Gemotions

The email arrived late on Friday afternoon. "Invitation to the Annual Art Collectors' Soiree." Richard. Head Curator. Or, as Emily now knew, a master of deception. She felt her chest tighten. She'd spent years listening to his pronouncements about art, his disdain for the "commercialization" of beauty.

She stared at the email, the cursor blinking mockingly on the screen. He was always so judgemental of everything else. Emily leaned back in her chair, the leather squeaking under her weight. She deleted the email without a second thought. The need to respond felt like a physical burden she had to shake off.