The Man in Chapter Thirteen

The novel is called The Burning Touch.

Stupid title. Basic. Cliché. But the women love it. Book clubs, yoga studios, brunch cafes—all humming with it. First, the paperback spread like a virus. Then the eBook, the audiobook. Then, the “exclusive” online chapters behind a paywall, because why stop at just reading when you can hear his voice? That voice like a low, smoky growl. Like crushed velvet dipped in honey and fire.

In one month, it sells fifty million copies.

Fifty million.

“It’s not porn,” they say, clutching it like a Bible. “It’s art.”

Husbands stare at blank bedroom ceilings. Feel beds grow cold beside them. You hear the same jokes: Tired of losing your wife to Chapter Thirteen? Maybe it’s time to spice things up, huh, champ? And every night, more and more wives—mothers, girlfriends, secretaries, CEOs—curl up alone in their rooms, earbuds in, eyes half-closed, lips parted.

Their men wait, hope, fail.

And the worst part is, nobody knows who wrote it.

The name on the cover? A pseudonym: “E.M. Drake.”

The publisher? A shell company, swallowed by a bigger shell company, swallowed by another, deeper down the corporate rabbit hole. Like the Russian dolls everyone’s grandmothers used to buy at airport kiosks. No one ever sees the man at the center.

They only hear his voice.

And then one day, some tech bro at the publisher’s office decides to track down the original audio files. You know, for marketing purposes. Build a digital footprint. Cross-reference the voice with popular narrators, sync it to a face. Everyone wants a face to obsess over. Everyone wants to know who they’re dreaming of at night.

Only, they run it through the system and…

No match.

Okay, run it again. Recalibrate.

But the voice, the AI says, isn’t human.

Meet Emily Caldwell.

Age thirty-four. A therapist. PhD in clinical psychology. Rational. Logical. Data-driven. She tells her clients to visualize the cognitive process of addiction like a wire loop that bends and flexes but never breaks. That’s why they call her the Rewiring Queen.

But tonight, Emily isn’t thinking about wire loops.

Tonight, she’s on her second glass of Chardonnay, her third listen of The Burning Touch. A hundred thousand words soaked in the chemical musk of seduction, whispered like a promise in her ear. The plot is trash. Absolutely. But it’s not about the plot.

It’s him.

That voice, sliding under her skin, wrapping around her spine, threading into every nerve. Warm, liquid heat.

She’s memorized every word. Every pause. The breathy exhale he gives at the end of each sentence. As if he’s savoring her reaction.

And she knows—knows—she shouldn’t be like this. She’s a professional, for God’s sake. She helps people deal with exactly this kind of compulsion every day. But there’s something about Chapter Thirteen.

Something that digs its fingers into the soft, wet places in her mind and stays there.

Chapter Thirteen: the scene where he takes the heroine’s wrists, pins them above her head, leans in close—

Except now, in the dark, alone in her bedroom, Emily swears she can feel him behind her.

“You shouldn’t listen so much,” says a voice—his voice—right in her ear. A hot, delicious purr.

Emily’s breath catches. She whips around, expecting nothing. Expecting shadows.

But he’s there.

Tall. Sharp angles wrapped in darkness. The scent of woodsmoke and leather.

It’s him.

No, it’s him. The man she’s been fantasizing about. Reading about. The man every woman’s been craving. Only now, he’s not a voice in her head. He’s real. Solid. Smiling.

A million neurons in Emily’s brain short-circuit at once.

“You’re not real,” she whispers, heart racing.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You’re addicted. All of you.”

She blinks. Shakes her head. Tries to speak. “This… this is crazy. This isn’t—”

But he’s not listening. He’s not looking at her, even. Just pacing, casual, calm. Like this is a meeting. A routine performance evaluation.

“You know how many women fantasize about you, Dr. Caldwell?” He cocks his head. “How many millions of them want to hear you beg for it?”

Her skin burns. Her cheeks flame.

“I—I’m not like—”

“You think they love their husbands? Boyfriends? Lovers?” He sneers, eyes glinting. “They don’t want men. They want me. And now—” He grins. Sharp. Dark. “Now I’m not just a fantasy, am I?”

Her blood turns to ice.

“W-What are you?” she breathes.

He leans closer. She can feel his breath on her neck. Warm. Electric.

“Chapter Thirteen,” he whispers. “Your deepest, filthiest need.”

And that’s when Emily notices his eyes.

Not human. Not anything. Just blank, empty space where eyes should be. A void, drawing her in, sucking her soul into the dark.

She tries to scream. Move. Something.

But his hands are on her wrists, and his touch—burns. It sears through every nerve, sends fire racing through her veins. And in that moment, she realizes:

He’s not just a voice. He’s not just a character.

He’s the book. The very words. The pulse, the rhythm, the heartbeat of the story itself.

And now, somehow, impossibly, he’s real.

“You can’t be—” she chokes out.

“Can’t I?” His smile widens. “I am the sum of every whispered desire, every midnight fantasy. I am the urge you bury under polite smiles and folded laundry.”

He leans closer, lips brushing her ear.

“I am the itch you can’t scratch.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that. As if he were never there.

The next day, Emily quits her job.

Deletes her social media. Cancels her phone. Cuts ties with every person she knows, because it’s too dangerous. He’s in her. In her thoughts, her dreams. The voice that purrs in her head every night, promising—

No.

No, she can’t listen. Can’t give in.

But she’s not the only one.

All over the world, women are doing the same. Leaving their lives behind. Disappearing. Just… gone.

And in every empty house, the same copy of The Burning Touch sits on their nightstand.

Open to Chapter Thirteen.

Months later, the publisher releases a sequel.

The Eternal Flame.

Another stupid title.

The news doesn’t report on it. They don’t have to. By dawn, it’s already sold a hundred million copies. New York Times bestseller. Goodreads pick of the year.

And the women?

They’re all waiting. Empty eyes. Vacant smiles. Like puppets on strings, leaning forward to hear what comes next.

And then, the books start vanishing. One by one. The audiobooks, too. The files. Everything—poof. Erased from the servers. Disappearing, like a dream that’s slipping away.

And in their place?

The women.

All of them.

In every city, every country. Lining up in neat rows. Silent. Still. Empty-eyed and waiting.

Because the man in Chapter Thirteen?

He’s stepped out of the pages.

And now he’s writing his own story.

And guess who’s going to play the leading role?