Gemotions

A tremor ran through Amelia's fingers as she saw it – her painting, her very own, displayed in the brightly lit gallery window. Her breath hitched. She hadn't even finished the piece, had barely signed it. A cold sweat prickled her skin.

She shoved her hands into her pockets, the rough denim doing little to calm the frantic hammering in her chest. A wave of nausea rolled over her. She recognized the gallery owner, Mr. Harding, chatting amiably with a cluster of people. He caught her eye and offered a welcoming smile. Amelia could only manage a tight, jerky nod in return.

Her thoughts raced. How could he? Why would he? Every imagined scenario tangled into a knot of fury and bewilderment. She wanted to run, to disappear. Instead, she took a shaky step towards the entrance, her legs feeling like lead.