The Runaway Mrs Dela Merced ( English )

“Sorry I’m late.” I heard the voice behind me. Slowly, I turned. And my eyes widened when I realized who it belonged to. The tall, tanned, impossibly handsome man standing in front of me was Michael Vincent Dela Merced. My husband. I swallowed hard. My hand slipped. The coffee cup hit the floor, splashing hot liquid across the tiles, over my heels, down my brown skinny jeans. I didn’t even flinch. I couldn’t look away. Time stopped. All I could see were Vincent’s eyes. His eyes. On me. “Are you okay?” He glanced at the mess on the floor, then back at me. I blinked. Once. Twice. To make sure I wasn’t dreaming. That Michael Vincent Dela Merced was really standing here. My husband. The only boy I’d ever loved. I dragged in a shaky breath and felt my vision blur. Tears. I bit them back hard. I couldn’t cry. Not now. Not the first time I saw him. I wouldn’t let him see me break. I swiped at my eyes before a tear could fall and forced my face blank. “What are… you… doing here?” My voice trembled. I looked away. I knew coming back to San Miguel meant I’d see him eventually. But I never expected him to be the first face I saw on day one. “I came to pick you up,” he said, voice calm, authoritative. He reached for the handle of my suitcase. I yanked it away and stood, heart pounding. I glanced at the spilled coffee, bit my lip, then met his gaze again. He was staring at my mouth. The realization hit like a wave of heat and I dropped my eyes fast. My chest felt tight, like it couldn’t decide if this was panic or something worse. “Let’s go,” he said. I looked up. Straight into that face. That jawline. Those eyes. I had to force myself to breathe. Just his stare was enough to steal my air. “Where’s my dad? Shouldn’t he be picking me up?” I tried to keep my voice steady, to hide how nervous I was. “I’m your husband,” he said, hitting the word hard. It shot straight down my spine. “If anyone should pick you up, it’s me.” Husband. The word echoed in my head, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Let’s go,” he repeated, ignoring me. He grabbed my suitcase and my carry-on from the chair and started walking before I could argue. “Wait! Wait!” I chased after him. “Vincent, what the hell?” I stopped short. Saying his name out loud sent something sharp through me. I hadn’t said it in four years. Not since I left the country. He didn’t turn. Didn’t even slow down. Like he hadn’t heard me. I called his name again. Same result. So I had no choice but to follow him out of the airport. “Give me that! I’m calling my dad! He’ll come get me!” I caught up to him outside and yanked at my luggage. It didn’t budge. He was stronger. No matter how hard I pulled, he didn’t let go. “What the hell!” “Your dad’s at the hotel. He called me to pick you up,” he said flatly, no emotion on his face. “Fine. I’ll call my Kuya Nate! He can come get me!” I went for my phone in my bag. Vincent snatched it from my hand before I could even unlock it. “Hey! That’s mine! What are you doing? Give it back!” I yelled, reaching for it. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I have work. I had a meeting. But your father asked me to pick you up, so I left for you,” he said, jaw tight like he was holding back anger. I took a step back and crossed my arms. If he thought I’d back down, he was wrong. “Then I’m sorry I ruined your meeting! You can go! I’ll call Kuya or a friend to get me,” I shot back. If he was annoyed with me, I was twice as annoyed with him. “Fine. Deal,” he said coldly. “Do you want me to drag you out of here, or will you come with me and stop making a scene?” “What? I’m not making a scene!” I glared at him. When I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere, I shrugged and nodded. Even though I hated it, I’d go along for now. --- An expensive black BMW was waiting at the curb. I watched in silence as Vincent loaded my bags into the trunk. “Is this everything?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said shortly and slid into the passenger seat. I hadn’t brought everything. I wasn’t planning to stay in San Miguel. My life was in England now. I’d go back. I risked a glance at him. He was focused on the road, jaw set. He was still gorgeous. No question. I’d spent four years away from my family because I couldn’t handle what I felt for him back then. And now, the second I came home, he was the first person I saw. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was twenty-two now. Mature. I could face my problems. I could face the husband I’d left four years ago. I studied his profile as he drove. Wavy black hair. Perfect brows. Long lashes he got from his mother. Brown eyes that always looked like they were hiding something. Thin lips with a mole on his chin that only made him more attractive. Attractive? Did I really just think that? “So, am I still handsome?” he asked without looking at me, voice dry. “What? Huh?” I jerked my eyes away, pulse jumping. “I thought you were staring.” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “No. Of course not.” I lied, cheeks burning. Four years hadn’t changed him. If anything, he was even more handsome. I exhaled and closed my eyes. I was tired. I just wanted to rest. --- “Ella. We’re here. Wake up.” I blinked awake to the feeling of something shaking me. I jolted when I saw Vincent’s face inches from mine. “What are you doing?” I pushed him away, startled. “Waking you up. We’re here,” he said, voice flat. “Where?” I looked out the window. We were in front of a beautiful property I’d never seen before. I knew it wasn’t our old house. And it definitely wasn’t the Dela Merced mansion. “Whose house is this?” I frowned, turning to him as he got out. “Whose house is this?!” I repeated, following him out. I took in the modern, massive house and the wide driveway. He was talking to a teenage boy while pulling my bags from the trunk. “Where am I?!” I asked, but he only glanced at me. I heard him tell the boy to take my bags inside. “Wait! Hold on!” I stopped the boy. “Put my bags down!” The boy looked uncertainly at Vincent. “Whose house is this?” I asked again, like a broken record. “Our house,” Vincent said, bored. “Ours?” I stared at him. “You’re my wife, Ella. It makes sense for you to live in my house.” “No!” I protested immediately. “Take me to our house! My parents’ house!” I stepped in front of the boy. “Put it down,” I ordered. The boy looked scared and glanced at Vincent. “Take it up to the master bedroom,” Vincent said. “What? I don’t understand, Vincent! Why did you bring me here?” “You’re my wife, Ella. If you forgot, we’ve been married four years. You worked hard to—” “Stop!” I cut him off. I knew what he was about to say. I didn’t want to hear it. “I just want to go home,” I whispered. “My dad sent for me and I don’t even know why. I need to talk to him. If you won’t drive me, I’ll walk.” I turned toward the gate. I’d barely taken a few steps when a hard hand wrapped around my arm. I stumbled into his solid chest. “Ouch!” “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, voice low, barely controlled. His jaw flexed. My heart raced. His touch burned through my skin like electricity. I stared at his hand on my arm. He let go immediately. I took a step back, breath catching at how close he was. “I can give you a ride,” he said shortly and turned back to the car. Four years. I thought I’d forgotten how he made me feel. I was wrong.