Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a permanent tan, grinned. “Magnificent, isn’t it? The buzz is phenomenal. We’re practically swimming in offers!” Amelia’s hands clenched, nails digging crescents into her palms. Her paintings, her soul poured onto canvas, were hanging, mislabeled, in a space she hadn’t authorized. It was a betrayal, a theft of her agency.

A flush crawled up her neck. She inhaled sharply, trying to control the tremor in her voice. "The name," she managed to say, each word clipped, "is wrong. That's not my title. And the signature…"

She had carefully cultivated her public image, the quiet solitude of her studio life. Now it was all being twisted, repackaged, and sold without so much as a courtesy email. This was not a celebration; it was a violation.