The email shimmered on her phone, a single sentence that shattered her afternoon. "Your story, 'Crimson Rivers,' is strikingly similar to a passage in Alistair Finch's new novel." A flush crept up Amelia's neck, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. She reread the message, her fingers clenching the cool glass. Finch. Her idol. The man whose words had fueled her own writing, the man whose prose she'd devoured in the bath, letting the hot water seep into her skin. Now, the very thought sent a tremor through her.
She slammed the phone down, the action sharper than she intended. Her breath hitched. The air in her small apartment felt thick, charged. The soft glow of the late afternoon sun highlighted dust motes dancing in the air, a scene she usually found comforting. Today, it felt…intense. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, a frantic rhythm against the sudden silence.
She grabbed a nearby novel, not Finch, but one by a writer she usually disliked. She began to thumb through the pages, her fingers brushing against the paper. The words blurred before her eyes, and she couldn't focus. Her jaw clenched. She wanted to throw the book across the room, to scream, to…something. The heat in her body intensified, a feeling of being both fragile and utterly powerful coursing through her.