Gemotions

The morning had been a disaster from the start. The toast had burned, the train was delayed, and now this. Michael gripped the phone so hard his knuckles were white. He'd spent weeks on that piece, wrestling with the complexities of the data, refining the arguments. Now, some chump named "Isabelle Dubois" was taking the credit.

He abruptly ended the call, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. His shoulders slumped. The thought of all that wasted effort, the sheer audacity of it, left him feeling deflated.

He kicked a stray shoe across the floor.