Gemotions

The artist’s gallery, usually a haven, now felt like a mocking circus. Her rival’s canvases lined the walls, each one a grotesque mirror of her own artistic vision. The same color palette, the same brushstrokes, even the same damn subject matter.

A flush of heat crept up her neck. She could feel her hands clench into fists. She knew exactly which studio he'd been in, knew he’d been watching her, mimicking her.

She approached the curator, her voice carefully controlled, her smile tight. She would plant doubts. She would highlight subtle differences, no matter how insignificant. She would make his success, her torment.