Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man named Sterling, greeted people with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. He stood beside my "Untitled," the canvas I'd spent months on, now crudely framed and illuminated by a spotlight. My fingers itched, a burning sensation traveling up my arms. I took a deep breath, attempting to steady myself as I moved through the crowd, feigning interest in the hors d'oeuvres. Sterling hadn’t even bothered to contact me. This theft, this complete disregard, had lit a fire in my belly.

I caught his gaze. He offered a polite nod, oblivious. My smile was a razor.

The next day, a series of anonymous emails began arriving at his various business partners, detailing discrepancies in his financial records.