From anonymity to stardom Novels & Stories

“We don’t have to talk about it.” I try not to grimace. The second you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone and have a couple of Grammys, anonymity is a thing of the past. The credit card machine beeps. I jerk my card out of the reader, swipe my stuff off the counter, and wave over my shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

Fan fiction threads sprouted in dark corners of the internet, speculating with eerie accuracy on their first meeting, their tensions, their “will-they-won’t-they.” Sabatine’s breath shallowed. The panic wasn’t a shout; it was a silent, expanding void in his chest. They were being dissected. He was being dissected. His hard-won anonymity, his existence as a ghost in the machine, was being flayed open for global entertainment. Every scar, every shadow in his eyes, was now fodder for conspiracy theories and shipping blogs. He was no longer Sabatine Stalker, an investigator. He was Sabatine Stalker, the Billionaire’s… something. The label hadn’t been invented yet, but the world was working on it

Which was nothing compared to what he really deserved. Billboard signs and street exits flew by as the truck sped along the dark highway road to our unknown destination. For the life of me, I just couldn't believe that we had gotten away. My mind felt like I was in a dream state, just floating around in my own body; watching everything as it unfolded, not really seeing what my eyes were seeing. My heart was still running double time, even as we slowly made our way to the elevator and up to our room on the second floor. I couldn't even remember when we had pulled into parking lot of the hotel. My ears heard the soft click of the door unlocking... telling me we were safe and that we had escape

I replied. “Then how?” I glanced at her, a faint smile playing on my lips. “I’m not stupid like Avery. Anonymity is everything you know.” I selected one of the top names. A well-known ruthless, lifestyle blogger. Someone who thrived on controversy disguised as curiosity. Then I opened a new message draft. No identity. No trace back to me. It was just carefully worded information followed by the images and then I hit SEND. “There” I said while trying to control my shaky breath.

He needed capital to get started, and he had a clear idea of how to raise it. This is why I focus on his emphasis on anonymity, something that can make the audience feel a sense of safety and control in their own lives. This was the component that had come to him slowly, over the first year inside, and that had become, over time, the cornerstone of everything else. He would build his empire without a public face. No interviews, no profiles, no photographs in the press. A name on documents — a legal name, his own, because he had nothing to hide — but no image, no story, no presence in the world that could be tracked or targeted or used against him. He had learned, at considerable personal cos

People didn’t need the truth; they needed something juicy to chew on. With a slow exhale, I got to work. First, anonymity. If I was going to do this, no trail could lead back to me. I opened an encrypted browser, signed up for a new social media account under a random name: TruthSeeker_89. No profile photo, no personal information. Just enough to make it look like some faceless whistleblower. Then came the caption. I had to be careful—suggestive, but vague enough to spark curiosity. I typed slowly, deliberately:

There was very little pressure on public opinion because there were not many people who knew about those dirty things then. Gradually, with the coming of television and newspapers, actors became more well known to the public. Their every move would be watched. If they did something wrong, such as destroying a family or taking drugs, they would be attacked or even condemned by the public. Later, when there were mobile phones, cellular network, and social media, the chances for celebrities to be exposed became very high. They could also make hundreds or thousands of times more money than ever before. In the same way, their every move, even something as simple as smoking a cigarette by the road

But I straighten up, my flawless public facade masking private despair. The cold, night air whips my brown curls around my face. I struggle to keep them in place using my hands. Once I tuck strands of soft hair behind my ears, my face becomes visible under the City lights, and people recognize me, and they don't fail to acknowledge my presence. “Oh my goodness! That's November Starkey.” Someone on the queue screams. And soon, everyone on the line starts to whisper amongst themselves as they throw piercing stares in my direction. Ever since I learned about Alkhemi, I always catch myself wondering if I am popular in this life time, because I had been a Queen in my previous. And how my life wou

Everywhere she looked; there was someone with a top notch camera trying to snap a good shot of her. When she was finally alone, away from all this sudden madness, she could think clearly about what was going on, the idea of losing anonymity. Samanta was not aware how her life had just been forever changed, overnight. She no longer had a private life.

By the time we finally went to bed, exhaustion dragged me under. And now here we were, the next morning, stepping off my private jet. I can almost hear the unspoken question in people’s heads: How the hell does she afford a jet? The truth is… I can. Because I’ve built something quietly, something no one in my family even knows about. I’m a songwriter. A published author. Anonymous, of course. Nobody knows it’s me behind the words except Harper. But soon very soon I’ll be stepping out of the shadows. My name will finally be tied to my work. For once, I’ll claim it.