"No. This one's private. Just for us. If I sell this, then it will give away that I go to the exhibitions."
"Thats true."
"Four weeks until Berlin," she says.
"Then the world."
She turns in my arms, her eyes meeting mine. "I'm ready."
We pack the second portfolio carefully over the next week. Twenty-two pieces, each one wrapped and catalogued and stored safely.
Ready for whatever comes next.
Ready for Berlin and for everything coming our way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DOM
We land at Tegel in Berlin three days before the opening at Galerie Schwarz, and the city feels different from anything we've experienced. Darker and older. Like it's been holding secrets for centuries and knows how to keep them.
Roxy's work arrived two weeks ago, shipped directly from Void Gallery's storage to Petra Hoffman's gallery in Kreuzberg. Ten pieces from the original portfolio, but not "Toxic Devotion”, that one stays in private collections now, sold to a Miami collector for twelve thousand dollars.
Twelve thousand, for a drawing of us.
The prices have climbed since New York. What sold for four thousand in Brooklyn now goes for six to eight in Europe. Petra says it's the mystery. The reclusive artist who won't appear, won't give interviews, won't even provide a biography beyond "RB, American, works in photography and drawing."
The art world loves the drama of the unknown.
"You ready?" I ask Roxy as we dress for the opening.
She's wearing black jeans, a simple gray sweater, boots. Her hair is pulled back in a low messy bun. She looks artistic, understated but classy.
"Yeah," she says, checking her reflection one last time. "You?"
I'm in dark jeans, a black henley, my usual boots. Fitting in with every other regular guy here.
"Yep."
She crosses to me and I pull her close, my hands settling on her back. She's been vibrating with energy since we landed, but not nervous, exactly. Excited and ready to hear what they say about her work, about who they think she is.
"Remember," I say quietly. "We're just guests. We don't talk to anyone unless we have to."
"I know."
"No jealous outbursts, either. We’re in a different country so we have to be extra careful."
"Got it. I’m someone else tonight.”
I kiss her forehead and she leans into me, her hands sliding under my shirt to rest against my skin. We've been like this since New York where we are constantly touching, grounding each other. To anyone watching, we're just a clingy couple.
No one looks at us twice.
That's exactly the point.
Galerie Schwarz is in a converted warehouse in Kreuzberg, all exposed brick and industrial lighting. The space is packed when we arrive, the usual collectors, critics, other artists, gallery regulars speaking rapid German mixed with English.
We slip in through the crowd, just another couple arriving fashionably late. Roxy's work is on the walls.
