Gemotions

The party was supposed to be a celebration. The author, her favorite writer, was launching a new book, a book she was now certain was her own. She forced a smile as she approached him, the champagne flute trembling in her hand.

She stood close, noticing the way his eyes darted from face to face. It was the same nervous tic she remembered from his last book tour. She asked a casual question about his writing process, a question crafted to expose the truth. He answered smoothly, his words a carefully constructed wall. She barely listened.

She politely excused herself, the champagne suddenly bitter on her tongue. It was all a farce, a carefully constructed illusion. She watched him, as the other guests swarmed around him, as though they were hungry to hear the truth. She smiled, but this time it was not a fake one.