Cupidity [h.s]

two

Athena

We follow Harry down a tantalisingly long hallway.

He doesn't slow his steps or look back to see whether we're following him or not. Several times, Jameson tries to pull me backwards by the arm so we can make a clean getaway, but I shrug him off and keep walking.

It's abundantly clear Harry doesn't want to give this tour because we aren't who he expected to see today. He thinks he's leagues above us and if we left without a word, we'd be letting him and his massive ego win. Which isn't going to happen. Just because he has a somewhat prestigious job in a place as lovely as this museum doesn't mean he's entitled to making us feel any less than him.

At the end of the hallway, the floor forks off into several different directions, and Harry abruptly comes to a halt. I nearly bump into his back before Jameson is pulling me away from a collision with him just in time.

Harry turns around to look at us, a begrudging expression still on his face. When he speaks, it's monotone and listless, like he's reciting a passage of memorised text. "Olympia is divided into eight segments. Seven of them house themed collections, the eighth is a library. There's the American Wing, the Armoury, Egyptian Art, Medieval Art, Contemporary Art, Greek and Roman Art and European Paintings and Sculpture. Each division of Olympia is curated and maintained by a group of experts—"

Jameson cuts him off. "Do you make a lot of money?"

Harry's jaw ticks, blinking slowly. "I don't see how that's relevant, or any of your business."

"I'm just ask—"

"This way," Harry swipes a card attached to a keychain clipped to his pocket, onto a machine fixed to the wall and directs us into a state-of-the-art elevator. He presses the pad of his thumb onto a detector, with the panel illuminating green and granting him to access the upper floors of the museum.

The ride is short. Jameson and I stand silently along the back wall of the elevator, while Harry stands in front with his back to us, unmoving. It feels like we're on a school trip with a teacher who got forced to supervise last minute. It's terribly awkward and I don't know what we've done to annoy Harry so much already.

I remind myself that it's less our problem and probably his; some people are, by nature, more standoffish than others, and though it isn't an excuse to be rude, it is an explanation.

The heavy-duty steel doors clank open and Harry steps out with us steadily on his heels. This floor of the museum is pointedly not open to the public and a lot more modernised than the stone architecture of the ground floor, however there is an old-school red carpet beneath our feet.

We trail Harry to the end of yet another hallway, where he opens a wooden door fixed with a name plate reading: H. STYLES.

Jameson is nudging me with confusion at the same time as I'm quirking a brow at him. We're about to enter Harry's office, although our curiosity as to why is quickly melted by the sound of a piercing, childlike cry.

"For fuck's sake," Harry grumbles as he steps deeper into the room. Jameson and I linger in the doorway, taking in the room before us.

Harry's office is large and impressive. The wall to the left is one long dark oak bookshelf, overflowing with well read books. The wall to the right is a large window overlooking the city skyline and Central Park.

The most eye-catching feature by far, is the painting hung along the width of wall behind his desk. It's a painting depicting the Fallen Angel: a man's entirely bare but chiselled form angled to conceal any stark nudity, with a cerulean wing jutting from his back and following the curve of his spine. One of his muscled arms obscure the bottom half of his face, but the expression portrayed above is cold with rage and gruesome anguish. His brows are dipped to counter his red-rimmed, razor-sharp gaze.