Stories By Anonymous Novelas e Histórias

I opened my mouth to argue but he was quick to explain. "Hear me out first. I've been in this business for years, I know how it works. If you sell a dirty story on someone as powerful as that, then they'll go to the newspaper that published it and find out who sold the story to them and then you'll be toast because I assume you must be close to these people to be able to have such a scoop on them." Awed, I nodded. "Yes. You're so right. So what do I do?" "Create an anonymous account and post the story there. I'll help you write it. See you Tuesday evening at my place. I gotta continue working, bye.”

Top contributors: - Lucas Stone: $200,000,000 (anonymous) - Jane Doe: $180,000,000 - John and Emily Chen: $250,000 - The Johnson Corporation: $200,000 Lucas looked up from his wine, his eyes following my gaze. He realized what I was looking at. Then I turned to look at him wide-eyed. “Fucking idiots,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Anonymous means you don't add the person's name." “I know,” I giggled, unable to contain my amusement. He stared at me, and suddenly I didn't know what to do, how to act, or how to look at him. I was shy!

About him. "Yeah," I finally said. "I’ll come." Samantha nodded. "Good. Try not to let our fearless leader work you to death." I rolled my eyes and turned back to my screen. But just as I did, a notification popped up—an anonymous email. Subject: Stop digging. Message: You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Drop the story before it’s too late. I read the words three times, my pulse hammering. Was this some kind of joke? A threat?

“I’m done having lunch with Mr. Anonymous. You want to tell me something? Say it now. Over the phone. Like normal people.” There was a pause on the line—short, but heavy. Then, quietly: “I’m a writer.” I blinked. “A writer,” I repeated slowly, more to myself than to him. “As in... books?” “No,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, even though he sounded nervous. “Well—sometimes. But mostly I write stories for brands. People. Companies. I help them find their voice. Sometimes under my name. Sometimes not. Depends.”

His hand cupped my face, warm and certain, and for a heartbeat, everything else disappeared. When we finally parted, I could still feel the ghost of his lips on mine a promise, a memory, a beginning. I looked down at the page. The ink had barely touched it, but it didn’t matter. For once, I didn’t need to write every detail. The story had already found its ending not in words, but in the spaces between them. And as Ethan’s fingers tightened gently around mine, I realized that sometimes, the truest stories don’t need to be told. They just need to be lived.

“No, it wasn’t like that. I mean, yes, they contacted me anonymously, but I didn’t know—” I turned my back and walked to the desk. A file sat waiting there. The fake paperwork she’d submitted when she started working here was useless if anything. But next to it was a second folder. Even thicker than the first. I didn’t touch it. “Keep going,” I said. “This story’s gold. I might even have it printed in the paper. Know the folklore section?” She blinked, confusing marring her features. “Of course you don’t. Doesn’t exist. But I could have one created just for you.”

Anna was a miracle child, and so is this book. She looked down on the paperback on her lap, its cover dazzling as ever. The Anthem of Lycanthropy. She couldn’t believe she was the author of this, that this was her life, and that her life story went viral — with everyone thinking it’s a realistic fiction. But of course, nobody knew that she was the writer behind the works except her and Ellie. Everyone just knew the writer as L.M.H. and that was it. Leal Miragia Horryn.

Taken. I swore under my breath. Somewhere between inventing a birthday in 1996 and uploading a stock photo of a mountain goat as my profile picture, I thought, What the hell am I doing? I closed deals worth millions with a handshake, yet here I was arguing with an app about whether my fake name was acceptable. Pathetic. But my fingers kept moving anyway. Finally — I was in. Anonymous. Perfect. I tapped her story. A restaurant situated in Midtown, not so far from the office by the look of the windows. White tablecloths, good lighting.She was sitting with someone, a woman with a bright laugh.

“People need to hear it, Elara.” At first, I resisted. I wasn’t a writer. I wasn’t a public figure. I was just… me. And what if those words made me look weak? What if people laughed? Still, I uploaded them anonymously to a small forum. Just pieces of myself—stories of an Omega girl learning how to keep her head down, how to survive the way things were, how it felt to be told her worth depended on others. I hadn’t expected anyone to notice. But by the next morning, my notifications were on fire. Hundreds of comments. Dozens of private messages. And within the week, blogs were reposting my chapters.

Joshua Lawson, my old college buddy, had become a private eye. "Dig up some dirt for me on Yoel. While you're at it, get the scoop on him and Sheila in Francoria since three years ago, the nitty-gritty, the more the better. Oh, and check if there's any record of Sheila having an abortion at any local hospitals." I hung up and stared into the harsh daylight, an emptiness settling in my chest. 'Sheila, I’ve given you more chances than I can count. If this is how it is, then all we've got left is the final showdown,' I thought to myself.