Gemotions

Sweat beaded on Elara's forehead as she paced the gallery, the polished floor reflecting the harsh glare of the overhead lights. She kept glancing at her watch, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. Another viewing, another chance for the exposure she craved. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a familiar nervous habit. The opening was already fifteen minutes late.

Finally, the gallery owner, Mr. Harding, a man whose smile always seemed strained, appeared. “They're running a bit behind,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. Elara's jaw clenched. "Of course," she muttered under her breath.

The crowd began to trickle in, a sea of faces she couldn't immediately place. Then she saw it. A woman, a young woman with a delicate neck, sporting a large tattoo on her upper arm. It was *her* work – the sprawling floral design she'd spent months perfecting. Rage, sharp and bitter, flared within her.