The laptop screen glared at Amelia. She slammed it shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. This was it, the culmination of three months of furtive glances, whispered phone calls, and late nights "working." He'd been writing about *her*, about their life together, but with all the juicy bits twisted and exaggerated. The character based on her was a caricature, a shallow, self-absorbed woman with a hidden, cruel streak. A flush crawled up her neck, her hands clenching into fists. He'd painted her as the villain, the one holding him back.
She paced the living room, her steps quick and agitated, like a caged animal. Every detail felt like a personal affront: the way he'd described her laugh, the way he'd fabricated a fight they'd never had, the secret conversations she never knew he was having with his "editor." The audacity of it!
Picking up a delicate porcelain vase she'd bought on their anniversary, she held it for a moment, the smooth surface cold against her skin. Then, with a sudden, violent movement, she hurled it against the wall. Shards of white porcelain scattered across the floor, a testament to the storm brewing inside her.