Gemotions

He glared at the magazine, the glossy paper practically vibrating with the audacity of its lie. "By Eleanor Vance," it proclaimed. Inside, his analysis, his research, his painstakingly assembled arguments. He’d given that editor hell for weeks, pushing for the right to publish. Now, this.

He crumpled the magazine in his hands, then immediately smoothed it out. He wouldn’t let them see him defeated. He wouldn’t let them win. He grabbed his phone and started composing a curt email. He would not back down.

His fingers hammered at the keyboard. Each keypress was a defiant act. His shoulders were rigid, his back ramrod straight. He wouldn't show weakness. He had a reputation to uphold.