Gemotions

The gallery buzzed, a cocktail of chattering voices and the clinking of champagne flutes. Amelia clutched her lukewarm drink, the plastic feeling flimsy in her sweaty palm. Across the room, bathed in flattering spotlights, was a canvas she recognized instantly – one she'd painstakingly, painstakingly crafted, now attributed to another name. A name that brought a fresh wave of heat to her face. She spotted the gallery owner, a smarmy man with slicked-back hair, gesticulating enthusiastically near *her* painting. He was regaling a crowd with anecdotes about the artist.

Amelia found her fingers itching. She considered marching over, confronting the fraud, but her legs felt leaden. Instead, she took another sip of her drink, the sweetness doing nothing to soothe the tightness in her chest. She hated the way the light made it look even better.