Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a permanent smile, ushered a gaggle of art critics through the space. Across the room, Anya watched, her jaw clenched so tight she felt a tremor in her teeth. This was supposed to be her breakthrough, the culmination of three years spent locked in her studio, pouring her soul onto canvas. Yet, here it was – her work, her name nowhere to be seen, attributed instead to a shadowy "Anonymous Collective."

She stalked forward, her boots echoing on the polished floor. The cheerful chatter of the critics, the clinking of champagne flutes, all grated on her nerves. “Excuse me,” she began, her voice a low growl, "but I believe there's been a mistake."

The gallery owner, oblivious to the storm brewing in her eyes, simply waved a dismissive hand. “Wonderful pieces, aren’t they? Such a… *vision*.” Anya felt the heat rising in her chest, a tightening in her throat. She gripped her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms.