The Runaway Mrs Dela Merced ( English )

Chapter - 1 Husband

"Sorry I'm late," a voice said behind me.

My entire body went rigid. Slowly, too slowly, I turned around.

And my world stopped.

Standing there, as if he had never left, like four years hadn't passed, was Michael Vincent Dela Merced, my husband.

The air seemed to thicken, heavy with memories and unresolved tension. My breath caught in my throat. My fingers loosened. The coffee cup slipped from my grasp and crashed to the floor. The liquid splashed over my heels and soaked into my brown skinny jeans, but I didn't feel it.

I didn't feel anything except him.

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even breathe properly as my eyes locked onto his.

Vincent. The only man I had ever loved. The only man who ever broke me.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and steady, too calm for the chaos raging inside me.

His eyes flickered briefly to the mess at my feet before returning to mine, as if nothing else in the world mattered. As if I still mattered.

I blinked rapidly, the sound of shattering ceramic echoing in my mind.

This isn't real. It can't be.

But he was there solid, unmoving watching me like I was something he had lost and finally found again.

A sharp sting burned behind my eyes.

No. Not now. Please. Not in front of him.

I swallowed hard, forcing the tears back, forcing my face into something cold, something safe. I refused to let him see me break again.

"What are... You doing... here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling despite everything.

I looked away first.

Because I always did.

Because I knew, deep down, that if I kept looking at him, I would fall all over again, just like before.

"I'm picking you up," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he reached for my luggage.

That snapped something in me. I grabbed it before he could, the leather strap digging into my palm.

"I can carry my own things," I said quickly, standing up, my pulse racing.

Why was he looking at me like that?

His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, and my heart traitorously skipped.

I turned away, pressing my lips together, trying to steady the storm inside my chest. Fear. Anger. Longing. All of it tangled together.

"Let's go," he said.

I looked up again and instantly regretted it. The intensity in his eyes made it hard to breathe.

"Where's my dad?" I asked, clinging to the question as if it could anchor me. "Shouldn't he be the one picking me up?"

Vincent's jaw tightened.

"I'm your husband," he said, his voice sharper now. "If there's anyone who should pick you up, it's me."

The word *husband* hit me like a slap.

"Husband," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

Four years. And that word still had the power to shake me.

"Let's go," he repeated, already pulling my luggage away from me like my answer didn't matter.

"Wait, Vincent!" I called, hurrying after him, my chest tightening at the sound of his name on my lips. It felt foreign. Wrong. And yet painfully familiar.

"What's going on?" I demanded, but he didn't even slow down. Didn't even look at me. Just like before.

Frustration bubbled inside me.

"Give me that! I'll call my dad he can pick me up!" I snapped, trying to grab my luggage.

But he didn't budge. Not even an inch.

"Your dad is at the hotel," he said flatly. "He asked me to get you."

"Then I'll call Nate!" I shot back, quickly pulling out my phone.

Big mistake.

In one swift motion, Vincent took it from my hand.

"Hey! That's mine!" I tried to grab it back, but he held it out of reach as if it were nothing.

"You really haven't changed," he muttered, irritation slipping through. "Still stubborn. Still reckless."

My chest tightened.

"And you're still controlling," I fired back, glaring at him.

His eyes darkened.

"I don't have time for this," he said coldly. "I left an important meeting because your dad asked me to pick you up. Don't make me regret it."

Something in his tone stung more than it should have.

"Then go back to your meeting," I snapped. "I didn't ask you to come."

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Dangerous.

Then

"Do you want me to drag you out of here," he said quietly, "or will you walk beside me like you have some sense?"

My heart slammed against my chest.

"You wouldn't dare," I challenged.

His gaze held mine.

And for a second, I wasn't so sure.

I looked away first. Again.

"Fine," I muttered.

Because somehow, despite everything, I still couldn't win against him.

***

The ride was suffocating.

The air between us felt too tight, too heavy with things unsaid.

I stared out the window, pretending not to notice him. Pretending not to feel him.

But I failed.

Because even now, after everything, I could still feel his presence like it was wrapped around me.

I glanced at him just for a second.

And that was my mistake.

He was still devastating. Sharp jaw. Wavy black hair. Those eyes... God, those eyes are still capable of undoing me with just one look.

"Still checking me out?" he said suddenly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Heat rushed to my face.

"I wasn't!" I snapped, turning away quickly.

"Liar," he murmured.

My heart betrayed me again, beating faster, louder, as it remembered him too well.

***

"Ella, we're here."

His voice was softer this time. Too soft.

I opened my eyes and froze.

His face was inches from mine. Too close. Too familiar. Too dangerous.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, panic rising as I pushed him away.

"I was waking you up," he said, his tone instantly turning cold again as if that softness had never existed.

I stepped out of the car, needing distance, needing air.

But the moment I saw the house, confusion replaced everything else.

"Whose house is this?" I asked, turning to him.

He didn't answer immediately. Just watched me like he was waiting for something.

"Ours," he finally said.

The word hit harder than anything else.

"Ours?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

"You're my wife," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Where else would you stay?"

My chest tightened.

"No," I said immediately. "No. Take me home."

He didn't move. Didn't react.

"Put my things down," I ordered the man holding my luggage.

The poor guy looked caught between fear and confusion.

"Take it upstairs," Vincent said without even sparing him a glance.

"Vincent!" My voice cracked this time. "Why are you doing this?"

His gaze snapped to mine, dark, intense, unreadable.

"Because you're mine, Ella," he said quietly.

My heart stopped.

"And you don't get to walk back into my life as if nothing happened and then walk out again."

Silence swallowed us whole.

"I just want to go home," I whispered, the fight draining out of me.

"You are home," he replied.

And somehow, that hurt the most.