The Runaway Mrs Dela Merced ( English )

Chapter - 3

When I opened my eyes, everything was white.

The ceiling. The sheets. The walls. Sterile. Cold.

"Ella." Mommy's voice cut through the haze.

"Mommy."

My throat burned. I tried to sit up.

Instantly, Mom was at my side, Dad right behind her, his hand on my shoulder. And beside them, Vincent's mother, her hand already reaching for mine.

I burst into tears.

I couldn't stop them. Four years. Four years since I had seen them like this. Since I had felt their hands on me.

"Don't cry, sweetheart. Mommy's here. Don't worry," Mom whispered, wrapping me in a tight hug.

"You'll be fine, sweetheart," Vincent's mother said, rubbing my back in slow circles. Her wedding ring was cold against my skin.

The doctors had already talked to them. I had fainted at the Vincella Hotel. Vincent had rushed me to Doña Feliza Hospital. There was nothing wrong with me, they said. Just exhaustion. Stress. I needed rest. Real food. No overthinking.

"I miss you, Mom, Dad," I sobbed into Mom's shoulder.

Four years in England. Four years of video calls and rare visits. I could count on one hand how many times they came to see me. And now they were here. All of them.

"Stop crying, princess. It's not good for you," Dad said. His voice was thick, but his jaw was tight. He was trying not to cry, too.

I swiped at my tears with the back of my hand and sniffed. Then I threw my arms around both of them.

"I miss you, Dad."

"Miss you too, princess."

An hour later, they cleared me for discharge.

"You're fine," the doctor said. "No complications. Just rest. Eat. Don't stress."

Easy for him to say.

"Vincent?" I asked before I could stop myself. My voice came out small. Barely a whisper.

I hadn't seen him since I woke up. I knew he had carried me here. I remembered his arms before everything went black, the way he caught me before I hit the floor.

"He went back to the hotel," Dad said. His tone was flat.

My chest sank.

He didn't even wait. He didn't even ask if I was okay. He just dropped me off and left.

What else did I expect?

"You should come home first," Mom said gently. "Rest at the house while Vincent is away. He'll pick you up later."

I flinched.

Husband.

They kept saying that word. Husband. Like it meant something. Like it wasn't a curse.

Vincent was my husband. Legally. On paper. But he didn't treat me like a wife. He hated me. He had always hated me.

"That's right, sweetheart. Just stay at your house for now. Vincent will pick you up later," Vincent's mother added, kissing my forehead.

"What?" I blinked. I looked between the three of them. "Why did Vincent take me to his house earlier? What does that mean?"

The three adults exchanged looks. The kind of looks parents give each other when they're deciding how much to tell their child.

"Sweetheart, Vincent is your husband. It's normal for him to bring you to his house. Your house," Vincent's mother said, her smile tight.

"But we can't live together," I said. Fast. Sharp.

"We can talk about this at home," Mom cut in, her voice suddenly brisk.

"But Mom, I—"

"Ella, you need to rest. Don't think about it. Vincent will take good care of you. He is your husband," Vincent's mother said, and kissed my forehead again before turning to leave.

"But... I mean—"

"Don't think about it, sweetheart," Vincent's mother said over her shoulder, already walking toward the elevator.

I stared after her. Then at my parents.

"Mom, Dad, what is happening?" I asked once Vincent's mother was gone.

"Ella, honey, Vincent is your husband. You need to live together like a normal married couple," Dad said. His voice was calm, but his knuckles were white around his car keys.

"What? Why?!" The words ripped out of me. Loud. Shocked.

Mom grabbed my hand. "Ella—"

"Ella! You and Vincent are husband and wife. It's only right that you live together," Dad said. Harder now.

"We'll talk about this later. I still have to go back to the hotel," he added. There was anger in his voice, but he was swallowing it. For me.

"But Dad, I don't—"

"Mariella, please! Drop it!"

Dad's voice cracked through the hallway like a whip.

Mariella.

My full name.

That was it. The final word. The one he used when the discussion was over. When there was no more room to argue.

I pressed my lips together. Swallowed the rest of my protest. Jerked the car door open and climbed inside without another word.

The family driver greeted me. "Welcome home, Ma'am Ella."

I forced a smile. Glanced back at my parents.

They were arguing. Low voices. Angry gestures.

Because of me.

Again.

Guilt curled in my stomach.

The big gate swung open. I rolled down the window and breathed in.

Sampaguita. Cut grass. Rain.

Nothing had changed. There was a new gazebo by the garden. More flowers. But it was the same.

The same house. The same driveway. The same ache in my chest.

I was still welcome.

Mom took me straight to the kitchen. The table was already set. Adobo. Sinigang. Leche flan. My favorites.

"Eat first, sweetheart."

"Mom, did Daddy bring me back here because of Vincent?" I asked, ignoring the food. My hands were cold in my lap.

"Ella, sweetheart," Mom began. She sat down across from me and took my hands. Her palms were warm. Soft. "Your dad thinks four years apart from Vincent is long enough. We were thinking maybe now you could live together."

Her voice was gentle. Reasonable. Like she was explaining something simple. Like she wasn't shattering my world.

"No, Mommy! Four years is not enough to erase the pain Vincent caused me!" I shouted. The words tore out of me, raw and broken. Tears spilled before I could stop them. I yanked my hands back.

"Ella, honey, calm down. It's not good for your condition," Mom said, worry creasing her forehead.

"I was happy in England with Grandma. I had almost forgotten about my life here in San Miguel! But what? Here you both are, making me come back? For what? So Vincent and I can live together like nothing happened four years ago? I can't do it!"

I was screaming now. Sobbing. I couldn't help it. I wanted to let it all out. Every bitter, aching thing I had buried for four years.

"I can't live with Vincent as my husband! Not now, not ever. Vincent and I can never live together again!" I covered my face with my hands. My shoulders shook.

I hated myself for crying. I always cried when it came to Vincent. Why couldn't I stop? Why did he still have this power over me?

"Ella, calm down, sweetheart," Mom said, rushing to my side and pulling me into a hug. "Shh... stop crying, honey. Mommy's here. I'll talk to your dad tonight, okay?"

"I can't live with him," I sobbed into Mom's shoulder. "I can't."

I wasn't ready to live under the same roof as Vincent. Four years wasn't enough to heal what he had done to me. This wasn't the right time.

Or maybe the truth was simpler: we should never live together again. Not as husband and wife.

Because we would only destroy each other.

After eating, I told Mom I needed to rest. She didn't follow me upstairs. She said she had to call Dad at the hotel.

I knew what they would talk about. Me. And Vincent.

And I knew I was the problem.

Upstairs, my room was waiting.

Pink.

Pink ceiling. Pink walls. Pink cabinet, curtains, lampshade. Pink sheets. Pink pillows.

Everything was pink.

I sat on the bed. Ran my hand over the duvet.

I missed my room.

As much as I missed my old life, I missed this room. This bed. This stupid, girly, safe place.

Before I lay down, I changed. I remembered the airport. The spilled coffee.

I looked down at my skinny jeans. There was a brown stain on the thigh. I peeled them off, then my white top that exposed the curve of my waist.

I was down to my underwear when I remembered—my luggage was at Vincent's house.

8

I opened the cabinet. My old clothes were still there, hanging in neat rows. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses from four years ago.

But I hesitated. What if they smelled like mothballs? What if the fabric made me itch?

I shut the cabinet. Crawled into bed in just my bra and panties.

I was exhausted. My head hurt from thinking. From crying. From wondering what would happen if my parents forced me to live with Vincent as his wife.

I didn't want to think anymore.

Whatever happened, I won't live with Vincent.