Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a stark white rectangle against the dark background. Her name wasn't on the byline. Instead, there it was: "By Charles Worthington." Eleanor stared, her breath hitching in her chest. A cold sweat slicked her palms. She felt a profound sense of… emptiness. Everything she'd poured into that piece, the late nights, the obsessive research, the careful crafting of each sentence – all gone, attributed to someone else.

Her fingers trembled as she clicked the link. There it was, her article, her words, under Charles Worthington's name. A burning sensation rose in her cheeks. The coffee mug on her desk suddenly seemed incredibly heavy. She closed her laptop, the click echoing in the sudden silence of her apartment.