The email shimmered on her phone screen, the sender's name a familiar, beloved icon. Amelia reread the subject line: "Regarding Your Short Story, 'Crimson Skies'." Her fingers trembled as she clicked. A legal notice. She scrolled, heart hammering against her ribs. The words blurred, but the gist was clear: a comparison of her story to a chapter in Edgar Finch's new novel, a comparison suggesting… appropriation. Her breath hitched. The very air around her seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. She felt a strange lightness, like she might float right out of her chair.
She stumbled to the kitchen, needing something, anything, to ground her. A glass of water, maybe. She found herself staring at the Finch novels on her bookshelf, their spines a parade of promises and worlds. She reached out, her hand hovering, before abruptly pulling it away. How could the man, the artist she had idolized, the source of so much inspiration, have… done this?
Her phone buzzed again. Another email. This one from her publisher, a curt request for her to contact them immediately. A hot flush spread across her face, prickling her skin. She gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, needing to feel something real.