Synopsis: By 9:00 a.m., she had broken a heel, lost her cell phone, and been the victim of a coffee catastrophe. By 9:30 a.m. she had "borrowed" the NSA mainframe. By 10:00 a.m., she was engaged to Oliver Queen. Really, it was all in a day's work.

Rating: strong T

Warnings: very suggestive dialogue

Spoilers: Anything up through episode 2x6 "Keep Your Enemies Closer" is fair game.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Okay, so it's been forever and a day. My sincerest apologies! I can assure you the next update will not take quite so long. I have huge chunks of the remainder of the story completed. It's just a matter of stringing them together cohesively.

Thank you again for hanging in there with me! I've been so nervous about this chapter. Hopefully it won't disappoint.

Part Ten: "What Happens in Russia Doesn't Stay in Russia"

He was warm.

That was the first thought that entered Oliver's mind as he opened his eyes. There'd been too many mornings when he'd woken cold. Perhaps a small part of him still expected to wake shivering on the hard ground only to discover his life away from the island was all a dream.

But this was no dream. His dreams were never this happy.

He was warm, and it was Felicity who warmed him.

At some point in the night, her legs had become tangled with his. Two of her fingers were tucked between the buttons on his shirt. And this—this—felt like home.

He watched her sleep, expelling tiny breaths. Felicity's face was scrubbed clean of makeup, revealing the smattering of freckles across her nose. Her lips, devoid of their usual bright coloring, still looked plump and inviting. Her chin was pink, likely where his whiskers had rubbed against her sensitive skin. Her blonde hair, pulled free from its customary ponytail, curled slightly, he noticed.

She was easily the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

His heart slammed against his ribs, even as he could see the rising and falling of her chest as she slumbered. This was what he wanted every morning, even if he shouldn't. This could be his life. An odd flutter in his stomach surprised him as the thought entered his mind. For so long, he had lived in denial. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of thinking beyond the problem of the day or week. Now he couldn't stop thinking of what could be. How could he do this, allow himself to think of a future with her when so often he had to fight against his baser instincts? He wasn't a good man. He had used people his entire life, for a time killed without remorse, and there was no end in sight to his crusade to clean the corruption of his city. She couldn't see it yet, but he was an iron ball locked around her ankles, dragging her to murky depths. And still, she wanted him, just as he wanted her.

And how he wanted her.

Sleeping on her side, the tank top she wore dipped slightly over her breasts, affording him a tantalizing view of her silken skin while still leaving plenty to the imagination. Already, he anticipated burying his face there, taking one pert breast in his mouth and lightly flicking his thumb over the other. He wanted to map her body, learn her reactions.

Just the errant thought of touching her made him respond. He'd been halfway aroused when he awoke; now he ached to be inside of her, his body calling for her, just as it had last night.

When he had brought her onto his lap the night before, her legs bracketing him, he had wanted nothing more than to press himself into her depths, especially as she gazed at him with such openness, trust, and undisguised longing.

But the night before, as their kisses had intensified and his hands began to wander, she stilled his movements. He looked at her questioningly, and she'd given him a reassuring, if nervous, smile.

"I want you. I can't believe I just came out and said it, but it's true. So there. I want you so much that I can't see straight. Of course, that could be because I'm not wearing my glasses," she added, chuckling slightly at her own nerves. "I mean, not that a woman would have to be blind to want you because you're, well, not unfortunate looking."

"Best compliment ever," he joked, his eyes fixed on her. "You're not 'unfortunate looking,' either."

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, and the two simply held one another, enjoying the closeness that had started as a trickle but burst like floodwaters. Nevertheless, he had the impression that she was hiding from him, embarrassed even, though he couldn't entirely understand why. "Hey. I-I want you, too."

His heart stuttered with his words.

"Not just physically—though I do want that," he added.

Felicity lifted her head and met his eyes. "I kind of noticed." She shifted slightly and he knew she could feel his hardness against her center, though layers of clothing separated them. Unconsciously, her teeth grazed her bottom lip even as she let out the tiniest sigh.

He clutched her pajama pants clad thighs; it was his turn to still her movements, the delicious friction between them on the verge of making him forget he was supposed to be the type of man she would still respect in the morning.

"Sorry," she whispered, realizing she was making self-control more difficult for him.

"I want you by my side. At the beginning of the day. At the end of the day. You are the one person who…,"he searched for the right words, "who gives me hope."

A shadow crossed her features. "Oliver, don't put me on a pedestal," she gently pleaded. "Look, I want to be a good person, but that doesn't make me unique. I'm not an angel or a saint. Well, of course I'm not a saint. Wrong religion. Not that I'm overly religious. Not that there's anything wrong with being religious. I'm just really not. Which really isn't the point." She squeezed her eyes shut and silently counted down from three before opening them again. "There are so many good people around me: John. Detective Lance." She traced his temple along his hairline finding a scar she'd never noticed before. "You are a good man."

No, he wasn't.

Couldn't she see that his humanity hung by a thread? But how he wanted to be the man she believed him to be. "There's so much about me that isn't good. Felicity, there are things about me that you don't know."

She pressed her finger across his lips. "And when the time is right, you'll tell me. Or not. But whatever you tell me isn't going to change my mind about you." Felicity spoke in that matter-of-fact, you-really-can't-argue-with-me tone that Oliver knew all too well. It amused him sometimes, exasperated him at others, and tonight reminded him that nothing he said, short of a full rendering of the Life and Times of Oliver Queen would break her misplaced faith. And so he chose to live in the moment and snatch happiness for however long he might have it. Trouble would come later. It always did.

Effortlessly, he captured her hand and pressed tiny kisses to her fingertips.

She sighed at the sensations coursing through her, and her eyes fluttered. "Odd how you can touch my fingertips but I feel it reverberate through my whole body." Her eyes widened in horror. "And I just said that aloud. Crap."

"It's just me."

At that, she giggled.

But at what, Oliver had no idea. "I missed something."

"There is no 'just' you. You overwhelm me. When I'm near you, I feel like I'm riding downhill on a runaway roller coaster. It's thrilling and terrifying all at the same time, but it feels so out of my control."

"You want to put the brakes on."

"Don't you think we should?" she asked even as she ran her fingers lightly across his scalp. Seeming to realize her actions went counter to her words, she added, "And I really should keep my hands to myself." Though he noted she did not vacate his lap—for which he was grateful. "We've been around each other a lot this last week, pretending to be engaged, pretending that we're this perfect couple. It's easy to get caught up in the lie, make things feel real when they aren't. And today—well, it's been a long day. A tough day for you. Maybe this is just…"

She was giving him an out, a final exit before there was no turning back. "Don't," he warned her. "This…thing…between us, it's been there from the start. You were the first person…the first…to make me smile again. I'd forgotten how to feel anything but this weight. I didn't know then that you would become so important to me. All I knew was there you were. This. Tonight. Right now. It isn't about a fake engagement, or scratching an itch, or being upset about finding out the truth about my father and Isabel. This is about me wanting you. I'm right there on that roller coaster with you."

"I want to get this right. This feels too important to rush."

"Then we'll take it at your pace," he reassured her. "I want to get this right, too." His expression tender, a hint of a smile curled on his lips. "I want to learn everything about you, to know every part of you."

She shrugged. "I'm not all that complicated."

"Including why you don't like kangaroos."

"Well, now, that is complicated," she teased. "What else do you intend to find out?"

"I want to know about your family, your favorite everything. I want to hear about JoJo and other friends I don't know. I'm really curious as to why you have a tattoo," his thumb brushed over the script on her lower back, "that spells trouble. Are you ticklish, and can I use that to my advantage? And I am really," he gave her a quick peck on the lips, "really looking forward to finding out how you like to be touched."

The truth was he'd never waited for anyone. Ever. For him, sex always happened in a flurry of touches, shedding clothes, little thought to consequences beyond preventing an unplanned pregnancy. That was one of the lessons his father pounded into his head when he was old enough to hear it. Enjoy, but never let yourself be trapped. And Oliver certainly had enjoyed himself over the years, but he would wait until Felicity was ready.

He took a lock of her hair between his fingers and rubbed the end of it against her nose. Even in her sleep, he could see her reactions as she twitched her nose before bringing her hand up to swat at the offending sensation. His body shook with silent laughter. It was that motion which prompted her to open her eyes.

And she smiled to find that last night had been real, not a beautiful lie.

"Hi," he said, his voice rough, but his eyes danced.

"Hi." She liked seeing this side of him, momentarily carefree, cheerful. Real life would catch up with him soon, but how she wished they could stave it off for just a few more minutes. "How long have you been awake?" she asked, suppressing a yawn.

"A while."

Worry lines creased her forehead. He reached out with his finger and began to rub them away. "Don't. Worry. I slept better last night than I have in a long time. I just—I liked watching you dream."

"You should've woken me sooner. I like reality better."

So did he.

Waking up with her like this felt far more intimate than anything he'd ever experienced. And to think that was without sex. She had drifted off to sleep on the couch, and he had carried her to her room, intending to tuck her in and leave. Only she had stirred awake, slid her hand into his, and gently tugged on it. "Stay?"

One word.

And that's all it took.

"What time is it?" she asked, the sleep still evident in her voice.

"A little past 6:30."

"We stayed up too late last night," she yawned. "Not that I'm complaining." Being close to Oliver—just kissing him—had made her feel alive, as though every cell in her body was buzzing, hyper-aware. And Oliver hadn't pushed her away this time. If anything, he was the one who had given chase. "Wow. You're here."

"You didn't think I would be?"

"I thought you might talk yourself out of us."

"Not a chance. I told you I'm a selfish man."

She shifted in the bed and propped up on an elbow, still eye to eye with him. "And a more than capable negotiator." She smiled remembering how he had negotiated the terms of their kissing. The agreement was that they would stop kissing to avoid too many complications—starting tomorrow. And on this new day, she suspected that would still be his response. They would stop—starting tomorrow.

"Oh? Only 'more than capable'?"

"You drive a hard bargain."

"Yes, I seem to recall being fairly persuasive."

His fingers trailed along the length of her arm, making her face feel flushed all the while eliciting goosebumps on her skin. Pheromones, she reminded herself. But the truth of the matter was that she had never reacted to any other man the way she reacted to Oliver.

"I would like to renegotiate the terms of our agreement. After I brush my teeth." She rolled out of bed and padded to the adjacent bathroom before he could kiss her. It was too early in this new aspect of their relationship for morning breath. Or bedhead, she silently added to herself when she caught her reflection in the mirror. No fair. How could he look so incredibly perfect all the time?

"You don't happen to have an extra toothbrush, do you?" he asked as he watched her squeeze toothpaste onto her toothbrush.

She tilted her head in that knowing way of hers, reminding him of the first time they'd met. "Hello. Daughter of a dentist." She stuck the toothbrush in her mouth and began brushing even as she knelt and withdrew a new toothbrush for him from under the sink. "As my dad would say, you can never have too many dental supplies," she garbled.

Oliver opened the package and looked at the brush; printed on the handle was 'Smoak and Sommet Family Dentistry,' along with a phone number. "Sommet? You get a reminder of Jackass every day?" He frowned as he took the tube of toothpaste she offered.

Felicity shrugged before spitting into the sink and running water. "It's just a toothbrush." She returned the toothbrush to the decorative receptacle she kept next to the sink. Much better.

"I hate the thought of him hurting you." Or kissing you. Holding you.

"I think things worked out just fine." She leaned against the counter as she watched him brush his teeth. His tailored button up shirt was rumpled from sleeping in it. She had the feeling—though she had no first-hand evidence—that he typically did not sleep in his clothes but had the night before for her benefit. Or was that to her detriment? Because as her eyes drank him in, she couldn't imagine what in the heck she was thinking the night before by being so skittish.

Mornings with Oliver were starting to become a habit, though this one felt different. Of course it did; things were different. They had been stuck in neutral for so long. Never would she have imagined last year when he sauntered into her tiny office at QC oozing charisma and ridiculous lies that he would become such an integral part of every aspect of her life. In the past, she had always liked to compartmentalize. Work stayed at work. Her personal life stayed personal. She never dated co-workers—though she'd had opportunities from time to time. She always, always did background checks on men who asked her out. Above all else, she played it safe.

Now she was breaking all of those unofficial rules. And Oliver—well, he was anything but safe, what with his dangerous double life, horrible lady killer reputation (not literal, thank Google), killer alter ego (reformed), and impossibly sculpted body. He challenged her, not in that 'catch me if you can' way, but to see the world differently, to see herself differently. She liked to think she did the same for him.

He reached around her and placed his toothbrush next to hers, leaning in as he did so, an invasion into her space that was welcome and sent her pulse racing. She halfway thought he should carry a disclaimer, like those prescription drugs she saw advertised on television. Side effects may include rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, dizziness, and lust.

Her eyes lingered on the two brushes, side-by-side. If Oliver knew she was contemplating what it meant for him to have his own toothbrush at her place, he didn't say anything. Instead, his hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, sandwiching her between the counter and his much larger body.

His voice was low, heated, as he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You said something about renegotiating?"

"Well, we are trying to ward off a hostile takeover," she said with a smile as his lips brushed against her bare shoulder. She shivered at his touch. Odd how a man who could double as her own personal furnace could elicit goosebumps.

"I'd argue this is a friendly takeover," he replied between kisses as he trailed up her neck finding her pulse point.

"Very friendly," she agreed as he gently tilted her head with his left hand, the calloused fingertips lightly ghosting along her jaw. And then his lips were on hers. The world around her seemed to fade away until there was only Oliver and the slow, back-and-forth rub of his mouth against hers. Firm pressure, a gentle pull.

Yes.

Oh yes.

A low-level current passed between them, a current that lingered even when Oliver broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. "Felicity," he murmured, close enough she could almost feel the vibration of her name on his lips. She loved the way it sounded when he spoke—deep, almost growly—but more than that, she loved the way it reflected how she felt. Possessive. Heated. Desperate.

"More," she managed, albeit somewhat inarticulately.

Closing the bit of distance between them without hesitation, Oliver took her mouth as if it was his to do with as he pleased, making it his own in a way that had Felicity's hands rising of their own volition, her fingers curling into his tailored shirt, and a moan sliding free from her mouth and into his.

Seconds later, there was a breath between them—a soft wash of warmth and want, anticipation and retreat.

Oliver took half a step back and exhaled loudly, though he couldn't bring himself to completely let her go. "You told me a few days ago that I'm handsy." Those roughened hands had once again found their way under the hem of her tank top. He wasn't being a perfect gentleman; the little circles he drew with his fingertips along the small of her back accentuated that point. Nevertheless, he managed to show some restraint.

"Terribly handsy."

"I don't know how I'm going to keep my hands off you," he practically growled against her mouth.

"I can work with that." She paused. "Figuratively speaking, of course. I mean, I can't literally work if you're touching me. Or doing the salmon ladder. No concentration. Plus, you're kind of big. You would impede my view of…" she cut herself off. "I've really got to stop doing that."

He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. "Don't stop being you."

A few minutes later after taking turns in the bathroom, Felicity emerged with a towel around her wet hair and wrapped in her fluffy bathrobe. She noted Oliver's appreciative gaze when he saw her and felt her cheeks grow warm. She knew Oliver could be an intense man; she just wasn't accustomed to having that intensity trained upon her. Trying to quell the somersaults in her belly, she walked to the window.

"The looky-loos are probably out in full force again this morning," she halfway groaned as she pulled at her window shade and peered out. Sure enough, she could see media types practically camped out on the sidewalk below. She let the shade fall closed and turned back to Oliver who had tucked in his shirt and was inordinately presentable. "They make me paranoid to even take out my trash. I keep thinking maybe they'll discover I eat way too much takeout or find out what brand of deodorant I use or…or worse."

"Could be."

"You're not helping." She flopped down on her bed and was more than slightly tempted to pull the covers over her head and stay that way. Heck, maybe she could just walk around wearing a sheet over her head. Start a ghost fashion trend. No, with her luck, the tabloid media would probably accuse her of being a member of the KKK, which, when she thought of it, would be a first, considering she was Jewish. The KKK didn't play well with Jews, even the blue eyed, blond haired ones. Well, her hair was dyed. "My brain," she muttered at her rambling thoughts.

"What do you want me to say? Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're crazy."

And he sounded amused over the situation. Amused! Which, when she thought about it some more was better than drowning in guilt and manpain.

"Seriously, Oliver, if I don't take out my trash soon, someone is going to bring in those blindfolded people for a Febreze commercial. And then those people will probably sell me out to TMZ. There's got to be a way to make them go away."

"Sure there is."

At that, she perked up.

"Come stay with me at the house. If you're not here, they're not here. And I guarantee they won't get past Queen security."

"Right," she laughed humorlessly. When she realized he wasn't laughing along with her, her smile faded. "Oh, you were being serious."

"Of course I am. Staying at my house wouldn't be so awful, would it?"

"That place still scares me, but it's really cute how you call your family's castle a 'house.' Only thing missing is a moat."

He shrugged. "I'll have one installed just for you."

"Throw in a dragon, and you've got yourself a deal."

"You better be careful what you agree to because I know a guy—"

"I'm sure you do," she interrupted. "I just—I want us to do this right. Rushing to live together…"

"The house is big, Felicity."

"Your powers of understatement know no bounds."

"My point is you don't have to stay in my room. You could have your own room. Hell, you could have your own wing. There's no quid pro quo here. I just—I want you to be comfortable and not having to look over your shoulder or dodge reporters every time you leave home."

The ringing of his phone broke the moment. He turned to answer it, but Felicity only vaguely heard his end of the conversation. Her mind was swimming. Moving in with Oliver? That was just crazy. Maybe not to the outside world who thought them engaged, but in reality, what was happening between them was still so new. On the other hand, they were already spending almost all their time together.

"I've got to go," Oliver announced, interrupting her thoughts.

"Is everything okay?" Felicity asked.

"Fine. I've just got an impromptu early meeting with Belinda."

"In yesterday's clothes?"

At that, he threw her a lop-sided smile. "I doubt she'll mind, but have Digg bring me a change."

"And if you see Isabel…"

His smile immediately fell. "I won't engage."

"Were they aggressive this morning?" Felicity asked as she opened the door of her apartment to allow John inside.

Diggle crossed his arms, his massive muscles straining the fabric of his suit jacket. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Right. Maybe if I pump iron, the press will leave me alone, too. What do you think?" she flexed her bicep, and Digg couldn't help but chuckle. Felicity's arms were toned but the muscle was definitely lacking in bulk. "So…coffee is made if you want to pour yourself some into a to-go cup. I'm going to run get my shoes."

She scurried past him as he walked toward her kitchen.

"How's your foot feeling, by the way?" he called out to her.

"Better. The cut's healing," she replied emerging from her bedroom carrying a strappy pair of high heels. "Let's hope I have better luck with this pair than the ones I wore on Monday, which met a tragic, premature end."

She sat on the edge of the couch pulling them on as John retrieved a travel mug she'd left out for him next to the coffee pot. He reached into the cupboard for a sugar packet when he noticed two ice cream bowls in the sink.

"You had company last night." He thought he heard a little choked sound come from the living room. "If it had been just you…"

"I wouldn't have needed a bowl. Just a spoon." She walked into the kitchen, the heels giving her about three inches of additional height that she squandered by leaning on the island, her elbows supporting her. "Oliver was here."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, why wouldn't it be?"

She spoke so nonchalantly Digg couldn't help but probe. "So he didn't go see Laurel to smooth things over with her."

"Nope." And just like that, Felicity's affected casualness disappeared, replaced by a grin that spread over her features. It wasn't that she disliked Laurel exactly; she didn't know the woman well enough one way or the other. What Felicity did know was that she didn't like the dynamic between Oliver and his ex-girlfriend, every interaction tinged with guilt and blame. It just seemed a toxic combination, like milk and orange Tang, and Oliver shouldered enough burdens without Laurel piling them on further. But yeah, Felicity wasn't going to lie to herself and say it didn't feel good knowing that Oliver had chosen her over The Laurel.

"I'll be damned," Digg marveled at her proud expression.

"You don't have to act so shocked."

"I'm not. Exactly."

Felicity shot him an incredulous look, punctuated with a tut. "So you know how I said there wasn't anything going on between Oliver and me but a fake engagement between friends?"

"Yep."

"I'd like to amend that statement."

"I don't need to hear about your sex life," Diggle replied, raising his hands.

"It wasn't like that. I mean, it could have been, but we put on the brakes. Long day. Too much news. We did sleep together in my bed, though, which you didn't really need to know." Felicity stood straight, her hands covering her mouth.

Digg grimaced.

"My brain comes out with the worst way to say things." She quickly added, "Sleeping. Not sleeping. Which when you think about it is a really odd euphemism, considering there's no actual sleep going on. Or if there is, then someone's doing something wrong. But we were sleeping, as in slumbering, dead to the world, having forty winks. Yeah."

"Deep breath."

"Right. I'm just happy. A little nervous, too, I guess." Felicity watched her friend, his lips pressed into a tight line. "Come on. Can you please just be happy for us, too?"

"You know I care about you both."

"I can hear you getting warmed up for a 'but.'"

"Felicity, Oliver has a hell of a lot to work through."

"I know. I wear glasses, not blinders."

"You sure about that? A little over a year ago when Oliver returned from the island, he came back a killer. A hardened, take-no-prisoners killer. You've seen the scars on the surface, but have you thought about the ones you can't see?"

"Of course I have. I know he's seen and done things that I can't even…but I also know that he has fought back from that place of darkness."

"Doesn't mean he's in the light. And if you and Oliver don't work out? What then?"

"We'll figure it out." Her vague response made her cringe slightly.

"The way Laurel Lance has figured it out?"

Ouch.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Laurel. She had a raw deal dealt to her. I can empathize with her, but my life didn't begin with Oliver and if we don't make a go of it, it doesn't end with him either. Okay, maybe the more interesting part of it did come about because of him because, let's face it, working with a vigilante is far more exciting than straight-up tech support. The point is that what we do matters. My dedication to our cause isn't contingent on whether Oliver buys me shoes or…or has a toothbrush next to mine…or leaves the toilet seat up. Which, by the way, both of you do that in the lair, no thank you very much."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"Then put the lid down. I almost fell in the other day. With my luck, I would've got stuck, and you guys would've been out saving the city, and…"

"You're deflecting."

"I might get hurt, but John, you can't bubble wrap me. Besides, maybe I'll break his heart. Or maybe…and here's a crazy idea…maybe we'll be happy. I don't know, and neither do you, but I'm willing to find out because Oliver is worth it. He's decent and kind-hearted and complicated and smart and..."

"Okay. I've got the idea. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"That's my middle name. Well, it's not, but you know what I mean."

Digg exhaled loudly and nodded. "You ready to run the gauntlet?"

Some of Felicity's tension drained out of her. "What do you think the questions will be today? Baby names?"

"This couldn't wait?" Oliver asked by way of greeting when he saw Belinda Carlen waiting for him as he stepped off the executive elevator.

"No. I tried calling you last night, but you didn't return any of my calls. Frankly, Oliver, you have to know that I have better things to do than to call you to chitchat, so your lack of availability is problematic."

Oliver gestured toward his office. "I was indisposed. You didn't try Felicity?" He held the door open for the older woman, noting her sudden silence. He looked back at her, and noticed that she seemed to be searching for the right words. Not good.

"I thought it best that I not discuss this matter with her." Belinda placed the leather briefcase she carried on Oliver's desk, unlocked it, and withdrew a file folder. "It's a sensitive matter that requires discretion."

"In case I haven't made it clear, I trust Felicity implicitly." Oliver spoke evenly, but the hardness of his expression made it apparent to the older woman that he was not pleased that Felicity was being excluded from the conversation.

"And that trust is reciprocated?"

"Yes." At the shake of the older woman's head, Oliver's brows furrowed. "What is this about?"

"I had a visitor yesterday evening. Isabel Rochev."

"What did she want?"

"Other than wanting to drive me into an early retirement?"

Oliver cocked his head.

"Actually, it seems she is exceedingly suspicious of your relationship with Ms. Smoak. Ms. Rochev has a theory that your engagement is a drummed up PR stunt, one that could have dire consequences for the company during this…tenuous time. She approached me for confirmation of her suspicions."

"You set her straight, I trust."

"Ms. Rochev was quite insistent." Belinda ran her fingers along the edge of the file folder. With some hesitation, she held out the folder toward the younger man.

Oliver's stomach dropped when he lifted the cover of the folder. It was a photograph of him—along with Isabel—in his Moscow hotel room, their bodies entwined. Isabel's face was obscured as she rode him, her back to the camera, but his face was quite visible.

Quickly, he closed the file folder.

How the hell had this happened? Just further proof that what had, at the time seemed spontaneous, was, in fact, seamlessly orchestrated. And the photos were—what?—an insurance policy? She must've had help. The hotel staff?

"Ms. Rochev said this was just over three weeks ago. Frankly, it's none of my business what you do or…um…who you do. My job is to present this company in the best light possible, and as its CEO, that includes presenting you in the best light possible. But I have to tell you, this isn't helpful."

"No, you don't."

Oliver swiped his hand over his face, the bandage from last night still securely in place where Felicity had tended to his wounded hand.

Felicity.

This was going to hurt her. It was one thing to know they'd had other sexual partners. It was quite a different thing to actually see it. Who'd have thought her joking about a sex tape would be so oddly prophetic?

Oliver fought down the bile that threatened to rise. He felt physically ill from the abject disgust. It wasn't supposed to be anything other than a release, a few minutes of pleasure shared by two consenting adults. Instead, he'd unwittingly bedded his father's ex-mistress and the mother to his half-brother, complete with visual aids.

When he screwed up, he did so royally.

Which would probably be the headline: "Queen's Latest Screw Up Fit for a King."

Taking on enemies as The Arrow seemed easy, so much more straightforward than navigating the shark-infested waters of his existence as Oliver Queen.

"Obviously, that is not the only copy of the photograph in existence."

Obviously.

Oliver tried to keep his expression impassive but failed miserably as he ground out the words, "So as QC's resident PR miracle worker, what do you recommend?"

"That you disabuse Ms. Smoak of any notions of your faithfulness, for starters. Prepare her for the worst. I can coach her on how to respond to questions to hopefully minimize the damage."

"Felicity knows about Isabel."

Belinda's gray eyebrows rose in surprise. "That's something, at least. Ms. Rochev heavily suggested that if your engagement with Ms. Smoak continues, the source of the photograph will indeed leak it."

"Meaning Isabel will leak the photo."

"She has not claimed ownership," Belinda carefully explained.

"But I know Isabel."

"Yes, and your knowledge of her has once again cast you in the role of Lothario, one you wore quite aptly in the past."

Oliver's patience wore thin, and Belinda's snark did little to diffuse the strain he felt. "Ms. Carlen, you may find me personally objectionable, and that is your prerogative. But I am still the CEO, it is my name on the building, and I would appreciate if as my employee, you would keep your personal opinions to yourself."

"Mr. Queen, I have never been a coddler. I am not a 'yes' woman. I am here because over the years, your family has benefited from my expertise and the fact that I am willing to tell the truth bluntly, regardless of whether it's what someone wants to hear or how they want to hear it. I spin the truth for the outside world but not within these walls."

Oliver brought his fingers together, imagining nocking an arrow. "If she leaks the photograph, it's her reputation on the line, as well. The press won't leave her unscathed."

"That's true. It will be a minor scandal for her, but she's not the one who is engaged. I don't have to tell you that in the business world, trust is crucial. A man who betrays the woman he claims to love doesn't engender trust."

"And I don't have to tell you that the business world is full of hypocrites. What's one more?"

"You'd better start practicing a more contrite response. If this gets out, no one is going to give you a pass, Oliver. I don't have to tell you that investors have shown greater interest in QC since we announced your engagement. It has helped to humanize you, something that was needed in light of your mother's upcoming trial, but more importantly, it's a sign of stability."

"So hypothetically, if I break off the engagement, I give the impression of instability. If I don't break off the engagement and the photo is released, I give the impression of instability. Either way, Isabel wins."

"But what does she win? Why would Isabel Rochev, who has every reason to want Queen Consolidated to be successful, want this to become public?"

"How well do you know Isabel Rochev?"

"Not well at all. Only by reputation."

"I recently learned that Isabel had a relationship with my father." At the lack of reaction from Belinda, Oliver added, "Which doesn't surprise you in the least. You knew."

"I've worked here many years."

"What do you know about their relationship?"

"Enough to know that it wasn't one-sided." Belinda leaned against his desk. "When your father ended the relationship with some reluctance, he alluded to Ms. Rochev potentially using information that could cause harm to your family."

"Did he say what?"

"No. We came up with a rather cutthroat media plan to discredit Ms. Rochev if it proved necessary, but it did not. Isabel cut off contact with Mr. Queen for several years, and it was never an issue. Until now."

Oliver turned away, his mouth set in a tight line.

"If I am to help you, I need you to be honest with me about everything."

Almost as if on cue, Oliver saw the elevator door open and Felicity emerge carrying a garment bag. She smiled brightly as he motioned for her to join Belinda and him.

Belinda continued, "Let's start with what possessed you to pass off your executive assistant as your fiancée in the first place."

Oliver squeezed the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on.

As Felicity opened the glass door, she noticed the somber expressions on the others' faces. "What did I miss?"

"If I were Isabel," Felicity paused and shuddered from her seat at Oliver's desk. "Those are words I never thought I would utter. But if I were, where would I keep the, uh, evidence?"

"Felicity, I'm sorry."

"That you have terrible taste in women? Well, present company excluded, of course. We've all been there. Remind me to tell you sometime about this lacrosse player I knew in college."

"You're okay?"

"Of course not. In fact, I am really starting to hate Isabel, and I don't mean that as a figure of speech. Kind of like if a house fell on her Wizard of Oz style, I would probably gawk just a little bit…and there may or may not be clapping involved…okay, not the point. So obviously, you were a bit occupied and didn't see a camera, so we don't know if we're dealing with a physical storage device, like an SD card, which likely has been backed up in various digital formats, on the cloud, you name it, or whether the photo was wirelessly transmitted and is solely digital. So if we want to keep this from becoming her Instagram profile pic, we're going to have to start digging."

"Instagram?"

"It pains me that you don't know what that is. This may take awhile."

"How long do we have?" Oliver asked Belinda.

"Twenty-four hours. Less now since I was unable to reach you last night."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I think I should just ask for it back."

Belinda choked back a snort. "From what you and Felicity have told me, Rochev's angling for your company and has been for some time. What could you possibly say to convince her?"

"I could say please."

"Oliver," Felicity's warning tone snapped his focus back to her.

"We're reacting defensively, but we need to be taking the fight to her," he replied through gritted teeth. "I'm not the only one with something to lose."

"Please tell me you aren't thinking what I think you're thinking," Felicity responded, her voice tinged with trepidation.

Oliver took a deep breath. "It's time to arrange a family reunion."

To Be Continued...