*It goes without saying that Arrow – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to DC Comics or to the Arrow. This was written by a fan, solely for the enjoyment of other fans.*
Chapter 1
AMELIA ARCHER
"Oliver Queen. The rich man's Lindsey Lohan."
– Helena Bertinelli, S01E07
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, while 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 queasiness, that bloom of nerves as I stood poised to meet my fiancé for the first time – swept aside like I was already family.
Fiancé.
Even only in my mind, the word felt heavy. Not unpleasant, exactly, but weighted 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.
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 in his 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.
"– that the floral order was amended?" Moira inquired.
"Amelia felt that hyacinths would better compliment the season," my mom explained "and you can be sure the florist is charging us a tidy sum for the effort. Imagine how we must have seemed to that poor man, changing our minds at the last minute!"
Polite laughter from both women.
Idly, I wondered if my mother realized how flat her lie would fall. I set down my wine, untasted. Hyacinths were a spring flower; we were in November, making this a winter wedding. The flowers would not, in fact, better compliment the season.
Moira had chosen the original arrangement. Red and white roses; expensive, beautiful and classic.
I could have left it alone, certainly my mom would have been happier if I had, but to my mind red weddings didn't end well so . . . I called the florist first thing and changed the order to blue hyacinths instead.
They weren't happy with the short notice, but it could be done – and the cost was coming out of my own account. Not my family's. Not the Queen's. I was paying for this. So I didn't appreciate the implication that I was just demanding.
I forced a serene smile as dessert was – finally – brought out.
A hand-churned chocolate and black cherry ice cream, served with coffee strong enough to acid strip the back of our throats and as the wait staff set the small dishes in front of us, from under the table, I felt my grandpa give my knee an encouraging pat.
Be patient with her.
"You're quiet."
Silence fell like an axe.
For a gloriously loaded moment, the only sound came from the gently crackling fire on the far side of the room. It was so unsubtle that I couldn't help myself. I laughed.
"I'm sure there's a reason for that," I teased. "Good going, Oliver. And here I was starting to think we'd make it through the dessert course without provoking the table."
My mother stiffened.
Moira, though, set her chin lightly on the ends of her fingers with a ghost of a smile playing over her expression. Her wedding diamond glinted in the lamplight.
"Two hours of stilted conversation, and a stony silence," Oliver picked at his dessert, crumbling the paper-thin wedge of decorative wafer between his thumb and forefinger, "and here I was starting to take it personally."
"Maybe I'm nervous."
"You're not nervous."
No, I wasn't.
Or else, not as nervous as I felt I should have been.
"My silence was contemplative," I countered. "Not stony."
"Contemplative."
"Hm."
"Alright, well, if you're silently contemplating the best time to break and run then I suggest while in transit," the hard light in his eyes danced "it's twenty or so minutes to the city. Personally, I'd wait until you get there to make the attempt," and with a lazy, mischievous glint added, "the woods do get cold at night."
"Fling myself out of a moving car?" I tapped my chin, as if mulling it over. "Not a terrible idea. You know, bruises aside, I think I can manage a fair head start in the time it'd take my family to realize what I just did."
My mom was officially telegraphing death threats. I could practically feel the side of my head starting to sizzle and it took all of my considerable restraint not to tease her a little. I reached for the tiny dessert spoon instead, holding it lightly between my fingers.
The flatware silver and heavy enough to be solid.
"Or not. Throwing myself out of a moving car does seem excessive," I conceded. "Unless you're worried? Don't be. I'm sure I can bring myself to show for our wedding. On time, too."
Both Moira and Walter laughed, his deeper chuckle adding a lovely depth to her delighted chime.
Oliver's lip quirked, a slow smile easing over his expression.
Not an uncomplicated smile. Guarded, but acquiescing.
He considered me, those hard blue eyes as still as deep water. They were a strange color. Darker than I was expecting but mercurial; in the clear, bright light of late afternoon they'd been almost transparent but now, under the softer glow of lamplight they'd deepened to a piercing sapphire.
My breath seemed to catch a little.
"An interesting choice. Your necklace –"
Right. The whole point of this evening was for us to get to know each other, and I fingered the pendant hanging from a delicate chain at my throat. A padlock; the pendant no larger than a thumbnail, nestled just above the soft cut of my blouse.
It's inconsequential weight reassuring in its familiarity.
"The chain is real but the lock is steel, not silver."
"You wore it for the pendant," Oliver said "not the chain."
True. "I've had it since I was . . . fourteen, I think? I do own nice jewelry," I added, if a bit defensively "but tonight is different. I that that if I was here to meet you, then maybe you'd like to meet me, too."
Oliver blinked, taken aback by the frank sincerity of that statement. Maybe having expected a measure more coyness. A subtle warmth seeped into those penetrating blue eyes.
I set my elbows on the table.
"So, your turn. Tell me something about yourself."
"What do you want to know?"
An opening. He was giving an inch, to see what I would do with it but rather than a test it felt like a gift.
"Where would you be right now," I asked "if you didn't have to be here tonight?"
That careful, not uncomplicated smile didn't slip. He wore it easily, naturally. "What makes you think I'd rather be anywhere else?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
My heart had no right turning over at that. Traitor.
A calm, full silence fell and it was . . . comfortable. Easier now to indulge in that pause, as people's attention slid away; our parents and my grandfather satisfied that we were actually talking. I guess. Not fighting, at least.
Which is a pretty low bar if that's all they were hoping for.
From the head of the table Moira took her husband's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Walter lifted it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Again, Moira's wedding ring glinted. A single hard stone set in platinum; the wide band crusted with diamonds.
That ring would have cost a fortune – but her eyes shown with tender affection, not avarice, for the man who'd given it to her. What would my own ring look like? Had he chosen it for me, or did his mother? The same way she'd chosen the venue, the menu, and the flowers before I usurped that decision . . .
"Can I ask," Oliver kept his voice down, and to our families' credit they pretended they weren't still listening. As if it were even possible to hold a private conversation at a table set for six, "why would you agree to this marriage?"
I set my spoon down, the taste of tart cherries and chocolate on my tongue.
He was serious. That question . . .
"What makes you think I had any choice?"
"I don't believe that."
He held my stare, the intensity in his eyes mild but poignant. The hearth fire popped, sending a shower of sparks against the pretty iron grate. The smoky aroma of burning wood reminiscent of the days spent at my grandparents' lake house as a child.
My parents had a very nice house but ours was a gas fireplace. Artificial heat, and scentless as a plastic flower. My hands were fidgeting again, turning my spoon round and round in that single scoop of chocolate ice cream.
"Amy."
Brows ticked, all around the table.
"My name," I offered, "you can call me Amy."
It was a gift, but also, in a way, a test. Would he let me steer the conversation, or press the question?
"You don't like Amelia?"
"Oh, I like my name well enough," I said, relieved "but I always found it too formal. Especially when I was little, Amelia was such a grow up name it fit me like a loose second skin. I turned it into my first real rebellion."
"Did you ever," my mom concurred and laughed at the memory, a secret dimple winking merrily as she looked at me. "You obstinately refused to answer anyone who dared call you by our given name. Such a willful child."
"Amelia is a princesses' name," I groused. Willfully.
And it was Walter who said, "Or else a Queen's."
Oof. Well, that was sobering.
"If I may," Walter said, engaging me now, "your family founded, and remains the majority share holder of The Archer Group., construction and real estate."
Yes. It was how my family amassed its fortune and that fortune . . . couldn't hold a candle to the Queen's wealth. But of course everyone at this table knew that already.
I nodded, inviting my soon-to-be father-in-law to continue.
"You're an intelligent young woman. An ambitious one," he said. "I find it interesting that you would chose to surrender a secure career in business for –"
How to say this without sounding rude . . .
"For culinary school?" I finished for him. "You can say it. I gave up a career in business for a shot at the food industry."
It was near imperceptible, but Oliver shifted. Interest lighting like a struck match.
"I didn't surrender my family's company," I explained, and my mom nodded. Backing me up, "I wasn't needed. My dad was already grooming my sister to inherit the company and Liz – Elisabeth – is very happy with this. She wants the position."
I reached for my wine. A rich, golden white. Held it.
"Having my sister fall in line essentially freed me to pursue my own interests, and those interests took me to the kitchen. Though you're right, I am ambitious. And I do have a head for business. I intend to open my own restaurant."
Some day. 'twas the dream.
Moira approved. "Starling City has a wonderful market for cuisine. A restaurant with your name on it would do well here."
"If I could break into it," I countered. "A thriving market offers a tremendous opportunity, but the odds of success also decrease exponentially." I set my wine down. Untasted. "I think I would be ashamed to use the Queen name as a crutch. Any business of mine would have to succeed through its own merit, and the quality of the product I offer."
My mom beamed. Radiating pride, and approval.
No one said it, because nobody had to.
There was no question that I could have used this marriage and all those things I stood to gain – the Queen name, wealth, influence – to coast through the rest of my life . . . and my family, the people I loved, who loved me, would have been deeply disappointed in me.
I was intelligent. Educated. With my own ambitions and not until Moira sent the proposal to my family for my hand did it ever occur to me that I was as much a prize as Oliver Queen himself.
This union was coveted.
"You do have a mind for success," Walter allowed, his deep, pleasant voice resonate, "too many dreamers forget the reality of turning profit in a market already inundated with competition, where you mention it as a matter of fact."
Coming from Walter Steele, CEO of one of the largest and most profitable conglomerates this side of the world . . . that meant a lot.
My attention slid to my fiancé, quietly watching all of this.
"What do you think?"
Quick humor fired in Oliver's eyes. "I think I dropped out of four Ivy League schools, and the fifth still accepted y application."
A smattering of uncertain chuckles. Nobody quite sure if they were supposed to laugh, there. His mother narrowed her eyes, not amused.
But I was.
"I already know about the nightclub," I teased "and from what I've heard, you're making it work. In the city's infamous Glades, no less, so you must be doing something right. Not bad for an Ivy League dropout who spent the better part of half a decade lost at sea or . . . are we not supposed to bring that up?"
Because by the way everyone stiffened, you'd think I just stoop up and slapped him.
Oliver eased back in his chair, one strong arm braced on the table. Calloused fingers stroking the stem of his wineglass. Skin tanned and firm, weathered. Those were not the hands of a billionaire's son. An heir. Something very much like hard respect replaced the humor in those startlingly blue eyes.
I lowered my voice as if sharing a secret, and let a smile wink, "They're all looking at me like they're afraid I'm going to break you."
He laughed and my heart stumbled at the sound of it.
"Yeah, that happens sometimes."
– people released their collective breaths.
I hardly noticed. Looking across at him over the glistening wineglasses, the rich chocolate of our desserts, the whole world seemed to fall away; one too-bright pixel at a time and it was exactly like in the movies.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
Like hell. I brushed a curling strand of hair from my face, "You do know I'm not afraid of the dark."
His eyes slid away, then back. What?
"The woods get cold at night," I reminded him. "Dark, too, I assume. The dark doesn't scare me and the cold . . ." I shrugged. "Whatever. I brought a coat."
"So you're considering it? The attempt."
"Wouldn't that be embarrassing. Having your betrothed pull a runaway bride."
"Amelia," my mom chided, but Oliver offered his first uncensored smile.
It was all I could do not to marvel at the way my own came easily, naturally, in response. As if we were friends. As if there already existed a bond between us. A simple one. An honest one. The feeling unexpected, but not unwelcome.
I savored it.
"Now your turn," I said. "Tell me what you're thinking about."
Oliver considered me, a world of words moving behind eyes that had lightened to turbulent seas. How had eyes so vibrantly blue suddenly turned gray?
"I'm thinking," he drew out, "that I'm glad to meet you."
XxXxXx
We were staying at the luxurious Essex Grand Hotel, in uptown Starling City, overlooking the gleaming business district – and from my suite, I could just make out the frothing black waters of the bay. Five years ago, a yacht sailed out on those waters.
Half a decade later . . .
In the near distance, the glowing blue "Q" of Queen Consolidated shone like a low-hanging moon over the gleaming jewel of the city. I felt that letter like a weight in my chest, eyes drawn to it as the reality of what I had agreed to finally settled as a sort of finality.
I was getting married, today.
I thought I was ready.
There hadn't been any doubts, I wasn't scared. Why, then, had I spent the night staring at the ceiling of my rented room, counting the minutes as if that would make them pass any faster. Or stall. I couldn't decide which.
At just past six a.m., I left my suite and rode the elevator down to the lobby. I amused myself by locating the mostly hidden eyes of security cameras; their lenses positioned in the upper corners, where the gold-mirrored panels came together.
Between the four of them, no matter which way someone was facing, there'd be a clean shot of the face.
Nice. Very nice.
This early in the morning the hotel was quiet. The receptionists in their smart blue blazers, at the glossy dark reception desk, talked quietly in the subdued stillness of the vacant lobby.
To the immediate left of the elevators a wide corridor led deeper into the hotel and I could just make out the frosted glass and chrome doors that opened into a banquet hall. My skin prickled with what might have been nerves, if it wasn't for the hum of the air conditioning.
I let the sleeves of my sweater slither down over both hands, and crossed my arms.
The lobby wasn't totally empty. Sunk into an overstuffed chair across from the reception, I found my grandfather. A newspaper lifted up over his face.
"Early morning, my girl?"
I sat down. "Good morning, grandpa."
On the low glass table between our chairs, a tea service had been set. I took his cup, cradling the lukewarm china in both hands. Sipped – and then grimaced.
"Ugh. Why don't you just drink coffee and be done with it?"
He chuckled and folded his newspaper with a practiced snap. The tea was just how my grandfather liked it – black as tar, with just enough sugar to take the edge off and a squeeze of lemon. To put the edge back in, I guess.
It tasted like cough syrup.
"Kids these days," he teased, and lightly slapped my knee with the newspaper "weak bellies."
"That must be it." I set the cup down, careful not to let it clack on its saucer. "Because if you're trying to kill mosquitoes, we're in November. I think you're safe."
"Did you sleep well?"
A loaded question.
"I slept."
"Ah."
"No. Not ah. I'm –"
"– would you like a uh-huh?"
I wrinkled my nose, and laughed. Grateful for my grandfather.
"I did sleep. Some."
He nodded. "It's normal to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Lie to the whole world, my girl, but don't you ever lie to yourself," he said, with the most grandfatherly sounding harrumph I'd ever heard and set his newspaper, crisply folded, down on the glass-top table. Exchanged it for his teacup, "Do you like him?"
Him.
"What does it matter?"
"It matters."
Maybe so. But I was under no illusion; this marriage was transactional, and nothing short of a meteor would even postpone our union. Love was neither expected, nor required.
And at no point was I led to believe otherwise.
"I found him . . . enigmatic."
I really could not parallel the man he'd been, to the man he'd become and it flustered me. More than I cared to admit. Five years lost at sea; he wasn't what I was expecting. Damaged, I had no doubt but also, somehow . . . not.
He intrigued me.
Enigmatic, sounded safe enough.
An employee swept through the lobby doors, dragging a draft of icy air in his wake.
Outside, the early dark seemed so clear. Sharp. Edged by the shine of hotel lights, and the gloss of rain-wet asphalt. Light slithered off the hoods of parked cars.
My skin itched to be out there. In the crisp, cold air.
"What happens if I don't like him?" The question slipped out, as if something had taken hold. I eyed the ceramic teapot, steaming on the centre table – "We were joking," I assured him. Myself, "about slipping away." Because in spite of the arranged part of this marriage, I'd had a say in it.
I said yes.
My grandfather said nothing.
He waited, patient as an old oak, for me to find the words I needed to make sense of the emotion roiling inside of me. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and studied my grandfather's weathered face. Tracing the lines that were the roadmap of a life lived.
No. They were more than that. The webbing around his eyes, the deep creases at the corners of his mouth – evidence of a life lived well. The man I knew laughed easily, and often. Kind, stern, he'd earned every moment. Owned each second.
"The thing about choice is that you don't know, can't know, if you're making the right choices. Not when they're being made." Lie to the whole world, but don't you ever lie to yourself. I licked my lips, "I think this would be so much easier, if I'd had no choice at all."
My grandfather's smile was soft, and affirming.
"None of us are living in a fairy story, my girl, and you both have a responsibility. To your families, and to each other. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury. Friendship is not."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you go into this prepared to be his friend. Be open to love, my girl, but don't go searching for it."
Be his friend. His partner . . .
I offered a quiet smile, grateful that my grandfather had been here. First thing in the morning, to retrieve a paper freshly delivered still smelling of warm ink. He was as predictable as the dawn, and I loved him all the more for that.
He steadied me.
"Thank you."
"You did good tonight, my girl. I am proud of you."