Gemotions

He nearly ripped the menu from the server's hands. "The 'Chef Lorenzo's Secret Pasta'?" He spat the words out, each syllable laced with venom. He'd poured years into that recipe, the perfect balance of herbs, the slow-cooked sauce… all of it. Now, some charlatan was taking the credit.

A flush crept up his neck, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his ears. He gripped the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. The restaurant, usually a sanctuary, felt like a cage.

His fists clenched, and he wanted to do something drastic, something to make them understand. He wanted to shout, but he knew that wouldn't help. He needed a plan, a strategy. He would get his justice. He would get what he deserved.