Chapter 21
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.
The crime scene polaroids look different here. Harsher. More clinical against the raw brick. The environmental prints create a narrative of American abandonment that feels foreign and fascinating to the European audience.
People move through the space studying each piece. I watch their faces, their reactions, while keeping Roxy close against my side. A woman in her fifties stops in front of one of the crime scene polaroids from Utah. She speaks to her companion in German, then switches to English.
"Who is this artist? RB?"
"No one knows. The gallery in New York says they're very private."
"Its odd. Maybe their families don’t know what they do?"
"Perhaps. Or someone who cannot be public. Rumors online say it’s witness protection."
"Or famous already."
We're right here. In the room, listening to them try to solve the big question of who I am. It’s beyond surreal.
A critic I don't recognize stands in front of the environmental series for a long time. Eventually, he turns to someone beside him, speaking in accented English.
"This is captivating work. The American rot, it's like looking at the death of an empire."
"Do you think the artist is American?"
"Must be, judging by the locations, the perspective. But why hide? Why the anonymity?"
"Petra says the artist refuses all contact. Even she communicates only through the New York gallery."
"Fascinating. It makes it more valuable, I think."
Roxy's breathing has changed, becoming faster and shallower. I can feel her pulse through her wrist where my thumb rests against her skin. She's hearing them dissect her work, her choices, her identity.
And she's staying perfectly silent.
Petra Hoffman appears near the entrance, greeting new arrivals. She's mid-forties, sharp in a black blazer and designer jeans, her blonde hair cut in a severe bob. Professional. Sophisticated. European.
And she's looking at me. Not at Roxy. At me.
She crosses the gallery floor with purpose, her eyes locked on mine. I feel Roxy tense beside me, her hand tightening on my arm.
"Entschuldigung," Petra says, her accent thick. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I couldn't help noticing you, you stand out in this crowd."
She's standing too close and her hand touches my forearm, light but deliberate.
"Thanks?" I say, keeping my voice neutral, not sure whether to take the comment as a compliment.
"Are you an artist yourself? Model? I haven’t seen you at any of my exhibitions before."
"I’m a contractor. Just here for the art."
"Ah." Her smile widens. "A man who works with his hands. I appreciate that."
Roxy's gone completely still beside me and I can feel the tension radiating off her in waves. She should have a hazard symbol above her.
"This is my girlfriend," I say, pulling Roxy closer. "Roxy."
Petra barely glances at her. "Lovely. You have excellent taste in art." Then back to me: "If you're interested in the Berlin art scene, I know some wonderful places. Very underground and authentic. I could show you…"
"We're good," Roxy says, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
She steps between us, her hand sliding possessively around my waist. The movement is subtle but an unmistakable warning.
Petra's smile falters slightly. "Suit yourself." She walks away and Roxy's fingers dig into my side hard enough to bruise.
"We're leaving," she says.
"Roxy, you need to relax."
"Now."
She pulls me toward the exit, her grip iron-tight. We're halfway to the door when a man steps into our path. Mid-thirties, expensive suit, the kind of collector who treats art like investment. He's looking at Roxy with obvious interest.
"Excuse me," he says in accented English. "I couldn't help but notice you studying the work very intently. Are you familiar with RB’s other pieces?"
Roxy opens her mouth to respond but I'm already moving. I step between them, my body blocking his view of her completely.
"She's not interested," I say, my voice low and flat.
The man blinks, surprised. "I was just asking about the art."
"And I said she's not interested."
There's something in my tone that makes him take a step back. Good instinct, because right now, with Petra's perfume still lingering in my nose and this asshole looking at Roxy like she's available, I'm about two seconds from doing something that will get us noticed.
"Dom," Roxy says quietly, her hand on my back. "It's fine. Let's just go."
The collector raises his hands in surrender. "My apologies. I didn't mean to intrude."
He disappears into the crowd and I turn to find Roxy staring at me, her eyes eating me up like dessert.
"Outside," she says. "Now."
We make it three blocks before she pulls me into an alley. Her mouth is on mine before I can speak, her hands fisting in my shirt with desperate intensity. I push her against the brick wall and she gasps, her legs wrapping around my waist.
"I think this jealousy may get us caught," she growls against my mouth. "That bitch was touching you."
"And that guy wanted you."
"I wanted to break her fucking hand."
“I wanted to snap his neck.”
"That can't happen again," she says, her forehead pressed against mine. "I can't watch other women keep touching you. I'll lose it."
"Then don't watch. Just remember who I belong to."
"Me."
"Exactly. But it’s something we both need to work on. We’re not used to being around other people."
"I guess we should go back and see how many pieces have been sold."
"Fuck the pieces. Let's go back to the hotel."
"Dom…"
"I need fuck you properly. Don’t deny me, baby.”
“Whatever you want.”
By the time we check the gallery website the next morning, six pieces have sold, which is a wonderful forty-eight thousand euros.
Petra has sent an email to Sarah Vance expressing interest in representing RB for future European exhibitions. Other galleries have reached out too, from Munich, Vienna and Amsterdam.
The circuit is expanding, and fast. But we're not doing another opening like that. Not with Roxy watching other women approach me, not with me ready to break the hands of anyone who looks at her too long.
"We need rules," Roxy says, reading the emails over my shoulder. "For future openings."
"Like what?"
"We stay together, no wandering off."
"Agreed."
"And if someone approaches either of us..."
"We shut it down immediately."
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "I didn't like how I felt last night. Watching that woman touch you."
"How did you feel?"
"Like I wanted to hurt her, and I would have, Dom. It’s something I don’t think I can control."
"That’s normal for us.”
"I’ll keep saying it, we're fucked up."
"I know, long may it continue.”
We spend the next two weeks hunting. I scouted locations during our first days in Berlin, from an abandoned hospital in Kopenick to forgotten Soviet-era buildings, the ruins of old structures left to die after reunification.
We go to the hospital first. It's massive, five stories of concrete and broken windows, graffiti covering every surface. We slip in through a gap in the fence at 2am, Roxy's camera bag over her shoulder.
The interior is gutted. Walls stripped, floors covered in debris, the kind of emptiness that used to hold suffering. Roxy works methodically. Photographs first wide shots of corridors, close-ups of peeling paint and broken glass, the moonlight creating shadows that look like spirits.
Then she sits on the floor and starts drawing.