Chapter 102

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, untying 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 some of the greatest artwork in the world.”

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.

“To new beginnings,” Arthur says softly, clinking his glass against mine. I smile and take a sip. The champagne is crisp and cold, bubbles dancing on my tongue. I lean back on one elbow, gazing up at the mural again.

“You know,” I say thoughtfully, “I’ve always loved that this mural shows humans and werewolves as equals, building Ordan together. Most historical accounts erase the human contribution.”

Arthur follows my gaze upward. “The artist was ahead of his time.” He laces his fingers through mine. “I hope to change that, you know.”

I blink, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the gesture looking positively delicious in the crisp fisherman’s sweater he’s wearing. “You and I are making history, Iris. Not that I chose to go public with our relationship simply for that reason, but… I hope we can show the next generation that love always prevails, regardless of background.”

My face heats, and I lean my head on his shoulder without even thinking about it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I hope so too.”

We eat slowly, talking about everything and nothing—Miles’ latest drawings, a book Arthur’s been reading, a new painting technique I’ve been experimenting with.

But as we finish the last of the champagne, the sound of music drifts through the rotunda. I look around in surprise to see a violinist standing at the edge of the room. I gasp, covering my mouth with my hand. “Arthur, you didn’t…”

“I did.” He stands, offering me his hand. “Dance with me?”

I nod and place my hand in his, letting him draw me to my feet. His arm circles my waist, drawing me close. My hand finds his shoulder, and our other hands clasp together. We begin to sway, not following any particular dance pattern, just moving together in time with the music.

As we turn slowly across the marble floor, I rest my head against Arthur’s chest, hearing the steady thump of his heart beneath my ear.

All the anxiety and discomfort of yesterday’s photoshoot seems far away now. The pressure of fitting into Arthur’s world, of measuring up to expectations, of being someone I’m not—none of it matters in this moment.

Here, in the quiet beauty of the museum, with Arthur’s arms around me, I feel like myself again. And this feels… right. Five years in the making, and yet somehow the past five years of heartache makes this all the more sweet.

The violinist transitions to a more romantic melody, the notes sweet and yearning. Arthur’s hand presses more firmly against my lower back, drawing me closer until there’s no space between us.

“I love you, Iris,” he whispers. “I never stopped loving you, not for a single day. I hope you know that.”

Before I can respond, his lips find mine in a kiss that makes my knees weak. His hand slides up my back to cradle my head, fingers threading through my hair as he deepens the kiss. I melt into him, my arms winding around his neck, holding on as if I might float away otherwise.

Time seems to stop as we stand there, lost in each other. When we finally break apart, both a little breathless, I feel like I’m seeing Arthur for the first time all over again.

We dance a while longer, exchanging soft kisses and whispers, until the violinist plays a final, lingering note and then bows before discreetly exiting.

“We should probably head back,” Arthur says reluctantly. “The museum staff will want to close up eventually.”

I nod, although I wish we could stay in this perfect bubble forever. We gather up the remnants of our picnic and head out.

When we arrive at my building, Arthur walks me to my door, his hand warm at the small of my back. At the threshold, he pulls me close for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, filled with promise.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say when we finally part. “It was perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “And there’s more of this to come. Trust me. I’ve got years of making up to do.”

His words resonate with me; there’s a lot of making up that I want to do on my part. I know he needs to leave—he has early meetings tomorrow, responsibilities that can’t wait. But as he reluctantly steps back, I catch his wrist, pulling him toward me.

“Stay,” I say, my gaze meaningful as I look up at him through my lashes. “Stay the night.”