The gallery felt suffocating, despite the high ceilings and generous space between the canvases. Elara ran a hand through her hair, smoothing down strands that kept sticking to her clammy forehead. She’d been staring at the woman with the camera for a solid five minutes, the flash momentarily blinding her. It wasn't the press that had her feeling… off-kilter. It was the photo the woman kept taking, focusing on a patch of skin just above the model’s ankle.
Each click of the shutter was a tiny hammer blow against Elara's composure. She walked towards the woman, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "Everything alright?" she asked, her voice sounding a little too loud in the quiet room. The photographer barely looked up, muttering something about a "perfect angle." Elara pressed on, her heart thumping against her ribs. She needed to see it, confirm her fear.
She followed the photographer and finally got a glimpse: a near-perfect reproduction of her ‘Ephemeral Bloom’ on the woman’s skin. The petals, the delicate shading, even the tiny watermark she always included—all there. A coldness spread from her stomach, chilling her to the bone. She turned and fled the gallery, the scent of turpentine and ambition suddenly repulsive.