CHAPERONED DINNER

"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, 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.

He was handsome.

"– that the floral order was amended?" Moira inquired.

"Amelia felt that hyacinths would better compliment the season," my mom said, quick to explain "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 mind at the last minute!"

Polite laughter from both women.

Idly, I wondered if my mother realized how flat her lie would fall. Hyacinths were a spring flower; we were in November, making this a winter wedding . . . my flowers would not, in fact, better compliment the season.

I set my wine down.

Moira chose the original arrangement. Red and white roses – expensive, beautiful, and classic. I could have left it alone 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 accounts. 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 brought out. Hand-churned chocolate and 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 sounds came from the gently crackling fire on the far side of the dining room throwing shadows on the ceiling.

"Quiet," I said, easily. With a sparkle to take the edge off, "says the man who hasn't said a word all evening."

My mother stiffened. Moira, though, set her chin lightly on the ends of her fingers. A ghost of a smile playing over her expression.

Her wedding diamond glinted in the lamplight.

"Two hours of a 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," I said "was contemplative. Not stony."

"Contemplative."

"Hm."

"Right, well, if you're silently contemplating the best time to break and run I suggest while in transit." The hard light in his eyes danced. "It's twenty or so minutes to the city. Though personally I'd wait until you get there to make the attempt," he added with a lazy, mischievous glint. "The woods get cold at night."

"Fling myself out of a moving car?" I tapped my chin, as if mulling it over. "Not a terrible idea. 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 telegraphing death threats.

I could almost 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.

"Throwing myself out of a moving car does seem a little excessive," I said. "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.

"An interesting choice," he said. "Your necklace –"

I fingered the pendant hanging from a delicate chain at my throat. A padlock; the pendant no bigger 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," he said. "Not the chain."

True. Very true, and I liked that he knew that.

"I do own nice jewelry," I said, if a bit defensively. "But dinner tonight is something . . . special. Different. I thought 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.

Subtle warmth seeped into those penetrating blue eyes, and I let my smile wink.

I set my elbows on the table.

"Now you. 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.

That easy, not uncomplicated smile didn't slip. He wore it easily, naturally.

"Where would you be right now," I asked "if you didn't have to be here tonight?"

"What makes you think I'd rather be anywhere else?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

I didn't believe him.

But I didn't say that.

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 an awfully low bar if that's all they were hoping for.

At 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.

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.

I wondered what my own would look like. Had Oliver chosen it for me, or had Moira? 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 were pretending to ignore us. As if it were even possible to hold a private conversation at a table set for six, "why did you agree to this marriage?"

I set my spoon down, the sweet taste of cherries and bitter chocolate on my tongue.

"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 aroma of burning wood delicious, the warmth.

"I agreed," I said, slowly. As if only now realizing it myself, "when it occurred to me that I had no reason to refuse."

"It can be argued there was every reason to refuse."

My hands were moving; turning my spoon over and over in that single scoop of chocolate ice cream. I blew out a quiet sigh.

"Amy."

Brows ticked, all down the table.

From the people who weren't listening.

"My name," I said. "I prefer Amy."

It was a gift, of sorts. An easy evasion but also a test. Would he let me steer the conversation, or press the question?

"What's wrong with Amelia?"

"Nothing wrong. I do like my name," I admitted, adding "only it never quite seemed to fit. Me, I mean. I never fit me. Especially when I was little, Amelia was such a grown up. I turned it into my first real rebellion."

"Did you ever," my mom concurred and laughed at the memory, a secret dimple winking merrily. "You obstinately refused to answer anyone who dared to call you by your 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 Prior 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 place in my family's company," I explained, to the both of them. 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 her inheritance."

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. 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 would do well here."

"If I could break into it," I countered. "A thriving market offers a tremendous opportunity, but the odds of success 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 no one 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.

I was intelligent. Educated. With my own ambitions and not until Moira sent the proposal to my family did it even occur to me that I was as much a prize as Oliver Queen himself. That I may have been just as 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 my 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 so you must be doing something right. Not bad for an Ivy League dropout who spent the better part of a decade lost at sea or . . . are we not supposed to bring that up?"

Because the way everyone stiffened, you would think I just stood up and slapped him.

Oliver eased back in his chair, one strong arm braced on the table. Calloused fingers stroked the stem of his wineglass. Skin tanned and firm; those were not the hands of a billionaire's son. An heir.

Something very much like respect replaced the humor in those startlingly blue eyes.

I lowered y voice as if sharing a secret, and let my smile wink. "They're looking at me like they're afraid you're going to break."

He laughed and my heart stumbled at the sound of it.

"They do that a lot."

– 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. It was just like in the movies.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

Like hell. I brushed a curling strand of hair from my face. "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. "I brought a coat."

He snorted.

I laughed. "Can you imagine? 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 could eyes so vibrantly blue turn so gray?

"I'm thinking," he said "that I'm glad I got tomeet you."

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 icy black water of the crescent 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.

I thought I was ready.

There hadn't been any doubt; I wasn't scared. So why had I spent the night staring at the ceiling of my rented room quietly counting the minutes as if that would make them pass any faster. Or else 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 empty. Sunk into an overstuffed chair, I found my grandfather. A newspaper lifted up in front of 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 grimaced.

"Ugh. Why you don't 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 folded paper "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. He 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 an alien invasion would even postpone our union. Love neither expected, nor required.

"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 was tantalizingly bright; 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.

"What happens if I don't like him?" I eyed the ceramic teapot, steaming on the centre table – "You know 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 problem is choice. The thing about choice is that you don't know, can't know, if you're making the 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 hate to admit it. This'd be easier if I had 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, 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 it.

He steadied me.

"Thank you."

"You did good tonight, my girl. I'm proud of you."

DISCLAMER - 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 Arrow. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.