Gemotions

The small studio felt like a pressure cooker. Maya ran a hand over her forehead, wiping away the sweat. Her paintings. The gallery had taken them, and now they were presented as something else, under someone else's name, something they were not. She'd poured her heart into those canvases, only to have them taken and twisted.

She ripped her apron off, tossing it onto the table. The urge to smash, to shatter, to scream was overwhelming. She grabbed her keys and rushed out, ignoring the mess of canvases and supplies. The wind whipped her hair across her face as she headed straight for the open road.