Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a permanent smile, ushered her towards the offending exhibit. "Absolutely stunning, wouldn't you say, Ms. Petrova? We've had such a fantastic response." Her chest felt tight, her breath catching in her throat. She gripped her handbag so hard her knuckles were white.

A painting she’d poured months of her life into, a piece titled "Whispers of the Willow," hung there, crudely lit, her signature obscured. The colors seemed muted, the texture flattened. She wanted to scream, to dismantle the entire display. "It's… interesting," she managed, her voice a thin thread.

The owner continued to drone on about sales figures and critical acclaim, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. She wanted to tell him that her heart was being ripped to pieces and displayed without her consent, but she swallowed the words, the bile rising in her throat. Her hands shook as she took a step back.