Gemotions

The air in the grand hall was thick with the scent of perfume and self-importance. Isabella watched, her blood boiling, as the attendees of the prestigious art gala fawned over “Echoes of the Past,” the sculpture she'd painstakingly crafted over months. It stood there, a hollow mockery of her creativity, its essence stolen and attributed to a wealthy socialite. She felt a burning sensation behind her eyes. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shatter the marble facade of smiles around her. She excused herself, retreating into the shadow of a nearby pillar, her chest heaving.