My Husband Protects Me but Won’t Touch Me

The crystal chandelier cast dancing shadows across the formal dining room as Mrs. Winters, our housekeeper, placed the final course—a delicate crème brûlée—on the mahogany table. The silence between the three of us was thick enough to cut. Quentin sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid as a steel beam, while Ricky lounged to my right, his eyes already glinting with mischief.

The tension had been building all evening. Ricky had spent the day wandering the mansion like he owned it, making himself comfortable in ways that seemed to physically pain Quentin. Now, as the dessert course arrived, I could feel the air crackling with unspoken rivalry.

'So, Jules,' Ricky began, his voice deceptively casual, 'remember when we snuck into the Hendersons' pool party and you convinced everyone you were a Russian exchange student?' He winked at me, a private smile playing at the corner of his lips.

I couldn't help but laugh—a real laugh, bright and unrestrained. 'God, yes! You were supposed to be my translator, but you kept breaking character every time someone asked about my 'tragic backstory'!' The memory bubbled up, warm and golden. 'We got caught when you started singing that ridiculous song about vodka and bears.'

'Man, old Mrs. Henderson's face,' Ricky chuckled, reaching for his water glass. 'She went from confused to furious in about two seconds. Best summer ever.'

I was laughing so hard I had to wipe away a tear. For the first time in weeks, I felt like myself again. Like I wasn't just 'Mrs. Hawkins,' the pregnant woman Quentin had taken in out of duty. I was Juliet—the girl who got into trouble, who made mistakes, who had a past filled with color and life.

I glanced at Quentin. He was staring at us with an intensity that made my breath catch. His knuckles were white where he gripped his fork, and his jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle twitching. But his eyes—those cold, guarded eyes—held something I'd never seen before. A raw, unfiltered hunger that wasn't for food.

The silence stretched between us like a chasm. I could practically hear him struggling, desperate to join in, to be part of this world I shared with Ricky. But Quentin Hawkins, master of boardrooms and billion-dollar deals, was utterly lost in the face of easy, ordinary intimacy.

After dinner, I wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water, only to find Ricky cornering Quentin in the home gym. They were standing by the rowing machine, their voices low but sharp.

'You want her to look at you like that?' Ricky was asking, his tone uncharacteristically serious. 'You want her to laugh like that for you?'

Quentin's silence was answer enough.

Ricky's eyes gleamed with something that wasn't quite kindness. 'Here's what you do. Send her things. Expensive things. Things she can show off to her friends. It's basic territory marking.' He clapped Quentin on the shoulder. 'Trust me, man. It works every time.'

I pressed myself against the wall, my heart pounding. This was ridiculous. This was Ricky at his most manipulative, and yet—

Quentin was nodding. Actually nodding, like this made perfect sense.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the smell of fresh coffee. On the vanity beside my bed sat a gleaming orange Hermès box and a velvet jewelry case. My breath caught as I opened them: a limited-edition Birkin bag in the exact shade of blue I'd once mentioned loving, and a diamond necklace that could have paid off a mortgage.

'Santa Claus came early!' Ricky's voice boomed from the doorway. He burst into laughter at the sight of my stunned expression. 'Oh my God, Jules. You should see your face!'

I found Quentin in his study an hour later, his back to me as he stared out the window. He turned when I entered, and for a moment, I saw something vulnerable flicker across his features.

'The bag,' I began carefully. 'And the necklace...'

He straightened, his expression shifting to that familiar mask of control. 'I thought you might appreciate them,' he said stiffly. Then, as if reciting from a script: 'They're things you can show off. To claim your territory.'

My heart melted. This powerful, guarded man had taken Ricky's terrible advice and run with it, trying so hard to connect with me in the only way he thought might work. I stepped closer, my fingers brushing his sleeve.

'Quentin,' I whispered, 'I don't need things. I just need you.'