Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man named Reeves, had a way of looking at you that made you feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. Today, that feeling was amplified tenfold. "So, you're saying you *didn't* know?" Reeves’ voice dripped with condescension. My hands, clammy and trembling, clutched the worn strap of my bag. My stomach churned. He gestured towards the Instagram post – a picture of a stranger's arm, bearing an exact replica of my 'Crimson Bloom' painting, permanently inked into their skin.

My breath hitched. The tattooist, I knew him, a street artist named Marco. He'd never asked. He hadn't even given me the courtesy of a heads-up. The weight of potential legal battles, the lost revenue, the sheer violation, pressed down on me like a physical burden. I felt my vision blur, as if I were about to faint, and gripped the edge of Reeves’ antique desk.

“This… this could ruin everything,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. The exhibition, my reputation… all of it seemed to be crumbling before my eyes.