My Husband Protects Me but Won’t Touch Me

The lawyer’s office smelled of lemon polish, aged leather, and the suffocating weight of duty. I sat at the edge of the sprawling mahogany conference table, the cooling air conditioning raising goosebumps along my arms. Beside me sat Quentin Hawkins. He was a fortress of a man, clad in a charcoal Brioni suit that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, his profile as sharp and unyielding as cut glass.

I stared down at the thick stack of paper resting between us. *Marriage Contract.*

My fingers tightened around the stems of the small bouquet resting in my lap. I had bought the white freesias myself this morning at a corner bodega. They were already wilting, looking pathetic and entirely out of place in the billionaire’s sterile boardroom. Much like me.

"Sign here, Ms. Carr. And initial at the bottom of page four regarding the paternal trust," the lawyer murmured, tapping a gold fountain pen against the dotted line.

I picked up the pen. The metal was slick against my sweaty palm. I risked a sideways glance at Quentin. He was ten years my senior, a man who commanded boardrooms with a mere shift in his posture. He was also the man I had secretly, hopelessly loved since I was nineteen years old. But he wasn’t looking at me. His icy gray eyes were fixed on the document, tracking the clauses that legally bound him to protect his late brother’s child.

*Eliam’s baby.* The lie I carried in my womb felt heavier than the child itself. We both believed the fragmented, drunken shadows of that night belonged to Eliam. And now, Quentin was stepping in to give his brother’s child a legitimate name.

I swallowed the jagged shard of glass lodged in my throat, pressing the nib to the paper. I signed my name. *Juliet Hawkins.* The ink bled into the page—a legally binding salvation, and a quiet, personal tragedy.

An hour later, the wrought-iron gates of the Hawkins estate parted for Quentin’s armored Maybach. The mansion was a sprawling monument of limestone and marble, magnificent and entirely devoid of life.

Quentin guided me up the grand staircase. He didn't offer his arm. He moved with a measured, predatory grace, always keeping exactly two feet of distance between us. When he pushed open the double doors to the master suite, I stepped into a vast ocean of ivory silk and velvet.

"Your luggage has been unpacked," Quentin said, his baritone voice a low, perfectly modulated hum. He checked his Patek Philippe watch, a gesture that signaled the end of a transaction. "I have taken the liberty of moving my personal effects to the adjoining suite."

I froze, the chill of the marble floor seeping through the thin soles of my shoes. I turned to look at him, searching for a crack in his immaculate armor. "The adjoining suite?"

"It is for your comfort," he stated smoothly, his expression a blank, impenetrable wall. "You will require undisturbed rest during the pregnancy. Sharing a bed would be entirely impractical."

"Impractical," I echoed. The word tasted like ash.

"If you require anything in the night, the intercom connects directly to my room." He gave a stiff, formal nod. "Rest well, Juliet."

The heavy oak door clicked shut between us, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous room. I sank onto the edge of the massive, empty mattress. I had just married the only man I had ever wanted, yet as the silence of the house pressed in on me, I had never felt a more terrifying isolation.

Three weeks later, the stark white lights of Dr. Sarah Lim’s clinic offered a different kind of coldness.

I lay back on the examination table, the freezing ultrasound gel spread across my lower abdomen. The door opened, and Quentin stepped inside. He had canceled a multi-million dollar hostile takeover meeting for this. He took the chair in the corner, his jaw locked, his posture so rigid it looked as though he were bracing for an impact.

Dr. Lim moved the wand. Suddenly, the quiet room was filled with a rapid, rhythmic sound. *Swoosh-swoosh-swoosh.*

My breath hitched. The heartbeat.

I looked at Quentin. He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His knuckles were bone-white where his hands clasped together, and his eyes—usually so cold and guarded—were blazing with an intensity that stole the oxygen from my lungs. He stared at the flickering gray monitor as if he were witnessing a miracle. He cared so fiercely; it radiated from him in waves.

Twenty minutes later, we walked out into the blinding afternoon sun of the parking lot. The rhythmic drumming of that tiny heartbeat still echoed in my chest, breaking down the walls of my own restraint. Overwhelmed by a sudden, desperate need for connection, I looked at this man who guarded me like a treasure, and I reached out.

My fingers brushed the back of his hand.

Quentin violently jerked away.

The flinch was so sharp, so visceral, it felt like a physical blow. He took a fast, stumbling step back, his chest heaving once before he violently clamped down on his breathing. The color drained from his face.

"Quentin?" I whispered, my hand suspended in the empty air, burning from the rejection.

He didn't look at me. His jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might shatter. "The car is waiting," he clipped out, his voice sharp and ragged.

He opened the passenger door, stepping back so far that not even our shadows could touch. I slid into the leather seat, pulling my offending hand into my lap. He was willing to give me his name, his home, and his protection, but as the door slammed shut, I realized the bitter truth: my husband was repulsed by my very touch.