The Runaway Mrs Dela Merced ( English )

Chapter- 6

"Is that a threat?" I asked, lifting my chin even though my fingers were trembling at the edge of the blanket.

"Why? Are you afraid?" he shot back. No emotion in his voice. Cold. Like I wasn’t human.

Vincent pulled me by the arm. He leaned down, eyes locked straight on my lips. I dodged fast and pushed him away with all my strength.

"I hate you!" I shouted at him, full of disgust.

"Get dressed. We’re leaving after dinner."

No anger. No irritation. Like he was just ordering a maid. That hurt more.

I opened my mouth to protest again. But I just exhaled instead. I knew arguing with him was pointless. I wouldn’t win against him. Not ever.

"See you downstairs." That was it. And he walked out of the room. No glance back. No hesitation.

"What the hell? Ella, what the hell did you do?" I whispered to myself. And I stomped my feet on the floor like a child.

Why did I say I had a lover in England? And why did I say Patrick—my best buddy?

I met Patrick at university in England. We were in the same year but different courses. We were both Filipino, so we clicked right away. We were like siblings. He was from San Miguel too. That made us even closer.

I told him about me and Vincent—about being Mrs. dela Merced. But I never told Patrick why I left my life as Mrs. dela Merced in San Miguel. Somehow, I still wanted to cover up how Vincent cheated on me.

If Vincent ever found out I lied, that I used Patrick, there was nothing I could do now. All I knew was, I said it to hurt him. I knew that since I left San Miguel, Vincent and Caroline still saw each other. Or you could say they were still together even though Vincent was married to me.

So if I had a relationship with someone else, he had no right to be mad at me. Because we were the same. If anything, he did it first.

Before I went downstairs, I looked for something to wear. I had no choice but to put on old clothes instead of what I had on earlier. They looked fine. I didn’t think I’d get itchy. Besides, I missed wearing my old clothes. Because somehow, I missed the old Ella. The happy Ella.

I chose a shirt with a big Hello Kitty print on the front and white shorts. I looked at myself in the mirror. And for a second, I saw Ella from four years ago. The young and free Ella.

I smiled when I saw my old self again. Even if just for a moment.

At the dining table, the four of us ate in silence. I couldn’t eat because all I could think about was what happened between me and Vincent. Especially our kiss inside my room. I felt like it was the same punishing kiss Vincent gave me four years ago.

I also thought about what would happen if I finally lived in my husband’s house. What if he kissed me and forced himself on me?

I glanced at my husband, who was eating quietly. He sat straight. Silent. No look at me. Like I didn’t exist.

Whatever I felt for Vincent before, I’d buried under the snow in England for four years. I couldn’t even type his name on my phone without my hand shaking. I left to heal a heart broken by loving the wrong person.

And now, I was back. But my heart would stay closed to my husband. I wouldn’t let myself get hurt again.

"Ella, what’s wrong? Don’t you like the food?" my mom asked because I was just playing with the food on my plate and not eating.

"Ah… nothing, Ma," was all I said, and I glanced at the steak on my plate that I’d already cut into pieces.

"I’m full," I answered. And I looked at Vincent, who was also looking at me. I couldn’t read him. No anger. No pity. Nothing. Blank. More terrifying.

I just shrugged and put down my utensils. "I’m done."

"You haven’t eaten anything. You might get dizzy," my mom said, worried.

"I’m still full. I’ll go up and rest."

"We’re leaving." Vincent’s voice was cold when he cut in. He didn’t even ask me. He didn’t even look at me when he spoke. He just drank water. Wiped his mouth before standing up. Like the discussion was over.

"No. You’re not done eating. You can stay," I stopped him. I didn’t know why I said it. Maybe just to contradict him.

"I’m done. We’re leaving." Same tone. Same coldness. Like a robot programmed to answer.

"I told you I’m not going with you, didn’t I? And—"

"Ella! Get your things!" my dad cut off what I was about to say, firm.

"What?! But, Dad?!" I protested.

"Get your things, Mariella. Now!" my dad ordered, firm.

My mom gasped and glanced at me, as if telling me to obey my dad.

I shifted my eyes to Vincent, who was already standing and just waiting. Silent. No expression. But his silence was heavier than shouting. Like a statue. Like a judge just waiting for me to surrender.

I shrugged and shoved my chair so hard it almost fell over. And I ran out of the dining room fast.

"Ella! Ella!" my mom called, but I kept going.

"I’ll go with her." Cold as ever. No emotion. But final.

I didn’t look back. I ran straight out of the dining room, toward the stairs. I needed to get away. Even for a second. Even just to my room.

But before my foot hit the first step, a cold hand grabbed my arm. Tight. Not painful, but I couldn’t pull away.

I gasped and was forced to face him. Vincent.

He wasn’t even out of breath. While I was gasping and trembling. But Vincent looked like he’d just been walking. Calm. No emotion. His eyes, blank.

"Let go of me," I whispered, but firm. I lifted my chin even though I felt like I’d pass out from fear.

"No." One word. Cold. Final.

I tried to pull my arm back, but his grip only tightened. Not to hurt. To stop. To make it clear I couldn’t leave.

"Vincent, I said—"

"I heard you." He cut me off. No raised voice. No emotion. "And I don’t care."

I swallowed. This was the Vincent I feared. Not the one who shouted. Not the one who threw punches. This one. The one who didn’t care. The one who could crush me without even raising his voice.

"Where do you think you’re going?" he asked. Not angry. Not curious. Like he was just asking what time it was.

"To my room," I answered. I tried to sound brave. "I’m not going with you. Not tonight. Not ever."

Vincent looked at me. Straight. Long. Like he was weighing me. Judging me. Then, with one step, I was trapped between Vincent’s body and the stair railing.

He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t press down on me. But I had no way out. I could smell his cologne. Familiar, intoxicating. The scent of nights I tried to forget.

"You’re not going to your room," he said. Not an order. Not a request. A statement. Like saying it would rain tomorrow. "You’re going home. With me."

I shook my head. "You don’t own me, Vincent."

His eyes changed for just a second. A blink. But I saw it. Fire flared there. Anger. But it disappeared fast, buried under ice.

"Really?" he whispered. Closer now. Our faces almost touching. "Then why is my name on your passport, Ella? Why are you Mrs. dela Merced?"

I couldn’t answer. Because it was true. Because that was what slapped me earlier.

"You ran four years ago," he continued. Same tone. Cold. No anger. But every word was like a whip. "You humiliated me. You humiliated my family. Your family."

He paused. Stared at me. "And now you’re back. So we’re finishing what you started."

"It’s not my fault—"

"Yes. It is." He cut me off. "And you’ll pay for it. Tonight."

My whole body trembled. Not from cold. From fear. From anger. From something else. Something I didn’t want to name.

"I’m not going with you," I said again. But quieter now. My voice was breaking. "I hate you."

"I don’t care if you hate me," Vincent answered. And for the first time, there was a slight smile on his lips. Not a happy smile. A dangerous one. "You can hate me in our house. In our bed."

I blinked. The nerve. The arrogance.

"You’re a monster," I whispered.

"Maybe." He didn’t deny it. "But I’m your monster, Ella. Your husband."

Before I could answer, Vincent let go of me. But not to free me. He grabbed my waist, and in one motion, he lifted me. Bridal style. Like I weighed nothing. Like I was just a feather.

"What the—Vincent! Put me down!" I struggled. I punched his chest, but it was like a wall. No effect.

"I said put me down! We might fall down the stairs!"

"Then stop moving." He wasn’t even tired. He wasn’t even hesitant.

Vincent carried me down to the second floor. For the first time, he looked at me. And for the first time, I saw emotion in his eyes.

Not anger. Not desire. Exhaustion.

"You’ve had four years to get ready, Ella," he whispered. Not cold. Not warm. Just tired. "I’m done waiting."

And then he walked down the stairs. He left me upstairs.

I had nothing left to say. Nothing left to do. Because I knew I’d already lost.

Not in strength. Not in shouting.

I lost to a Vincent who didn’t shout. Who didn’t beg. Who didn’t even need to get angry to get what he wanted. Because he knew what belonged to him.

The cold Vincent was scarier than the angry Vincent.

And now, there was nothing I could do to keep from going to his house. To the hell I also created four years ago.