The neon lights of New York and the cold, late autumn winds cast their glow over the city. Sterling Hargrove sat alone by the window of his penthouse apartment, a glass of wine shimmering in his hand. His gaze was fixed on his laptop screen, open to a cultural news website. There, the image of Kwame Ellison filled half the page—a young face with a modest smile, but eyes that shone with the certainty of a blazing path ahead. The bold headline read: “America’s New Literary Phenomenon: Kwame Ellison and the Novel Changing How We See History.” Sterling clicked on the article, reading each word slowly and with a mounting sense of dread. People compared Kwame to literary masters, praising his writing as both sharp and sincere. And what made Sterling’s heart sink the most was the fact that in just three months, Kwame’s debut novel had sold over a million copies and was nominated for the same award Sterling had won seventeen years ago.
In the dim, golden light, Sterling leaned toward his desk, where stacks of his own manuscripts lay. They sat silent, unread, and untouched. Once, when Sterling first entered the literary world, the entire publishing industry held him in awe. Now, a young Black man in his early twenties was captivating both critics and readers. Sterling felt a stirring in his chest—not exactly curiosity, nor outright hatred, but an uncomfortable mix of a craving for attention and the fear of being forgotten.
He began searching for every piece of information he could find about Kwame. Interview videos, book signings, social media posts—all of them painted a picture of a talented young writer, beloved not only by the Black community but by a wide readership. Sterling meticulously read the comments, digging into the darker corners of social media, hoping to find some clue that Kwame was nothing more than an “over-hyped product.” But the more he searched, the more unsettled he became, because everything about Kwame seemed too clean, too genuine. This only intensified Sterling’s desire to find a flaw, no matter the cost.
One evening, while scrolling through Twitter, Sterling stumbled upon an anonymous tweet accusing a passage in Kwame’s novel of bearing a resemblance to an obscure blog post from 2014. Without verifying its truth, Sterling immediately saved it. His heart pounded faster, as if he had just discovered a small crack in a seemingly perfect wall. In that moment, a thought flashed through his mind: if this crack could be widened, the wall would crumble, and the spotlight would once again shine on him.
After a few days of observation, Sterling developed a strange habit: every morning he drank coffee and opened his laptop solely to find news about Kwame. He looked at every photo of Kwame standing before crowds of readers, signing books with a gentle smile. Sometimes, Sterling zoomed in on the pictures, trying to read the emotions on his face—was it smugness? Or just the calm confidence of someone who knew they were on the right path? Each time, Sterling felt a heavy weight in his chest, and a voice deep inside whispered, “He’s taking what should have been yours.”
At a small literary workshop in Brooklyn, Sterling overheard some young publishers discussing Kwame. They spoke of him as a new icon, a “voice of a generation.” No one mentioned Sterling. In fact, when he approached them, they only offered a polite smile before returning to their conversation. The feeling of being excluded, of being left behind, was a painful sting. He felt not just forgotten, but replaced.
That night, Sterling reread his latest manuscript. The words seemed heavy, lifeless. He read them over and over, but couldn’t find the “fire” that people once admired in his work. Suddenly, he remembered the anonymous tweet about the similarities in Kwame’s novel. He began to search deeper, scouring old forums and forgotten web archives. Some fragmented clues emerged: a few identical quotes, a few minor characters with similar traits. Not enough for an accusation, but enough for Sterling to realize he held a knife—it was just a matter of when to use it.
Kwame, meanwhile, was completely unaware of the shadow lurking behind him. He continued to participate in events, give interviews, and began writing his second book. His sudden success didn’t make him complacent; on the contrary, it pushed him to delve deeper into stories of history, identity, and the hidden corners few dared to touch. Every time he saw a reader shed a tear while listening to him read a passage, Kwame felt like he was doing the right thing. But Sterling didn’t see it that way. For him, each one of those tears was a reminder that his own name was slowly sinking into the depths of the public’s memory.
On a rainy afternoon, Sterling sat in a dimly lit cafe, his laptop and the materials he had collected laid out before him. He stared at the “send” button on an email, which contained a pre-written accusation of plagiarism against Kwame, along with vague evidence. Just one click, and the young man’s entire career could be in jeopardy. Sterling placed his finger on the keyboard, but stopped. He wanted more than just to destroy. He wanted Kwame to fall publicly, so he could see the moment the light in his eyes went out.
A few weeks later, Sterling decided he would no longer just watch. He started appearing at events Kwame attended, but always kept his distance. Sometimes he stood at the back of the room, other times he sat in a secluded corner, pretending to flip through a book but never taking his eyes off Kwame. He observed every gesture, every way Kwame answered questions, and took notes. Sterling believed that if he was patient enough, he would find a moment when Kwame slipped up—a phrase, an idea, a piece of evidence to prove that he was just a copycat of the past.
One evening, after a book signing in Harlem, Sterling quietly followed Kwame out of the venue. The winter air was freezing, and the weak yellow streetlights cast their glow on the wet pavement. Sterling kept a few feet of distance, listening to the steady rhythm of Kwame’s shoes on the ground. He stopped in front of a small bookstore, chatted with the elderly owner, and then donated a box of free books to the neighborhood kids. Sterling watched this scene, and his envy and frustration grew stronger than ever. Not only was he loved, but he was also cleverly building the image of a hero—something Sterling had never been able to do.
The next day, Sterling started a new game: planting seeds of doubt on social media. He created a few anonymous accounts, subtly leaving comments under posts about Kwame, suggesting that the ideas in his book had appeared before, “in an obscure novel by a white author 20 years ago.” At first, only a few people paid attention. But social media is a tinderbox; the whispers quickly spread, and some self-proclaimed “literary lovers” began digging up comparisons.
Kwame first realized the brewing storm on a Monday morning when his assistant sent him a series of links. He sat in his small apartment with a cup of hot tea, reading each comment. Many people defended him, but there were also many voices filled with doubt. Kwame felt as if someone had just pulled the ground from under his feet. He tried to tell himself that it was all a fabrication, that the truth would speak for itself. But the feeling of being watched, of someone manipulating public opinion from the shadows, made him anxious.
Meanwhile, Sterling was growing more and more excited. He wasn’t in a hurry to release the “big” evidence he had gathered. He wanted the public to build the story themselves, so that when the suspicion was deep enough, all he would need was a gentle push to make everything collapse. He began to approach a few critics he knew, subtly dropping information into conversations, always with a hint of plausible deniability: “I don’t want to believe it, but… he’s so young, so famous so quickly… you know, that often comes with a price.”
Kwame started losing sleep. Every night, he would open his phone, reading supportive messages mixed with criticism, trying to figure out who had started it all. But every clue was hazy. He didn’t know that Sterling was sitting somewhere a few blocks away, sipping coffee and following his every reaction. For Sterling, this was no longer just a literary competition—it was a hunt, and he was savoring every moment as his prey was slowly being trapped.
Kwame knew he couldn’t let this wave of doubt wash everything away. He spent an entire morning walking along the Hudson River, questions swirling in his mind: Who was doing this? What did they want? And most importantly—how should he respond? The winter light reflected off the gray-silver water, and the cold wind biting at his skin sharpened his focus. He thought of his family in Ghana, of the friends who had believed in him, and of the readers who had found hope in his words. No, he would not let a faceless person destroy that.
That night, Kwame called Althea—an investigative reporter he had met during an interview two years ago. Althea was known for her ability to uncover secrets, and more importantly, she owed no one in the publishing world. When she heard Kwame’s brief summary of the situation, her voice became serious: “If you’re right, this person isn’t just attacking your career. They’re trying to erase your credibility so you can never get back up.”
While Althea began to trace the digital footprints on social media, Sterling was already planning his next move. He intended to show up at an upcoming literary panel in Brooklyn, where Kwame was the main speaker. Sterling would pose a question in front of hundreds of people, a carefully prepared question that was vague enough not to be considered an accusation, but sharp enough to cut deep into the public’s wound.
On the day of the panel, the hall was packed. The golden lights created a warm atmosphere over the audience, but beneath the surface, Sterling could feel the mix of anticipation and curiosity from those waiting to hear what Kwame would say. When the Q&A session began, Sterling stood up. His voice was slow and composed: “Kwame, your work is truly inspiring. But… some people say that some of your ideas have appeared before. Could you share your true source of inspiration?”
A wave of whispers spread throughout the room. Kwame looked directly at Sterling, and in that fleeting moment, he realized the man in front of him was no ordinary audience member. The way he emphasized each word, his unwavering gaze… everything was intentional. Kwame took a deep breath, then smiled: “My inspiration comes from the stories I’ve lived, the people I’ve met, and the struggles I’ve witnessed. If anyone finds similarities, it’s only proof that pain and hope are universal.”
The audience applauded, but Sterling didn’t care about the sound. He was focused on a different detail: Kwame had trembled slightly on that last sentence, and that was the sign of a crack. He was certain he had hit his mark.
At the same time, in the back of the hall, Althea was quietly observing. She had managed to record the entire exchange and would analyze it later. But right now, what interested her more was… why Sterling was here, and why his gaze was so much more familiar with the hunt than with a normal literary discussion.
Kwame didn’t know that from this moment on, the fight had shifted to a public confrontation. And every word, every action, every look from both sides could be a bullet fired in a merciless war.
That night, Kwame barely slept. He lay in bed, the light from his phone casting a glow on his tired face. Online, the video of the Q&A had gone viral. Most people sided with him, but there were still comments sowing doubt, and he knew that if left alone, those seeds would grow into thorns that would strangle his reputation.
His phone vibrated. A message from Althea: “I have a lead. Sterling isn’t a random audience member. He used to be an editorial consultant for a publisher that rejected your manuscript in 2017. I’ll send more details when we meet in person.” Kwame sat bolt upright. The name Sterling was no longer a vague shadow—it had a history, a motive, and a potential grudge that had been carefully nurtured over the years.
They met at a small café in the Lower East Side, where the sound of the espresso machine and jazz music on the background made it difficult for others to eavesdrop. Althea opened her laptop, showing Kwame a series of old emails leaked from an anonymous source. In them, Sterling had corresponded with an editorial team about “preventing some young authors from becoming famous too quickly” and “avoiding the market being dominated by an imported literary trend.” The words were cold, laced with contempt.
After reading them, Kwame clenched his fists, his knuckles white. This was no longer a vague battle—it was a systemic conspiracy. But he knew that releasing these emails too early would make him look like a bitter retaliator, and he would be vulnerable to a counter-attack. He needed a smarter move, a blow that would leave Sterling no time to defend himself.
The opportunity arrived sooner than expected. A week later, Kwame was invited for a live interview on a national television channel. Initially, he considered declining to avoid further scrutiny, but Althea was direct: “If you stay silent, they will define you on their own terms. If you go on air, you can define yourself… and with a little luck, you can turn the whole story around.”
On the set, the lights were dazzling, and the cameras focused on Kwame’s face. The host began with gentle questions before slowly transitioning to the controversial topic. Kwame looked directly into the lens and spoke clearly: “In any field, there will always be people who want you to fail. But I believe the truth will stand firm when lies have faded away. And I don’t just write for myself. I write for those who have been marginalized, to let them know that their stories are also worth telling.”
His words resonated like a knife slicing through the wave of doubt. Social media exploded with excerpts and supportive hashtags. Sterling surely watched the interview, and what bothered him most was Kwame’s calm demeanor, which didn’t resemble someone backed into a corner.
Kwame left the studio with a plan taking shape in his mind. Next time, he wouldn’t just be on the defensive. Next time, he would make Sterling explain himself… in public.
Kwame began by gathering every piece of evidence Althea had found—emails, testimonies from former editors, and leaked messages from internal publishing chat groups. Each piece was a trail leading back to Sterling, but if released all at once, they would be dismissed as “rumors” and easily denied. He needed a way to make Sterling speak for himself, or at least react and expose a weakness.
A daring idea came to him while he and Althea sat in a small room, where the golden light cast splotchy shadows on the walls. He decided to hold a public book reading, but not a normal one. The content he would read was a new chapter he had been writing in silence all this time—a fictional story that contained details almost identical to Sterling’s past and statements, with only the names and context changed. Everyone in the industry would recognize his likeness.
News of the book reading spread quickly, and just as Kwame predicted, Sterling couldn’t stay put. Before the event, a series of anonymous articles appeared, implying that Kwame was “about to launch a personal attack” and “playing a dangerous game.” But these words only made the public more curious, and the guest list grew so long that the organizers had to move to a larger hall.
On the day of the event, Kwame stepped onto the stage, the light shining on his face like a halo that was both warm and sharp. He opened his book, his voice deep and resonant, each word creating a silence in the audience as taut as a plucked string. When he read the part where the villain introduced a policy to “filter” authors based on their cultural background, murmurs spread through the hall. Eyes exchanged glances, people took sharp intakes of breath, and in the back row, Kwame noticed… Sterling was sitting there.
He had his arms crossed, his face expressionless, but his right hand was constantly tapping the armrest—a sign of impatience, even anxiety. Kwame continued to read without missing a word, and when he finished, the entire hall rose for a prolonged ovation. Sterling didn’t stay for handshakes or photos. He quietly left amidst the crowd, his steps quicker than usual.
Althea came up to the stage and whispered to Kwame: “We’ve hit a nerve. Now we just have to wait. He’ll react on his own… and when he does, we’ll have everything we need to counter-attack.”
Kwame smiled, knowing the net was closing in. Sterling had come out of the shadows, and next time, the confrontation would no longer be indirect.
Two days after the book reading, a message arrived from an unknown number. The content was a single, short sentence: “Meet me tonight, The Lantern café, 9 PM. – S.”
Kwame knew “S” could be no one else but Sterling. He sat in his apartment, staring at his phone screen, feeling as if it were both an opportunity and a trap. Althea immediately objected: “You can’t go alone. This could be his way of making you make a mistake.” But Kwame replied, his voice firm: “If I don’t go, I’ll always be on the defensive. I need to look him in the eye.”
The Lantern was uncommonly quiet that night. The dim, yellow light cast a glow on the wooden walls, and a soft jazz melody played from an old speaker. Sterling was already there, sitting in a secluded corner, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The light was just enough to see his steely, grey-blue eyes. When Kwame approached, Sterling smiled, but the smile was so cold it seemed to thicken the air around them.
“You write well,” Sterling began, his voice low and even. “But you know you’re playing with fire, don’t you?”
Kwame sat down, his gaze unwavering. “Fire isn’t dangerous to those who know where it starts.”
A moment of silence. Sterling set his glass down and leaned forward. “You think you understand me? You don’t understand the pressure of surviving in this industry when people like you show up with your fake ‘diversity’ wave. You’re a product of a trend, not talent.”
Kwame’s lip curled slightly. “If I were just a product of a trend, why would you go to such lengths to block my path? If I were harmless, you wouldn’t have had to get your hands dirty.”
Sterling’s jaw tightened. In his eyes, there was something more than just hatred—there was the fear of being replaced. He leaned in, lowering his voice: “You don’t understand… I built an empire from nothing. I won’t let anyone—especially a kid with a few social media posts—destroy it.”
Kwame’s response was clear, every word distinct: “I’m not destroying it. The truth will.”
Sterling sighed, leaning back, his smile returning, but sharper this time: “Truth is something that can be bought, bent, or buried. I’ve been doing it for thirty years, and I’m still here.”
Kwame looked him straight in the eye: “Not for much longer.”
At that moment, Althea unexpectedly walked in, phone in hand, recording the conversation from the very beginning. She placed the device on the table, her voice calm but powerful: “You’ve just confessed in front of a witness and a voice recorder. This story won’t be buried.”
Sterling looked at the two of them, and his smile vanished. In an instant, he seemed to age a decade. He stood up, left his drink behind, and walked out of the cafe without another word. Kwame knew this wasn’t the final victory, but it was the most powerful blow to the stronghold Sterling had built over decades. And this time, the public would hear everything.
News of the recording exploded just hours after it was posted. Sterling’s arrogant and prejudiced remarks were shared nonstop on social media, echoing on news channels and replayed on late-night talk shows. People repeatedly listened to him devaluing authors of color, mocking their voices, and his near-confession of deliberately trying to keep Kwame off the publishing list. Part of the public was shocked, part was furious, and the rest felt as if a knot that had existed for years had finally been untied—because this was not just a personal matter, but a reflection of a biased system.
Authors who had worked with Sterling began to speak out. At first, there were anonymous posts, followed by public testimonies, complete with emails, contracts, and stories of opportunities being cut short simply because of their skin color or a name that was “not easy to pronounce” by Western standards. The publishing industry, which had always prided itself on being “progressive” and “diverse,” was now facing a storm of criticism. Literary critics, authors’ rights organizations, and even regular readers joined in, refusing to let the story fade away after a few weeks.
Kwame didn’t savor this moment as a victor. He sat in his small apartment, the yellow light shining on a messy desk, his hands scrolling through a phone full of notifications, but his heart felt heavy. Amidst the congratulatory messages, there were still sarcastic remarks, threats, and opinions that he was “just using a publicity stunt to get famous.” Althea, sitting across from him with a hot cup of tea, said softly: “This isn’t the finish line. This is just the first door. If we stop at just toppling one person, everything will go back to the way it was.” Her words struck a chord with Kwame. He realized he was standing before a rare opportunity—to turn this shock into real change.
In the following weeks, Kwame began a new project. Not a fictional novel, but a book that blended memoir, investigative journalism, and a call for justice. He wrote about the “invisible walls”—from the publishing meetings where authors of color were never invited, to the rejection emails with vague reasons, to the nods of approval reserved only for faces and voices that “fit” the company’s image. Each page was a cut, both painful and liberating.
Meanwhile, Sterling vanished from all public events. No one saw him at conferences or book launches anymore. Rumors circulated that he was hiding in a seaside villa, living in silence and bitterness. Some sources leaked that Sterling was planning to sell his shares and leave the industry, while others said he had hired lawyers to prepare a legal counterattack. But whatever his plan was, one thing was clear: he was no longer an untouchable icon.
On the launch day of his book Invisible Walls, hundreds of people lined up in front of the bookstore, despite the chilly autumn weather. There were young faces, their eyes bright with hope. There were older people, their expressions a mix of pride and regret. Kwame sat signing each book, trying to look every person in the eye. When a young, dark-skinned boy, about ten years old, walked up with the book clutched tightly to his chest, Kwame paused. Those eyes, sparkling and expectant, reminded him of himself as a child—when dreams were fragile and could be snuffed out by a single contemptuous remark.
The book signing lasted until dark. When everyone had left, Althea walked over, placed a hand on Kwame’s shoulder, and said: “You just rewrote the story.”
Kwame smiled, his voice low but firm: “No, we’ve only just written the first chapter.”
Outside on the street, golden leaves fluttered down. The sound of their footsteps blended with the wind, but inside Kwame, another sound resonated—the sound of a door opening wide, leading to a long road where he would no longer walk alone. And this time, the story would never be buried as it was before.
The invisible walls in the publishing industry don’t disappear on their own—they only crumble when someone dares to step up and push. Kwame’s story is not just a personal victory, but a reminder that silence nurtures injustice. If you have ever been sidelined because of your skin color, your voice, or your background, let this story be a fire for you to stand up, tell your own story, and empower other voices.
Share, speak out, and never let them define your worth.