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