Gemotions

The book lay open on the kitchen counter, its cover mocking him with his own face. It was a terrible photo, taken at a particularly unflattering angle. Inside, the pages were filled with details he’d never shared, anecdotes spun into something utterly unrecognizable. He grabbed the book, ripping a page from its binding with a vicious tear. His jaw clenched. How dare they?

He stalked through the apartment, the torn page clutched in his hand. Every room felt tainted, like they were all conspiring against him. He stopped in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. The person in the biography—the one the writer had manufactured—seemed distant, alien. He hurled the book across the living room, the impact leaving a dent in the wall.

He picked up his phone, dialing the publisher's number, voice tight with an anger that was a physical weight in his chest. “I want this thing off the shelves," he spat into the phone. "And I want it gone now.”