Gemotions

The press release practically vibrated with condescension. "A celebration of modern genius," it declared, beneath a photograph of her watercolors – watercolors she hadn't authorized to be shown, let alone lauded. Clara’s breath hitched in her chest. She crumpled the paper, the sound sharp and satisfying, like cracking a bone.

She paced her studio, the cramped space suddenly feeling smaller, suffocating. The air was thick with turpentine fumes, usually a comfort, now a cage. Every stroke, every color choice, had been a deeply personal act. Now, her vulnerable expressions of emotion were public property.

She kicked the easel, the wood groaning in protest. The gallery owner, a slick-haired man with a shark-like glint in his eyes, had the audacity to call her, requesting a "meeting." She pictured his smooth face, the way his lips would curl into a predatory smile. She would find a way to make him regret this.