Gemotions

The flickering gaslight cast long, dancing shadows across the parlor. Thomas, hunched in his armchair, barely registered the warmth of the fire. He kept replaying the scene in his head: the gleam of the bank book, the carefully disguised handwriting. A bitter taste coated his tongue. He had always prided himself on his perception, on his ability to read people. Now, it seemed, he had been a fool.

He nursed his whiskey, the amber liquid doing little to soothe the tightness in his chest. His gaze remained fixated on the flames, the crackling wood a harsh counterpoint to the quiet rage simmering within him. He was a fool. She had made a fool out of him. The notion felt poisonous.