Chapter 185
Iris
“Careful, step up here,” Arthur murmurs, his hand firm on my lower back as he guides me forward.
The blindfold is soft against my face, blocking out all light. I’ve been wearing it since we got in the car twenty minutes ago, and my curiosity is killing me. Where on earth is Arthur taking me?
“Another step,” he says. “We’re almost there.”
I can tell we’re indoors now. The air feels different–cooler quieter. My heels click against what sounds like marble flooring.
“Okay, stop here.” I feel his fingers at the back of my head, intying the blindfold. It falls away, and I blink as my eyes adjust to the light.
“Oh, Arthur,” I breathe.
We’re standing in the grand entrance hall of the Ordan National Art Museum–the most prestigious art
institution in the country. Marble columns soar toward a vaulted ceiling painted with intricate murals. A sweeping staircase curves upward before us.
And not another soul is in sight.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, turning in a slow circle. The museum should be packed with visitors, even at this hour.
Arthur’s smile is proud, “I rented it. The whole thing. Just for us.”
“You… what?” I stare at him. “You rented the entire museum?”
He nods. “For the whole evening. No cameras, no press, no other visitors. Just you and me and som greatest artwork in the world.”
the
I’m speechless. The Ordan National Art Museum houses masterpieces from across centuries and continents. Getting a private viewing is virtually impossible, even for the wealthy and connected. For Arthur to arrange this…. “How did you…” I trail off, still processing.
“Being Alpha President has to have some perks,” he says with a wink, looping his arm through mine. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Arthur, this is… this is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.”
“Where should we start?” Arthur asks, gesturing to the museum.
“Everywhere,” I say, already turning toward the Renaissance wing. “I want to see everything.
>>
We spend the next hour wandering through galleries filled with priceless treasures. I’ve been to this museum before, of course, but never like this–never with the freedom to linger as long as I want before each piece, never without the crowds and noise of other visitors.
Arthur stays by my side, listening attentively as I excitedly explain the techniques used in the pieces, the histories behind each one, the inspiration I’ve drawn from a few.
“I’ve never heard someone talk about art the way you do,” he says as we stand before a particularly striking landscape. “You make it come alive.”
I flush at the compliment. “It’s easier when I’m not being rushed or jostled. And when my audience seems genuinely interested.”
“I am,” Arthur says simply. “I love seeing the world through your eyes.”
We continue our private tour, moving from Renaissance masterpieces to Impressionist landscapes, from ancient sculptures to modern installations. In one gallery dedicated to contemporary artists, I spot a painting by a former classmate from art school.
“I know her,” I gasp, pointing to the signature. “We took figure drawing together. She always had this incredible way with light.”
“Maybe someday your work will hang here too,” Arthur says, his arm slipping around my waist.
The thought sends a thrill through me. “That’s every artist’s dream.”
We’re halfway through the modern wing when Arthur checks his watch. “Are you getting hungry? I’ve arranged for something special.”
“More special than a private museum tour?” I tease.
He just smiles mysteriously and leads me to the museum’s central rotunda, a grand circular space dominated by a massive sculpture of the First Alpha Wolf of Ordan. But the sculpture isn’t what catches my eye.
In the center of the marble floor, a plush blanket has been spread out, surrounded by flickering electric candles. A picnic basket sits nearby, alongside an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne.
“A picnic?” I laugh in delight. “In the museum?”
“I thought we could have dinner with a view,” Arthur says, gesturing upward.
I tilt my head back. Above us, the rotunda’s dome is painted with a breathtaking mural depicting the mythological creation of Ordan. Werewolves and humans coexisting in harmony, guided by the light of a full moon. It’s stunning, especially with the soft glow of the candles below.
“This is perfect,” I whisper.
We settle on the blanket, and Arthur opens the basket to reveal an assortment of gourmet food–cheeses, fruits, crusty bread, chocolate–dipped strawberries. He pours champagne into two flutes, handing one to me.
