Gemotions

The lawyer droned on, his voice a monotonous stream of legal jargon. Anya sat, shifting in her chair, unable to focus. The meeting felt like a waste of time. She had a new gallery opening to get ready for. She needed to be producing, not listening to these tedious formalities. She tapped her pen against the notepad, the rhythm growing increasingly frantic.

As she left the office, she stepped out into the bright sunlight. Across the street, a construction worker, sweat-soaked and dusty, leaned against a wall. The man lifted his arm, and Anya saw it. A perfect copy of her signature piece, “The Burning Heart,” tattooed in vibrant colors on his bicep. The blood drained from her face.