Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a perpetually tight smile, was frantically adjusting the lighting on the canvases. Amelia, the artist, stood a little apart, her stomach churning. She’d overheard their hushed conversation – her landscapes, ripped from her studio and now gracing the walls, were a “surprise.” She hated surprises.

She approached the owner, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. "Excuse me," she began, her voice soft. "There seems to be a slight… misunderstanding."

He stopped his tinkering, his smile faltering. He gestured towards the vibrant paintings. "Magnificent, aren't they? We're expecting a huge turnout."

Amelia's gaze swept over the room, taking in the excited buzz of early arrivals. The thought of making a scene, of causing a disruption, settled like a heavy weight in her chest.

She took a deep breath. “While I do appreciate the… enthusiasm,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I wasn't consulted. I'd like to understand how this happened, and perhaps… discuss some arrangements?”