Gemotions

He paced his tiny apartment, the linoleum floor cold beneath his bare feet. Sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, sliced through the blinds. He scrubbed at his forehead, trying to wipe away the sweat that slicked his skin. The accusations, printed in black and white, felt like physical blows.

It couldn't be true. He’d practically worshipped Delilah Reed since he was a kid. He’d devoured every book, memorized passages. His entire artistic identity was built on her work, or so he thought.

He grabbed the nearest book, a signed first edition. His prize possession. He ripped the cover off. He had to know. The paper tore. The pages fell in a heap at his feet.