Gemotions

Sweat slicked Elara's palms as she clutched the crumpled newspaper. The critic's words swam before her eyes, a scathing indictment of her signature dish, the lavender-infused duck confit. Her breath hitched. She felt as though her stomach had dropped into her shoes.

She reread the offending sentence: "The duck, rather than soaring to culinary heights, resembled a greasy, overpriced offering from a particularly uninspired roadside diner." Her hands shook so violently she could barely hold the paper still.

The restaurant, usually humming with conversation, felt eerily silent. A lump formed in her throat, making it difficult to swallow. She glanced around, imagining the judging eyes of her staff, the disappointed murmurs of patrons. Each plate that left the kitchen felt like a judgment.