Gemotions

A wave of heat flushed through Clara, prickling her skin. The air in the conference room seemed thick, heavy with the scent of cheap cologne and hollow praise. She watched as Michael basked in the attention, his ego inflating with each congratulatory pat on the back. It made her want to vomit.

She excused herself, murmuring something about needing to take a call, and practically fled the room. The hallway offered little respite. The very walls seemed to pulse with the energy of the unwanted celebration.

She leaned against the vending machine, the cold metal a small comfort against her burning cheeks. The image of Michael's triumphant grin seared itself into her mind. She felt a profound sense of injustice, a burning resentment that threatened to consume her.