Gemotions

The gala was supposed to be a dream. Sarah, beaming, had spent weeks planning her outfit, anticipating the moment she'd finally meet Alistair Finch, the author whose words she had practically memorized. Now, however, the champagne tasted like ash.

She stood frozen near the buffet table, clutching a tiny cheese puff, watching Alistair Finch charm the room. He was holding court, regaling a group with a story that sounded…familiar. Too familiar. It was word-for-word, the core narrative of the short story she'd anonymously submitted to his online writing contest.

Her cheeks burned. The laughter around her felt like a personal assault. She surreptitiously retreated, melting back into the shadows of the ballroom, hoping to be unseen.