My Husband Protects Me but Won’t Touch Me

The mansion felt like a beautifully gilded cage since my discharge from the hospital. Confined to the first floor by Dr. Lim’s strict orders, I spent my afternoons wrapped in cashmere, listening to the muffled warfare of Quentin’s business empire.

I stood near the cracked door of his study, the shadows of the hallway hiding me. The speakerphone was on, projecting a chorus of panicked executive voices.

"Victor White is suffocating the supply chain, sir," a frantic VP pleaded. "The Asian shipping lanes are completely stalled. If you would just attend the private dinner with him and Luna tonight—"

"Cancel the contract," Quentin’s voice sliced through the panic, cold and absolute.

"But sir, the capital loss—"

"I said cancel it. Find a new supplier. And if Victor White contacts this office again, route him to legal." The sharp click of the receiver severing the call echoed in the room.

I retreated to the living room just as Quentin emerged. He didn't carry a briefcase or a tablet. Instead, he held a steaming porcelain cup of chamomile tea. He set it on the coaster beside me, his jaw tight, his gaze dropping to my stomach before snapping instantly away. The air between us was still bruised from his visceral flinch at the hospital. He had just burned a multimillion-dollar bridge rather than sit across from Luna White, yet he couldn't bring himself to brush my fingers when he handed me the cup.

"Drink," he murmured. It was a command, but the slight tremor in his deep voice made it sound like a plea.

Hours later, the house was suffocatingly quiet. I carried my empty mug back to his study, the faint drumming of the shower upstairs signaling Quentin was occupied. As I set the porcelain on his mahogany desk, his private cell phone vibrated. The screen flashed with an unsaved number.

Then, a dreadful, vibrating instinct seized my chest. I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Quentin, darling," a voice purred. The sickeningly sweet, practiced cadence of Luna White.

My throat seized. I stopped breathing.

"I know you're playing the devoted husband right now," Luna continued, her tone dripping with mock sympathy, assuming my silence was his. "But my father’s lawyers finished drafting the post-birth settlement at the Plaza today. You really were brilliant in the hotel suite yesterday, making sure she gets nothing but a quiet payoff once the brat is born. Call me when she’s asleep. We have... loose ends to tie."

My knuckles turned stark white around the edge of the desk. The lie was so perfectly constructed, so surgically weaponized, it didn't matter if it was true—it hit exactly where I was already bleeding. *A quiet payoff once the brat is born.*

I dropped the phone. It clattered loudly against the wood. My chest heaved as I backed away, the edges of my vision fraying. A contractual obligation. A vessel. That was all I was to him.

The ringing of my own phone shattered my spiral an hour later. It wasn't Quentin. It was the local precinct.

The fluorescent lights of the ER were a stark, blinding assault after the dark, silent drive. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee churned my stomach. Ricky sat on a paper-lined examination table, a blood-soaked towel pressed to his face. His knuckles were bruised a violent purple, the skin split at the seams.

"You're an idiot," I whispered, my voice trembling as I gripped the doorframe to steady myself.

Ricky lowered the towel, offering a crooked, crimson-stained grin. "You should see the other guy. Seriously. Luna's cousin isn't going to be running his mouth at the country club for a very long time."

"Ricky, why?" A bone-deep lethargy dragged at my limbs, making my coat feel like lead.

"He called you a gold-digging incubator, Jules." Ricky’s levity vanished. The raw, protective fury burning in his eyes made my own well up with unshed tears. "I wasn't going to let him sip an eight-dollar beer and talk about you like you're trash."

I sank into the hard plastic chair beside his bed, wrapping my arms around my shivering frame. My lower back ached with a dull, persistent throb. My heart felt like it had been run through a shredder. I stared at the scuffed linoleum, the sheer weight of the lies, the violence, and the agonizing distance crushing the last of my resolve. The phantom hotel meetings. The hot-and-cold torture of Quentin's care. I was drowning in it.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—heavy, measured, and commanding. The police officers at the front desk visibly straightened up. Quentin was here. He would handle the cops, sign the checks, and fix the mess, all without ever letting me close enough to see the man behind the armor.

I closed my eyes, a single tear slipping hot and fast down my cheek. I couldn't survive this tug-of-war anymore. I was done.