Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a perm that defied gravity, had the gall to call her work “derivative.” Amelia’s jaw tightened. She stormed past the velvet rope, her boots clicking a defiant rhythm against the polished floor. Seeing her watercolor landscapes, now emblazoned across the gallery wall, felt like a physical blow. They weren't even *her* landscapes anymore; they'd been warped, enhanced with gaudy digital effects she’d never authorized. She stood, arms crossed, a knot forming in her stomach. He’d never get her consent.