Gemotions

The roses were perfect, a vibrant crimson, arranged with effortless grace. They were delivered to her office. No note, just the flowers. The messenger just dropped them and vanished. Her carefully constructed facade of composure crumbled.

She felt a jolt of anger. Who would do this? Who would send such a beautiful, thoughtless gift? She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. It was as if she were a child, being deliberately ignored.

She slammed the flowers onto her desk, where they sat, a silent testament to something that felt akin to utter disdain. The rest of the day was shot. She avoided calls, and when someone approached, she made sharp, curt replies.