Gemotions

The phone rang. It was her agent. “Have you seen the news?” the agent’s voice was clipped, strained. “About Alistair Finch?” Eleanor felt a wave of nausea, her breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. Finch was her literary idol, the writer of the gritty, noir novels that had shaped her own writing.

She had seen. The comparisons were stark, the accusations indisputable. The agent outlined the possible fallout – the retraction requests, the legal battles. Eleanor barely heard. She could feel every muscle in her body tense, especially her shoulders. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive.

“We need to issue a statement,” the agent was saying, “Something supportive, but…” Eleanor interrupted, the words catching in her throat, "It's… it's just wrong." Her voice cracked. She felt unclean, as though she had somehow participated in the transgression.