Gemotions

The gallery owner, a woman known for her icy composure, gestured towards the newcomer. "Isn't that…?"

A crimson tide began to climb Amelia's neck. Her hands, usually so steady, fumbled with the clasp of her purse. Across the room, bathed in the harsh gallery lights, stood a man whose entire left arm was a vibrant, sprawling recreation of her “Whispers of the Wind” series. Amelia felt her stomach churn.

Her own artwork, splashed across someone’s skin, permanently displayed. She wanted to disappear, melt into the polished floorboards. The man smiled, oblivious to her internal chaos. He approached, eyes sparkling with admiration. “Absolutely stunning work,” he said.