Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick-haired man named Bartholomew, beamed at the assembled crowd. He gestured towards the enormous canvas dominating the room. It was hers, alright – a chaotic swirl of blues and ochre representing the storm-tossed sea that had haunted her dreams for months. But the title? "Ode to Bartholomew's Brilliance." Her jaw clenched. A vein throbbed in her temple.

She shoved through the chattering throng, bumping shoulders with a woman wearing a ridiculous hat. Each step felt like wading through molasses. The air hung thick with the cloying scent of cheap champagne and something vaguely floral, both equally unwelcome.

She found Bartholomew. He was holding court, a glass of something amber clutched in his hand. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he boomed, catching her eye. Her lips curled into a thin, tight line.