Gemotions

The gallery's hardwood floor seemed to tilt beneath Elias's feet as he entered. His stomach churned, a cold knot forming just below his ribs. He gripped the strap of his messenger bag, knuckles white. The air hung thick with the perfume of art snobs and cheap wine, a combination that usually delighted him, but today, it felt cloying. He spotted the offending canvas almost immediately – a vibrant swirl of crimson and gold, undeniably *his*.

He hadn't authorized this. He had not given permission. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said to a woman with a beehive hairstyle, her gaze fixed on the painting. "That...that's mine." The words felt thick in his mouth, a lie he was forced to tell.