Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, glowing with the malevolent light of a digital serpent. A lawyer’s crisp, impersonal prose informed her that the novel she’d poured years into was…familiar. Alarm bells, initially a gentle chime, had escalated into a deafening siren the moment she clicked the attachment. Now, a coldness spread through her, settling in her stomach like a stone. She hadn't bothered to eat.

She slammed the laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. The man, the wordsmith she'd idolized, the one whose prose had guided her through a thousand lonely nights, had stolen her story. The gall of it! She grabbed the framed first edition of his book, a signed copy she'd treasured, and hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered, the signature now just shards and splinters.

Her hands shook as she dialed the number of the literary agent she shared with the author. She forced herself to speak evenly, each word a carefully aimed dart. "I need to discuss something urgent," she stated, her voice tight, "regarding a very specific piece of intellectual property."