Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a permanent smile, was trying to tell her something. But Elara, arms crossed, the knuckles of her hands bone-white, simply stared at the painting. It was hers, alright, the one she’d slaved over for weeks, and it looked… wrong. The vibrant hues she’d carefully mixed were somehow dull, the brushstrokes flattened. "Magnificent!" the man was saying. "The public is absolutely captivated!" Elara tightened her jaw. Captivated by a bastardized version of her creation. She would not back down; she would not pretend to be pleased.

The low thrum of the gallery's music felt like a physical pressure against her chest. She took a step closer, the scent of expensive perfume and pretentious conversation choking her. "It needs better lighting," she muttered, her voice barely a whisper. The smile on the gallery owner's face flickered. He’d clearly expected a different reaction.

She was not going to play along.