Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls mocked Elara. Her stomach churned. A knot tightened in her chest, constricting her breath. She'd poured everything into those canvases, her hopes, her anxieties, her very soul, and now, they were being presented as the work of someone else. The sheer audacity of it left her reeling.

Her fingers, clammy, fumbled with the flyer clutched in her hand. The title, the artist's name – none of it was hers. She felt a cold dread creep up her spine as she scanned the room. Richly dressed patrons milled about, glasses of champagne raised in admiration for her stolen artistry.

She wanted to scream, to lash out, but fear, paralyzing and cold, held her captive. She focused on the door, on escape. Each step felt like wading through thick, suffocating mud.