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)
"Oliver Queen. The rich man's Lindsey Lohan." - Helena Bertinelli, S01E07
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My grandfather's hand closed over mine, cool and firm.
"Stop fidgeting."
Without question, I did what I was told and immediately regretted it. On a night ripe with first impressions, I hadn't meant to seem obedient – . . . only that I hadn't noticed my fingers plucking at a cloth napkin.
Moira Queen may have intended for this evening to be a comfortable, casual affair but the sheer opulence of their home . . . my grandfather should have been grateful that I was only fidgeting, when what I really wanted to do was stare like a slack-jawed yokel.
I recognized the painting hanging on the wall at the head of the table, just over Moira's perfectly coiffed golden crown. The dramatic use of light and shadow, the perception of motion; a Rembrandt. They would have laid down several million for that original print.
To then hang it in a seldom-used dining room like a throwaway piece of wall art –
"I thought we might keep things simple," Mrs. Queen was saying, as our dinner dishes were cleared "seeing as the caterers are preparing for tomorrow's reception."
"Dinner was delicious, Moira," my mother assured her, awkwardly informal.
I hid a smile and out of the corner of my eye, I thought Oliver might have done the same.
"Here, here!" Walter seconded, jovially.
Though a step-parent, Moira's second husband, Walter Steele had been the one to greet my family and I at the door; a tall, broad-shouldered black man in a friendly gray suit. His handshake firm, but not punishing.
He'd seemed genuinely happy to have us, and I credited him, not my mom, not my steadfast grandpa, with putting me immediately at ease. The initial trepidation, that bloom of nerves as I stood poised to meet my fiancé for the first time . . . swept aside like I was already family.
Fiancé.
The word felt heavy. Not unpleasant, exactly, but weighed with meaning and the strangest sort of thrill – I was getting married tomorrow.
And we were meeting my fiancé for the first time tonight.
I slipped my hand out from under my grandpa's and reached for my wineglass.
Oliver Queen.
The man I was expected to marry. Heir to the Queen dynasty, Oliver was the tragically privileged son of Moira and the late-Robert Queen. Handsome as sin and twice as dangerous though not, I thought now, for the reasons one might expect.
It was the eyes.
They didn't wander, never seemed to float around; they were quiet, introspective . . . focused. Making it difficult to relate the man sitting across from me to the image I had of him splashed on the cover of tabloid magazines and gossip columns.
