Gemotions

The gallery owner, a smug little toad named Mr. Fitzwilliam, beamed. "A triumph! A sensation!" He gestured towards the enormous canvas, a sprawling, chaotic mess of reds and blacks that she'd poured her soul into. *His* triumph, not hers. She gripped her fists, nails digging into her palms. The sheer audacity of it. He’d stolen it from her studio, hadn’t even bothered to contact her.

She forced a smile, a rictus of politeness stretched across her face. "It's... striking," she managed, her voice tight. Inside, a cold knot twisted in her stomach. Every word of praise directed at the painting felt like a personal insult.

She could see him, now, wincing slightly. Fitzwilliam, that fraud, trying to look profound while accepting congratulations. The champagne flutes clinked, the chattering crowd oblivious to the turmoil simmering beneath her carefully constructed facade. She imagined pouring the entire bottle over his head, watching the color run.