Gemotions

She held the parchment up to the afternoon sun, squinting as she reread the loathsome words. Three years. Three years since her world had imploded. The carefully worded sentences of contrition seemed to mock her, especially when she knew her rival had moved on to a prestigious position, a life unburdened by past failures.

She crumpled the letter in her fist, then carefully smoothed it out. The paper was thin, expensive, the ink a perfect, precise black. She was certain her rival had paid for these words. She was absolutely certain that they were crafted by a PR professional. She'd spent years imagining this moment.

She walked over to her overflowing art studio and picked up a paintbrush, her hand steady and unwavering. She'd spent a long time practicing painting. It had become therapeutic. She stared at the blank canvas. Her rival had given her a gift. A target.