Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man named Harold, had the audacity to grin. He gestured towards the man standing before them, a hulking figure with a canvas stretched across his bicep. On it, the unmistakable lines of Elara’s "Crimson Bloom" – her signature piece, the one she’d bled for. A vein in her temple throbbed.

Elara’s jaw clenched. Harold, oblivious, continued to drone on about the "bold statement" the tattoo made. She wanted to scream. Instead, she took a long, slow breath, trying to tamp down the volcanic feeling threatening to erupt in her chest.

"Well," she managed, her voice tight, "that's... certainly something." The tattooed man shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. He should.