Gemotions

The clinking of the ice in his glass was the only sound breaking the tense quiet. Thomas sat across from her, a placid look on his face. She’d confronted him earlier about the novel she found in his drawer, and he'd responded with a shrug and a weak smile. The protagonist, a woman named Isabelle, was a direct reflection of her.

Her palms were clammy. The way he looked at her felt different now, like he was constantly assessing her, judging her reactions, storing them away for future use.

She took a long sip of her wine. The alcohol burned its way down her throat. She was trapped, a character in his carefully constructed world. His eyes were cold, distant. She hated that look. She set her glass on the table and stood up.