One Night for Untouched Wife by Nina Soelian
One Night for Untouched Wife
Description
Twenty-four years old. Three years married. Still a virgin. Ashley's husband never touched her - not once, not on their wedding night, not on a single anniversary. Turns out he was saving his hands for her identical twin sister. She discovers this twelve hours after a doctor says she's dying. Six months. Terminal. So she does what any sane woman would: texts her husband a divorce, walks into a bar, and wakes up naked next to his billionaire boss. Max Dumont doesn't do relationships. He does acquisitions, eighteen-hour days, and dinner alone. But something about the woman who kissed him like she was trying to break into a different life makes him offer the most reckless deal of his career: spend her final six months actually living. Every dream she killed for a man who killed nothing but her self-worth. But what Ashley doesn't know is that her death sentence isn't real. Her sister and her husband forged it. And the girl who thinks she's living her last chapter has no idea she's actually running out of time for a completely different reason.
Chapter 1
Jun 12, 2026
Ashley’s POV
My husband hasn't touched me in three years.
Not a brush of fingers in the kitchen. Not a kiss that lasted longer than the politeness required. Not even the accidental kind — the rolling-over-at-2AM, half-asleep, body-acting-without-permission kind. Nothing.
I'm twenty-four years old. We've been married since I was twenty-one.
And I am also, and I cannot stress this enough, a virgin.
So when the underwear showed up in the boutique window — ivory lace, architectural, the kind of thing engineered for women whose husbands notice them — I bought it. But that was three months ago. It's been living behind my sensible cotton like contraband.
Tonight I put it on.
I don't know exactly what I was expecting. Nico coming home and suddenly becoming a different man, probably.
Some movie-version of events where the lighting shifts and he looks at me and finally his brain connects the fact that I am a woman and he is a man and we are married and this is something married people do.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wait. I rehearse nothing because there is nothing to rehearse for the occasion of wearing underwear alone at 9PM on a Tuesday.
The front door opens. Then slams.
I hear footsteps down the hall — uneven and loose, one hand probably dragging along the wall. I know this particular rhythm: the pace, the weight, the slight shuffle on the left that means the night got away from him again.
Drunk. Obviously.
"Babe." He appears in the doorway and drops his jacket somewhere that isn't a hanger and his tie is catastrophically off-center. "You're so lucky you weren't there tonight."
"Nico, honey…"
"My boss." He presses two fingers to his temple like the memory physically hurts. "Such a colossal asshole. You have no idea." He starts pulling at his cufflinks without looking at me. "But I'm going to rip him off for another thirty million next week. Just you watch."
I blink. Thirty million.
He says it so casually. Like it's a weather update. Like I'm supposed to nod along while my husband openly announces financial crimes in our bedroom doorway. The man is drunk and apparently a criminal and… His eyes drop and the cufflink goes still.
For three years, that gaze has moved through me like I'm furniture. Background. Load-bearing wall. Useful but unremarkable.
But right now something in those eyes unlocks. The temperature in the room shifts so fast I actually feel it, an almost-audible click, and oh, I understand immediately why women have been dressing for men since the beginning of recorded time.
Because it works. I hate that it works and I also cannot breathe.
"Come here." That voice of his. Low and rough and nothing like the voice he uses to tell me dinner was fine or the car needs an oil change.
I've conjured that voice in the dark, lying eighteen inches away from him, humiliating myself quietly on my side of the disputed border. And now it's real and it's aimed at me and my legs are moving before my brain has filed any paperwork whatsoever.
He pulls me onto the couch, onto him, hands gripping my waist with a certainty he has never once applied to me.
He reeks of whiskey.
He absolutely reeks, and also, this is the first time in three goddamn years, so let's not be precious about the whiskey.
His mouth drags against my neck. Hot and a little sloppy and not remotely elegant but I don't care. I do not care because his hands are in my hair and his teeth catch my collarbone and years of absolutely nothing detonates somewhere in my chest and lower and my vision actually loses resolution at the edges…
Tell him. Tell him now, Ashley. You have news.
You have a diagnosis. You have…
"Wait." My palm lands on his chest. Flat. Firm. His heart slams against it, which is new information I'm filing under Things I Didn't Know About My Own Husband. "I need to tell you something. It's important. Can we just — five minutes. Seriously."
He answers by pulling the lace strap off my shoulder.
A sound comes out of my mouth that I will take to my grave.
Okay, the rational part of my brain says, from somewhere very far away. He's not going to stop. We can talk after. We can… oh. Oh, that's… yeah, okay, filing that away too…
He goes completely limp.
One moment: his hand, sliding warm and purposeful up my inner thigh.
Next moment: one hundred and eighty pounds of unconscious husband, face-planted against my collarbone, producing a snore of genuinely cinematic magnitude.
I sit there. Pinned. Lace twisted, every nerve in my body firing into the void, the diagnosis I never got to deliver sitting on my tongue like a lit match.
The ceiling offers no commentary, but I stare at it anyway.
What is wrong with me?
Because Nico only wants me when he's had enough to drink that the edges blur. When I stop being myself and become something softer, less specific. When the lighting's wrong and his inhibitions are reduced and I look enough like my tw…
I stop the thought. I put it back where it lives, behind the things I'm not ready to face yet.
***
The sales woman wrapped it in tissue paper and said, ‘he's a lucky man,’ and I smiled like a person whose husband would agree with that assessment.
Our anniversary is in eleven days. And I've been carrying the diagnosis for five.
How do you tell someone you're dying right before you're supposed to celebrate still being alive together? I've been turning the conversation over all morning. Compulsive. Unavoidable. Mostly pointless.
Maybe this is the thing that changes it.
Maybe Nico just needs a reason to show up.
Maybe he's been waiting, the same way I have, for something large enough to cut through the ordinary distance between us.
Maybe he'll hold my hand.
I think about his hand holding mine for most of the cab ride home, the watch box in my lap, the tissue paper crinkling every time I shift. It's a small thought. I let myself have it anyway.
But when I open the front door, I see the bedroom door is cracked and behind it I hear sounds — rhythmic, unmistakable, requiring no subtitles. My fingers freeze on the handle.
I push it open anyway and the watch box slips from my fingers.
Nico is in our bed. And so is my twin sister Regina — same face, same hair, same body — wrapped around my husband like she was manufactured for the space I was never permitted to fill.
She notices me first, and the truly spectacular thing is she doesn't flinch.
No gasp, no scramble for sheets, no performance of guilt. Just an expression that translates instantly and permanently: took you long enough.
The room lurches and my knees forget their function. I stare at her face — my face — the same jawline, the same cheekbones, the same mouth that's currently swollen from kissing my husband.
She looks like me. She looks exactly like me.
And somehow that's the detail that guts me worse than anything else, because it means I was always his type.
What kind of woman are you, Ashley, if a man had his exact preference sleeping next to him for three years and still chose the copy?
I don't speak. I can't. My throat has fused shut and my tongue is a dead thing behind my teeth. I back out of the doorway on legs that barely function, grab my coat, grab my keys, and I'm out the front door before either of them says a word.
The apartment building lobby blurs past. The parking lot blurs past. I fold myself into the driver's seat and sit there with my hands on the wheel, shaking, staring at nothing, the engine off.
Then I pick up my phone. My thumbs move like they belong to someone else, someone who still has the capacity to form sentences.
Me: I want a divorce.
Send. I watch the message deliver. The little checkmark appears and something inside my chest clicks shut — a door closing, a lock engaging, a woman finally walking away from a room she should have left years ago.
Six months.
I have less than six months and I spent three years auditioning for a role that was already cast.
My throat seals, my eyes scorch and I start the engine. But the tears won't come — something bigger is building. I'm done spending whatever time I have left waiting for someone to want me.
I'm going to a bar tonight. And I am not dying as a virgin.
One Night for Untouched Wife
30 Chapters
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