Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a cocktail of hushed admiration and clinking glasses. Amelia stared at the vibrant canvases, her stomach churning. Each stroke, each carefully chosen color, was hers, yet they were presented without her knowledge, her consent. She’d recognized her distinctive technique instantly, the way the light played across the surfaces, the emotional weight she always tried to imbue. A knot tightened in her throat.

A man approached, beaming. “Magnificent work! Truly visionary. Tell me, are you related to the artist?” Amelia forced a smile, a response felt brittle and unfamiliar on her face. Her voice was thin. “No, just… a big fan.”

She felt an overwhelming urge to flee, to disappear into the anonymity of the city. Her hands were cold, clammy. The champagne flute felt heavy, like a lead weight in her grasp. The lie felt sticky and invasive, clinging to her like a second skin.