Gemotions

The coffee cup trembled in Eleanor's grip, sloshing lukewarm liquid over her knuckles. Across the conference table, Mark, his face lit by the projector's glow, was describing *her* project. The same intricate algorithms, the same elegant user interface she’d toiled over for months. A bitter taste coated the back of her throat, a sensation she couldn't quite place.

She clenched her jaw. Her presentation, weeks of sleepless nights, the sacrifices she'd made to get here – all rendered meaningless. Each word that spilled from Mark's lips was a tiny, sharp jab.

"So, Eleanor, what are your thoughts?" The question felt like an accusation, the sound of his voice grating on her ears. She forced a smile, a brittle thing that didn't reach her eyes. “Fascinating, Mark. Truly.”