Gemotions

The tremor in Elias’s hands was nearly imperceptible, but he felt it nonetheless. He’d been holding the letter opener too tightly, the sharp edge digging into his palm. He needed to unwind and poured a whiskey. The amber liquid did little to settle his nerves. His favorite author, Isabelle Moreau, was a fraud. He had always admired her prose.

He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing in the silent study. The elegant first edition of Moreau's masterpiece – now a symbol of duplicity – mocked him from the bookshelf. He wanted to rip it to shreds, to destroy it.

He muttered to himself, pacing restlessly. The plagiarism accusations, supported by irrefutable evidence, had hit him like a physical blow. He felt a deep sense of hurt and disappointment. Every beautiful sentence, every captivating chapter, now felt like a lie.