Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a triumphant fanfare for someone else. Her stomach clenched. The "Editor's Choice" award – for *her* research, her late nights, her painstakingly crafted prose – was attributed to a smug-sounding Dr. Alistair Finch. She ran a hand through her hair, the strands catching on the chipped paint of her home office. This was a joke. A cruel, professional joke.

She reread the abstract, each sentence now a personal affront. It was her phrasing, her data, her unique conclusion – all regurgitated, and now crowned with Finch's name. The absurdity of it made her chest tight. She slammed the laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the sudden quiet.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered, grabbing for the phone. This was not a conversation that could wait.