Gemotions

The lawyer’s office was opulent, the air thick with the scent of leather and ambition. He sat across from the man, the author, who was explaining the research process. “I assure you, Mr. Harding, everything is accurate.” The author’s voice was smooth, reassuring. Harding’s jaw clenched. The man’s words were like a foreign language, devoid of meaning. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the headache growing. He felt his face flush as his eyes darted around the room. The lawyer’s questions, polite and probing, felt like needles. He gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white.