My Husband Protects Me but Won’t Touch Me

The Sterling Foundation Charity Luncheon was a sea of silk, diamonds, and carefully crafted smiles. I stood near the towering marble columns, nursing a glass of sparkling water and feeling like an imposter in my navy Dior dress—the first designer piece Quentin had ever bought me. My fingers traced the delicate stitching at my waist, a nervous habit I couldn't shake. Three weeks into this marriage, and I still felt like a ghost haunting the edges of his world.

I spotted her before she spotted me. Luna White, resplendent in a crimson Valentino that hugged her willowy frame, glided through the crowd with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything. Her platinum blonde hair was swept into an elegant chignon, and her laugh—sharp and practiced—carried across the ballroom.

Then her gaze locked onto mine, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. She whispered something to her socialite friends, and their heads swiveled in my direction like a pack of wolves scenting prey.

"And who is that?" I heard one of them murmur, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "The new Mrs. Hawkins? How quaint. I heard she was some sort of... art student? Before she got clever with her... situation."

Luna's laughter was like shattered glass. "Oh, darling, you're being kind. We all know Quentin's been desperate for an heir since Eliam passed. It's almost admirable, really—finding a girl so... obliging. Though I suppose when you're carrying the Hawkins legacy, you can't exactly be picky about the vessel."

They tittered behind their hands, but Luna wasn't finished. She excused herself and sauntered toward me with predatory grace, stopping just close enough that I could smell her cloying jasmine perfume.

"Juliet, isn't it?" Her smile was razor-sharp. "How lovely to finally meet Quentin's... charitable project. You must be so grateful. A girl like you, marrying into such an established family. It's like something out of a fairy tale, isn't it? The kind where the prince mistakes a pauper for a princess."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but something else burned hotter—a cold, clean fury I'd never felt before. I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw nothing but a hollow woman clinging to the scraps of a man's power.

I smiled, a genuine smile that seemed to unsettle her. Then, with deliberate calm, I tipped my glass of red wine and watched it cascade down the front of her pristine white dress.

The shriek that tore from her throat could have shattered crystal. "You little bitch!" she snarled, her hand flashing up to strike me.

But the blow never landed. A shadow fell across us, and Quentin materialized from the crowd. His fingers closed around Luna's wrist like a vise, his grip gentle but unmistakably unbreakable.

"Mr. Hawkins, she—" Luna began, her voice trembling with rage.

"Mrs. Hawkins," Quentin corrected, his tone arctic. "And you will address her as such, or you will not address her at all. My wife is not your entertainment, Ms. White. Nor is she your concern. If you cannot conduct yourself with the basic courtesy her position demands, then perhaps the Sterling Foundation can find a more appropriate venue for your... talents."

Luna's face went ashen. She knew what this meant. The Whites' entire social standing was built on Quentin's goodwill. One word from him, and they would be exiled from every boardroom and ballroom that mattered.

Without another word, Quentin's hand hovered just above the small of my back—close enough to guide, but never quite touching. He led me through the stunned crowd and out into the waiting car, leaving Luna standing alone in her ruined dress, her empire crumbling around her.

Two days later, the mansion's serenity was shattered by the sound of the doorbell. I opened the door to find Ricky Gibson grinning on the doorstep, a massive duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his gaming console clutched in his arms.

"Surprise!" he announced, stepping past me without waiting for an invitation. "Your mother sent me. Marital inspector, at your service. I'll be needing full access to the kitchen, the WiFi password, and maybe a room that isn't covered in museum-quality dust."

I heard Quentin's footsteps behind me, heavy and measured. His displeasure was a palpable force in the hallway.

"Ricky," I began, but my friend was already making himself at home, dropping onto the pristine Italian leather couch and helping himself to Quentin's imported Belgian chocolates.

"Don't worry, Jules. I'm here to make sure you haven't been sold into genteel slavery," he quipped, shooting Quentin a challenging look. "Though I'm starting to think the snacks alone might be worth the trade."

Quentin's jaw tightened, but something in his eyes flickered—a spark of something I couldn't quite name, as if Ricky's brazen intrusion had awakened a dormant instinct. For the first time, I wondered what it would take for my husband to fight not just for my name, but for my heart.