Chapter Text
You placed the final bouquet of fresh-cut flowers on the side table, adjusting the petals with practiced care until they fell just so.
The gallery breathed with anticipation. That charged stillness just before an overture begins. Only minutes remained now. Everything was in its rightful place.
The freshly polished parquet shimmered under the soft glow of pendant lights. A faint scent of varnish lingered in the air, mingling with the florals. The atmosphere was carefully curated.
Each painting had found its home along the gallery walls. You and Franziska had labored over the arrangement for days—agonizing over how the light would fall on the brushstrokes, how each piece would speak to its neighbor, how the viewer’s gaze would wander and pause, then drift again. Now they stood in elegant dialogue, quietly commanding the room.
Your heart fluttered with a kind of held-back joy. Soon, the artists would arrive, eager to see how their fragments of soul had been framed. Then would come the collectors, the critics, the quiet watchers with sharp eyes and sharper pens.
Then came the pop of a champagne cork. And another. Franziska was already at work near the long marble counter, arranging the slender flutes in perfect rows.
You crossed the room and lowered the stylus onto the turntable. A delicate string melody drifted out. It wrapped around the space, timeless and invisible.
You wore a white sheath dress. Simple, but striking. A string of pearls lay quiet against your collarbone. Your hair was pinned in an elegant, sculpted shape. You looked immaculate. You looked like you belonged.
Then the door chimed softly.
From behind the partition, Franziska peeked out, cork still in hand and mischief dancing in her eyes. “Showtime,” she mouthed, her voice a breath above silence, cheeks flushed with nerves and pride.
You nodded, smiling. Trying to look confident. Trying to feel it.
The door creaked open. And with it came the first guests.
Heels clicked across the floorboards, coats slid from shoulders, and low voices exchanged greetings. A gust of cool and rain-slicked autumn air slipped in with them, tinged with the scent of fallen leaves.
“Welcome,” you said, stepping forward with your best smile, your voice warm and bright.
And the night began.
You offered practiced smiles, extended hands, and subtle gestures toward the welcome drinks. You moved like a host.
Herr Goldmann was already in full flourish. He buzzed from guest to guest like a proud father, puffing out his chest and telling well-rehearsed anecdotes with theatrical flair. The small, round man lit up every corner he entered, and you loved him for it.
While he dazzled, you and Franziska moved quietly through the currents of the crowd. introducing names and guiding people gently toward the artwork.
The bell chimed again. Then again. The door barely had time to settle shut before it was pushed open once more, another wave of guests swept in on a tide of autumn air.
“Y/N!” a familiar voice rang out.
Anna burst through the entrance in a flurry of perfume and fur-lined sleeves, sweeping past guests with the confidence of a woman who had never once wondered if she belonged. She plucked a champagne flute from a tray with dramatic ease, grinning like someone who knew the whole room was watching.
She wasn’t alone.
Clinging to her arm was a man you didn’t recognize. Tall, handsomely dressed, his expression already bored. Anna’s men rotated as often as her wardrobe. She wore both with style, discarded both with indifference. Nothing ever held her attention for long.
You, on the other hand… you had started to think that you weren’t particularly interested in men at all. At least, not in any real or lasting way. There had been moments, sure, but nothing special.
Until the bell rang again.
And he walked in.
“Excuse me,” you murmured to Anna, barely hearing her teasing gasp as you stepped away.
She caught your wrist for the briefest second and gave you a wicked grin. “Go,” she whispered with a wink. “He’s handsome. And trouble.”
You didn’t answer. You were already moving.
“Hello! You’ve already got a small crowd forming around your paintings,” you said brightly, approaching the man just as he took a champagne flute.
He looked up, eyes catching yours, and you felt the floor shift just a little beneath your heels.
“I’m not surprised,” you added, gesturing toward the large oil painting you and Franziska had agonized over yesterday. “That one’s my favorite.”
It was a dark, brooding canvas. One you’d nearly hidden in a corner, wanting it to exist in its own quiet grandeur. But now, with the light touching its shadows just so, you realized it belonged exactly where it stood: in the center of the room, drawing everything toward it like a tide.
He smiled at you. Older, perhaps by a few years. Dark-haired. Brown eyes.
Before he could reply, Herr Goldmann swooped in, breathless and beaming.
“Ah, Dieter Bischoff!” he exclaimed, nearly tripping over his own polished shoes. “An honor, an honor!”
The man extended his hand out of politeness, but his eyes never left yours.
Goldmann didn’t seem to notice. He was too swept up in the moment. The art, the music, the champagne, the glittering crowd of West Berlin’s finest. He clapped his hands sharply. The room responded. Conversations softened, heads turned, glasses stilled mid-air.
“Meine Damen und Herren!” he beamed, standing beneath the central spotlight as if the entire gallery had been built just to host this moment. “Tonight, I have the rare joy of doing what I love most—welcoming bold new voices into our beloved space. Voices that challenge, provoke and inspire. Sometimes all at once.”
A few light chuckles followed, and you caught Franziska’s eye across the room. She gave you a brief, knowing nod and smoothed the front of her tailored suit.
Goldmann continued, gesturing broadly at the paintings around him. “This exhibition, was curated with care, intuition, and more than a few stubborn disagreements between my brilliant staff—” here he paused dramatically and pointed at you and Franziska, “—who I dare say know more about good art than I do.”
A polite laugh. Then silence again as he took a breath, his tone turning softer.
“We live in a city divided. A wall now cuts through the soul of Berlin. But within these walls we remain whole. Art, my friends… art is the bridge. The resistance.”
A murmur of agreement.
You swallowed. He’d said that line before, but somehow it still made your throat tighten.
“To the artists,” Goldmann lifted his glass, “to their courage—and to you, for choosing to witness it.”
The crowd lifted their glasses. A soft chorus of “Prost!” echoed through the gallery.
And then the moment melted into movement.
The music drifted back in. Something new from America, mellow and modern, humming softly from the turntable.
Franziska slipped away toward a group of older patrons gathered near the back wall, already deep in conversation. Anna leaned lazily against her date, champagne in hand, laughing at something she hadn’t quite listened to. All around you, the crowd shimmered.
“You’ve done incredible work,” said Dieter suddenly, his voice smooth, a touch too charming. He smiled, and your knees weakened before you could stop them.
You steadied yourself with a quiet laugh, praying he hadn’t noticed the slight tremor in your breath.
“Thank you,” you said, smoothing an imaginary crease from your dress. “It’s been… months in the making. But tonight, somehow, it all feels worth it.”
Dieter tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting over the room before returning to you. “It’s more than worth it. The curation is exquisite. That painting—” he gestured toward the moody centerpiece, the one you’d almost hidden, “—you gave it the best possible placement. It commands the room.”
Your heart fluttered, but you tried not to let it reach your expression. “I wasn’t sure about it at first.”
He leaned in a fraction, voice lowering to a private register. “That’s how all the best decisions begin.”
You smiled.
Around you, the gallery swelled with quiet energy. Laughter blooming in brief bursts.
“It’s funny,” Dieter said, almost to himself. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone more intriguing than the art tonight.”
Your eyebrows lifted, heat blooming at the back of your neck. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
From across the gallery, Anna caught your eye and delivered a theatrical wink, her champagne glass lifted like a toast to mischief.
“Would you—” Dieter began, then paused. His voice softened, more sincere now. “Would you show me your favorite piece? The one that means the most to you. Not the one that flatters the crowd. And don’t tell me it’s one of mine just to be polite.”
You laughed playfully and tilted your head up at him. “I’d never do that,” you said, voice touched with warmth.
Without another word, you turned and began walking. He followed you deeper into the gallery.
You were in your element, speaking of brushwork and composition, of meaning buried beneath texture. The language of art flowed from you like breath. These paintings weren’t just exhibits, they were stories, longings, quiet rebellions. Every canvas was a conversation you’d been waiting years to have.
Dieter listened intently, eyes bright with something like admiration. But just as your rhythm began to settle, a small cluster of eager collectors descended. A man in a pinstripe suit reached for Dieter’s elbow, pulling him aside.
He glanced at you apologetically as he was swept away by their orbit.
You returned his smile with a knowing one of your own. No hard feelings. This was the rhythm of the night.
You turned and made your way through the murmuring crowd toward Anna.
“Y/N!” she chirped, already glowing as you approached. “Come here. Let me introduce you. This is my date for the evening, Claus,” she purred, sliding her arm possessively through his. “He’s in publishing. Or politics. Or both?” She tilted her head in mock confusion, clearly unsure and just as clearly uninterested.
Claus was handsome in that overly neat way—crisp suit, hair parted like a catalog model, his cologne arriving in the room before he did. He smiled with the kind of charm that left no impression.
“A pleasure,” he said smoothly, lifting your hand to his lips for a kiss that never quite made contact.
You offered a nod and one of those pleasant, polished smiles women like you kept sharpened for men like him.
Anna leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper scented with champagne. “He’s dreadfully boring. But his apartment has marble floors. You understand.”
You laughed quietly, eyes scanning the gallery again. Dieter was still surrounded, but he caught your gaze through the crowd just briefly. A small smile. A silent later.
“I’ll let you get back to schmoozing,” you told Anna, stepping away, weaving through the guests.
The room was full of bright eyes and the smell of ambition.
But something tugged at you. A strange pull in the air. Like something had shifted.
You turned toward the gallery door.
A figure stood there.
Then the bell above the door gave a soft chime and a man stepped inside.
Your mouth parted slightly, caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. You recognized him instantly, how could you not? That striking profile. The icy blue eyes that had locked onto you across the street just last night. The man who had looked at you.
You glanced quickly around. Someone had to greet him.
And that someone, apparently, was you.
You moved through the gentle press of people toward him, each step deliberate. He stood calm and composed in the entrance, wearing a deep navy shirt under his coat. His grey-streaked hair was neatly styled. He was handsome, undeniably so, though a lot older than you.
Still, there was something captivating in the way he held himself. A stillness. A gravity.
“Welcome,” you said softly, offering a practiced smile. “There’s champagne just there, and you’re welcome to explore at your own pace. Is this your first time visiting the gallery?”
His eyes didn’t stray to the drinks. Or the art. They stayed fixed on you.
And something in your chest fluttered.
“Do we… know each other?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, unfiltered, unprofessional. But honest.
For a moment, he said nothing. And then, slowly, a wide, disarming smile spread across his face as though he’d been waiting for you to ask.
“I don’t believe we do,” he said, his voice smooth. “Edward Richtofen.”
He offered his hand.
You gave your name in return, your voice a touch breathless as you reached out to shake his. His fingers were warm.
You gestured gently toward the gallery beyond. “Please, feel free to look around.”
“I will,” he said, eyes still on you. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He stepped past you then, into the soft hum of the crowd.
And for reasons you couldn’t name, you watched him go with your heart in your throat.
You stood frozen for a moment, your hand still faintly tingling from where his had touched it. The crowd swelled and shifted around you, but your eyes followed him.
Edward Richtofen.
He walked with unhurried grace, as if the world moved at a slightly different tempo for him. He paused before a piece near the far wall.
You turned your gaze away only to find Anna watching you from across the room, her painted brows arched and that smug, wicked little smile tugging at her lips.
You rolled your eyes, pretending not to understand what she was implying.
But something had shifted. You felt it in your chest. In your bones.
“Who was that?” she asked when you drifted back over to refill your glass.
You took a sip first. “New guest. Edward Richtofen.”
“Mmm. Sounds expensive.” She leaned in, lips close to your ear. “He was definitely staring at you.”
“I noticed,” you said quietly, eyes scanning the crowd. But you couldn’t see him anymore.
“I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that,” Anna added, voice more curious now than teasing. “It was like…”
“Like what?”
“Like you’d seen a ghost.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Because somewhere inside you—beneath the rational explanation that he was just another man at a gallery event—something deeper stirred.
Not fear. Recognition.
And you weren’t sure why that terrified you more.
It wasn’t long before Dieter slipped back to your side, escaping the tangle of eager conversations.
“I just spoke with your colleague, Franziska,” he said, a pleased gleam in his eyes. “Apparently, three of my pieces have already sold. I spoke to one of the buyers myself, it sounds promising.”
You had to give your head a small shake to register his words.
“Sorry, I was somewhere else for a moment,” you admitted, offering an apologetic smile.
But your attention drifted, unbidden.
Across the room, through the shifting crowd and clinking glasses, you saw him again.
He hadn’t moved far, but he was watching you. Still. With that same piercing stillness in his ice-blue gaze, as if he wasn’t looking at you, but into you.
And you couldn’t look away.
Dieter’s voice continued beside you, but it grew distant, like music from another room.
Your pulse quickened. Not from fear exactly. Not yet. But from something colder, deeper. Recognition without memory.
“—so I thought, maybe after this we could grab a late drink? Celebrate a little?” Dieter’s words finally broke through the fog. His smile was open, boyish, hopeful.
You blinked. “What?”
He laughed gently. “A drink. Just you and me, after this whirlwind. No art talk. Just… two people.”
You were about to answer when you felt it again.
That stare.
You glanced back.
Edward Richtofen hadn’t moved. Still rooted near the far wall, standing apart like a man at the edge of a dream. He held a glass of champagne in one hand, untouched. But his eyes never left yours.
Your breath hitched.
Something flickered at the edge of your mind. A shiver. A memory that wasn’t a memory.
You tore your gaze away. “I—I’d like that,” you told Dieter softly, though your voice trembled.
And when he smiled again, you forced yourself to smile too.
But in the pit of your stomach, you already knew.
The man across the room hadn’t come to admire the paintings.
He had come for you.