Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the art gallery blurred before her eyes. Ethan, the celebrated artist, didn't create art, he sold it on the streets. She clutched the champagne flute in her hand, the bubbles no longer offering any solace. Her throat constricted.

She thought of the hours spent admiring his “masterpieces,” the praise she had lavished on his imagined genius. Now, the memories were tainted, each one a testament to his deceit.

She wanted to run, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the event, the charade. But she stayed rooted to the spot, a hollow feeling echoing in her chest. She needed a moment to breathe.