggle drove us to the hospital.
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Starling General was laid out with all the logic of an ant farm.
Reflecting that architectural philosophy, like so many medical centers of its kind, the buildings that covered its acreage were a hodgepodge of styles positioned wherever they found room enough to squeeze in a new wing . . .
. . . making it so that you could find a bit of everything here from Gothic stone to institutional steel and glass.
The only commonality being that everything was cramped.
We parked in a crowded lot by the fifteen-story main building.
I didn't have an established bodyguard but I'd had them before; I knew to wait for Mr. Diggle to come around and open my door for me.
