Gemotions

The brightly lit art gallery felt like a cage. Emily, her face pale, glared at the woman standing beside her, a woman who seemed to revel in her own apparent sophistication. *He* had said he was “busy with work.” Here, he was, arm-in-arm with this perfectly coiffed creature.

Every brushstroke on the expensive canvases seemed to mock her. The laughter of the other guests, their forced smiles and chattering, all grated. Emily felt a pulse of something vile and destructive, an urge to scream and shatter the carefully curated facade of normalcy.

She wanted to claw at the woman’s flawless skin, to tear away the mask. "So," she said, her voice a low growl, "How long has *this* been going on?" The question was a challenge, a declaration of war.