The Runaway Mrs Dela Merced ( English )

She left him four years ago. He never signed the divorce papers. Now he’s taking her home, whether she wants to or not. *** “Sorry, I’m late.” The voice came from behind me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Somehow, it cut through the noise of rolling luggage, announcements, and rushing footsteps like everything else in the airport had been muted just for that moment. I turned, and my stomach dropped the second I recognized him. For a second, my mind refused to connect the face to reality. Like my eyes were playing a cruel trick. Tall. Tan. Dangerously handsome. Michael Vincent Dela Merced. My husband. My chest tightened so fast it hurt. Like my body already knew before my brain accepted it. I swallowed hard. My fingers went numb. The coffee slipped from my hand and shattered on the airport floor, splashing hot liquid across my heels and brown skinny jeans. The sound of ceramic hitting tile echoed too loudly in my ears. People turned. Someone gasped. But I didn’t move. I didn’t look down. I couldn’t. Not when he was standing there. Time stopped the moment my eyes locked with his. And for a split second, I hated how familiar his gaze still felt. “Are you okay?” Vincent glanced at the mess before his gaze slid back to me, steady and unreadable. His voice was the same. Calm. Controlled. Like nothing in the world could shake it. Like I wasn’t shaking right in front of him. I blinked fast, like that would prove he wasn’t real. Like Michael Vincent Dela Merced hadn’t just walked into San Miguel International Airport my first day back. The man my eighteen-year-old heart had loved until it broke. I sucked in a breath. My vision blurred. Tears burned, but I shoved them down. I wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him. Not on day one. Not after four years of learning how not to need him. I wiped my eyes before anything could fall and forced my face to go blank. “What are you doing here?” My voice shook even though I tried to sound strong. I looked away. I knew I’d see him eventually after coming home. I just didn’t think he’d be the first. “I’m here to pick you up.” His tone left no room for argument as he reached for my luggage. There was no hesitation in him. No uncertainty. Just certainty—like I was already part of his responsibility again. I snatched the handle back and stood. My eyes flicked to the coffee bleeding into my jeans, then back to him. He was staring at my mouth now. Unease crawled up my spine. I dropped my head. My chest felt like it would cave in nerves, fear, and something worse I refused to name. Something that felt too much like familiarity. “Let’s go.” My head snapped up. His face was right there. Close enough to steal air I didn’t have to spare. Too close. “Where’s my dad? He was supposed to pick me up.” I kept my voice level. Barely. “I’m your husband. If anyone picks you up, it’s me.” He said husband like a verdict. It sent ice down my spine. That word didn’t sound like history to him. It sounded like ownership. “Husband?” The word came out as a whisper. Like I was the only one allowed to hear it. Like saying it louder would make it real again. “Let’s go.” He ignored me, grabbed my rolling bag and the duffel from the chair, and walked off. Like the conversation was already over. Like I didn’t get a vote. “Wait! Vincent, what are you doing?” I yelled after him. Saying his name felt wrong. Heavy. I’d spent four years making sure it never touched my tongue. He didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. Like I wasn’t there. Like I was just… air. I called him again. Nothing. No choice but to follow him out of the airport, dragging my pride behind me. Every step felt heavier than the last. Not because of the luggage—but because of him. “Give that to me. I’m calling my dad. He’s picking me up.” I caught up to him outside and tried to yank my luggage back. Useless. He was a wall of muscle and intent. He didn’t even budge. “Your dad’s at the hotel. He asked me to get you.” His face was stone. That made me pause—but only for a second. “I’ll call Nate. He’ll come.” I fished out my phone, thumb already on his contact. Vincent plucked it from my hand before I could hit dial. Fast. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Hey! That’s mine. Give it back.” I jumped for it. He held it out of reach like I was five. His arm didn’t even shake. “I don’t have time for games. I had a meeting. I left work because your father asked. For you.” His jaw ticked. He was holding back, but barely. That tiny muscle in his jaw. I remembered it too well. I stepped back and crossed my arms. Raised a brow. If he thought he could bully me, he was wrong. “Sorry I ruined your meeting. You can go. I’ll call or a friend.” My voice was all edge. If he was annoyed, I was livid. “Here’s the deal. You either get in the car, or I drag you. Your choice. Don’t make a scene.” His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “I’m not making a scene.” I shouted it, then realized I was. I exhaled, sharp and angry. Fighting him in front of airport wouldn’t end well for me. People were already watching. I nodded once. Stiff. I hated it. For now, I’d follow. A black BMW waited at the curb. I watched him load my bags into the trunk like they weighed nothing. Like I was nothing. “Is that all of it?” he asked. “Yes.” Short. Clipped. I slid into the passenger seat. I hadn’t brought everything. I wasn’t staying. My life wasn’t in San Miguel anymore. It was in England with Grandma. Hotel Management degree. Management job at one of London’s top hotels. Two-week leave approved. That was it. Temporary. Controlled. Safe. I didn’t know why Dad forced me home. I’d been happy. I’d almost forgotten Vincent, the man I married, the man who broke me. Almost. I snuck a glance at him. Eyes on the road. Focused. Serious. It was still devastating. Four years gone, and he looked better. Unfair. Same hands on the wheel. Same posture. Same unbearable calm. I left my family because of him. Because of what he did. And now he was the first person I saw. Of course he was. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. Not the one who cried in bathrooms and ran from confrontation. I was twenty-two. I could handle him. I could handle the husband I left behind. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. His hair was still wavy, still unfairly perfect. Those lashes—his mom’s—still framed eyes that hid everything. Thin lips. That mole on his chin had no business being that attractive. Sex appeal? Had I really just thought that? I hated my brain for remembering details like this. “So, am I still handsome?” His tone was pure sarcasm. I flinched and looked away fast. He noticed. Of course he did. “What?” “You were staring.” A smirk touched his mouth. That faint curve. Barely there. Dangerous. “No. Of course not.” My face went hot. I was lying, and we both knew it. Four years. Nothing changed. Except he looked even better, and I hated that I noticed. I sighed and closed my eyes, leaning back against the leather. I needed sleep. I didn’t want to think about him. But even with my eyes closed, I could still feel him beside me. “Ella. We’re here. Wake up.” I opened my eyes to Vincent’s face inches from mine. I jerked back, heart slamming against my ribs. Too close. Again. “What are you doing?” I shoved at his chest. Warm. Solid. Real. “Waking you up. We’re here.” Cold. Flat. Like nothing had just happened. “Where?” I looked past him. Not our old house. Not the Dela Merced mansion. This was new. Modern. Gated. A wide garden and too many windows. Too perfect. Too unfamiliar. “Whose house is this?” I unbuckled and shoved the door open, panic crawling up my throat. I stepped out and stared at the massive structure. My heart was beating too fast. “Where am I? Whose house is this?” “It’s ours.” I froze. The word didn’t make sense in my head. “Ours?” “I’m your husband, Ella. Of course you live in my house.” “No.” The word ripped out of me. “Take me to our house. My house.” I moved to block the driver carrying my luggage. “Put it down.” The boy looked at Vincent, unsure. “Take it to the master bedroom,” Vincent said. That sentence made my stomach drop. “What? I don’t understand. Why did you bring me here?” Frustration bled into my voice. “You’re my wife, Ella. We got married four years ago. Because you worked so hard to,” “Stop.” I cut him off. I knew what came next. I’d heard it enough. I wouldn’t hear it again. Not from him. Not today. “I just want to go home.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t even know why Dad sent me back. I need to talk to him. If you won’t take me, I’ll walk.” I turned for the gate. Three steps. Then his hand closed around my arm. He pulled, and I crashed into his chest. “Ouch!” Heat. Impact. Him. “Where do you think you’re going?” His jaw was locked. Anger, controlled but there. And that same electric shock shot up my arm from his touch. I looked at his hand on my skin. He let go like I burned him. I stepped back, suddenly breathless from nothing but proximity. “I can give you a ride,” he said. Flat. Final. Then he turned for the car. Like my answer didn’t matter. Like I was already his again.