Gemotions

Agnes stared at the glossy magazine spread, the image of "Madame Evangeline's Éclairs" practically leaping off the page. Her hand flew to her mouth, the corner of her lips twitching uncontrollably. The pastries were hers. Absolutely, unequivocally hers. The delicate shells, the creamy filling, the precise dusting of cocoa – it was all there, just… different. A different name. She’d sent that recipe to the local baking competition, years ago.

A wave of heat surged through her. She felt oddly faint, needing to grip the edge of the kitchen counter. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. She had spent hours honing that recipe, perfecting it. Madame Evangeline, huh?

The article’s effusive praise felt like a punch to the gut. *"A revelation!"* it gushed. *"Parisian perfection!"* Agnes swallowed, the words suddenly tasting like ash. She couldn't believe it.