"Not even for collectors?"
"Not even for collectors. But I can pass on messages if you're interested in purchasing."
"I am. This one, Japatul Valley. What's the price?"
"Four thousand."
"Sold."
I watch a red dot appear next to the piece. My first sale.
Four thousand dollars for a photograph of a crime scene. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or disturbed that a photo would cost so much.
Dom leans close, his mouth near my ear. "You did it."
I don't respond as I’ve lost my voice, so I just squeeze his hand tighter and take a huge gulp of my wine. Over the next half hour, more people arrive and the gallery fills. Conversations swirl around us, increasing in volume as people relax.
"Who do you think RB is?"
"Maybe someone famous using a pseudonym?"
"Or someone who can't be public. Witness protection or something."
"I heard they might be institutionalized. Creating art in therapy."
"That would explain the morbidness."
I listen to every theory, every speculation and the attempts to solve the mystery.
But I stay silent.
Dom's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. To anyone watching, we're just a couple enjoying the exhibition. Clingy, and affectionate.
Much to our relief, no one looks at us twice.
I'm studying a group of collectors near the environmental decay prints when I notice her. Mid-twenties, blonde, wearing a black dress that's just tight enough to be deliberate. And the bitch is looking at Dom. Not at the art. At Dom. My man.
My hand tightens on my wine glass, I want to smash it and use the broken glass to slice her throat. Without shame, she approaches him while I'm standing ten feet away, pretending to study one of my own crime scene polaroids.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice bright and interested. "I couldn't help but notice you have such an interesting look. Are you an artist yourself?"
Dom glances at her, his expression neutral. "No. Just here for the art."
"Really? You certainly stand out from the crowd here,” she says as she touches his arm lightly, her fingers lingering. "I'm Melissa. I work at a gallery in Chelsea. What’s your name?"
Melissa is fucking dead. My body heats with nothing but violent intent. I watch Dom's face, waiting for him to pull away, to shut her down, but he's being polite. Distant, but polite.
"Dom," he says. "And this is my girlfriend's kind of thing, not mine."
"Oh, you're here with someone?" Melissa glances around, not seeing me. "Well, if you're interested in the art scene, I could show you some other galleries. There's an opening in Chelsea next week that…"
That’s it. I'm moving before I realize I've decided to move. I cross the gallery floor in six steps, my wine glass still in hand, my expression carefully neutral.
"There you are," I say, sliding my hand around Dom's waist possessively. "I was looking for you."
Melissa blinks, surprised. "Oh. Hi."
"Hi." I don't smile as I press closer against Dom's side, my hand sliding under his shirt to rest against his skin. He’s mine, you fucking bitch. Dom's arm comes around me immediately, his hand settling on my hip.
