My Contract Husband Promised Not to Touch Me, Then I Started Wishing He Would

EMMA'S POV

The first time I met Adrian Vale in person, he was reading my bank statements.

He sat across from me at the long glass table in Marcus Redding's office, thirty-two years old, dark suit, no tie, turning pages like he was checking a quarterly report. Which, in a way, he was. I was the quarterly report.

"Your studio's line of credit was guaranteed against your family home," he said without looking up.

"My father signed it before he died." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I didn't know until the bank called."

"And your biggest client filed for bankruptcy two weeks ago."

"Thank you. I was there."

That made him look up. Gray eyes, sharp and unbothered. Then the corner of his mouth moved, just barely.

Marcus Redding, the attorney administering our agreement, cleared his throat and slid a thick folder toward me. "Ms. Bell, let's go through the terms one more time."

I didn't need to. I'd read the contract four times on the train.

One year of marriage. Completely separate finances. Cooperation in public. No interference in each other's private lives. At the end of twelve months, a divorce with no conditions and no fight.

In exchange, Adrian would personally cover the bank's demand, and my mother would get to keep the house I grew up in.

Adrian's side was simpler and colder. His grandfather's trust required him to be legally married before the board's final vote. If he wasn't, his late mother's voting shares would pass temporarily to his uncle, and his uncle wanted to sell off the oldest Vale resorts to the highest bidder.

Neither of us needed love.

We just needed a marriage certificate.

I signed. Adrian signed right after me, his signature fast and slanted, like he'd done it ten thousand times.

Marcus then brought in a licensed officiant. We exchanged the required vows, signed the marriage paperwork, and left the filing to him. Five minutes later, I was legally Mrs. Vale.

"Great," I said, capping the pen. "So I go home, and you call me when there's a gala."

"Not exactly." He closed the folder. "The board's annual meeting starts tomorrow morning at Hollow Pines."

I knew the name. Everyone did. The oldest Vale property, a hot spring resort up in the mountains, the kind of place my clients posted about and never shut up about.

"Okay," I said slowly. "And?"

"And my wife is expected to be there." He stood and buttoned his jacket. "We check in tonight."

---

The front desk clerk at Hollow Pines had the warmest smile I'd ever seen. She typed something, glanced at her screen, and somehow smiled wider.

"Mr. and Mrs. Vale. Congratulations." She slid a small leather key pouch across the counter. "Your honeymoon villa is ready."

I looked at Adrian.

Adrian looked at the pouch.

That was when I started to feel uneasy.

The villa sat at the end of a stone path lit by paper lanterns, private and quiet, with steam curling up from somewhere behind it. Adrian unlocked the door and stepped aside so I could go first.

It got worse.

One living room with low wooden furniture. One bathroom. A glass door leading out to a private outdoor hot spring.

And one bed. A big, beautiful bed covered in white linen, with rose petals arranged into a heart in the center.

I stopped in the doorway and didn't move.

Adrian walked past me, scanned the room once, then turned back to me. "Problem?"

I almost laughed, and not because it was funny. "You signed the same contract I did."

He went still for a second. I watched him get it.

He didn't say, *We're married now.* He didn't make a joke about the rose petals. He just pulled out his phone and called the front desk.

"This is Adrian Vale. I need a second room tonight." A pause. "Any room. Standard is fine." Another pause. His jaw tightened. "The entire property? Understood. Thank you."

He hung up.

"Let me guess," I said.

"Fully booked. Board members, their assistants, half the investors' families." He opened the key pouch, took out one of the two brass keys, and walked over to me. He placed it in my palm. His fingers didn't touch mine.

"The bedroom locks from the inside."

I closed my hand around the key. "And you?"

He nodded toward the side room, a small tatami space behind sliding paper doors. "There's a daybed in there."

I looked at the daybed. Then at him. "You're six foot three."

"I've survived worse."

He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over a chair, the same way he'd closed that folder in Marcus's office. Like this was a scheduling issue.

"Emma." It was the first time he'd said my name. "You don't need to worry. I won't touch you without your permission."

He said it plainly, no charm, no weight on it. Just a fact.

And for some reason, that was what finally made my shoulders drop.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you."

He nodded once and went to make calls on the porch.

---

An hour later, I'd almost convinced myself this was going to be fine.

The private spring had melted every knot in my back. The water smelled faintly of minerals and cedar, and the mountain air above it was cold enough to sting my cheeks. I wrapped myself in the hotel robe, which hit just at my knees, squeezed my hair with a towel, and slid open the glass door.

Adrian was standing in the middle of the living room, undoing his cuff links.

We both froze.

His shirt was already open at the collar, two buttons down. I could see his collarbone and the edge of a tan line that had no business being on a man who lived in boardrooms. My hair was still dripping onto my shoulders. The robe suddenly felt very short.

The room was too quiet. I could hear the spring bubbling behind me.

Adrian looked away first.

"Bathroom's yours," he said, his voice lower than before.

"Right. Yeah."

I walked past him toward the bedroom, eyes straight ahead, chin up, like a grown woman who was not at all affected by a stranger's collarbone.

My bare foot, still wet from the spring, hit the polished wood floor and slid out from under me.

Adrian moved before I even made a sound.

One hand caught my waist. The other closed around my arm, steadying me against him. Through the thin cotton of the robe, I could feel how warm he was, the solid line of his chest right at my shoulder.

Neither of us breathed.

His hand was big enough to cover half my side. I felt his fingers flex once, like he was realizing what he was holding.

Then he let me go so fast I almost stumbled again.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's fine." It came out too high. "Floor's wet. My fault."

I didn't wait for him to answer. I went into the bedroom, shut the door, and turned the lock so hard it clicked like a gunshot.

I stood there with my back against the wood, heart pounding.

Ten seconds passed.

Then his voice came through the door, calm and close.

"For the record..."

I pressed my ear to the door before I could stop myself. "What?"

A pause.

"I'm still keeping my promise."

I didn't answer. I couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't sound ridiculous.

I looked down at myself in the soft lamplight, trying to shake off the feeling of his hand.

And that was when I noticed it. The spot on my robe where his palm had pressed was right over the knot of my belt, the one thing holding the whole robe closed. It had loosened. One more tug, and it would have come undone.

He'd caught me there. And he'd let go the second he could.

I tightened the belt with shaking fingers and sat down on the edge of the bed, right in the middle of the rose petal heart.

For the first time since I'd signed that contract, I realized this year might be a lot harder than I'd thought.