The Runaway Mrs Dela Merced ( English )

Chapter - 4

I rubbed my face hard, dragging my hand down like I could erase the image burned into my mind. But it didn’t work. It only made it worse.

“Ella…” Her name left my lips in a low whisper, rougher than I intended. Like it didn’t belong in my mouth anymore. Like I hadn’t said it in years. And maybe I hadn’t. Not like this. Not with her standing in front of me again.

Since I saw her at the airport, she hadn’t left my head. Her eyes—misty, uncertain, like she was fighting something I couldn’t see but somehow still understood. Her lips—too soft-looking for someone who kept pretending she wasn’t affected. And her body… slim, delicate, wrapped in a white top that made her stand out even when she tried not to.

She never used to notice these things about herself. That was the problem. The way her jeans hugged her legs. The messy bun that looked careless but somehow perfect. Like she didn’t realize she still had that effect on people.

And I noticed everything. Too much. More than I should have. Especially the way men looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention. The lingering stares at the baggage claim. The double takes when she walked past the coffee shop. The way that guy by the departure gates practically tripped over his own luggage trying to watch her.

I clenched my jaw at the memory. Too many eyes. Too much attention. Mine.

“Damn it,” I cursed under my breath. Something inside me tightened—sharp, unfamiliar, irritatingly intense. My collar suddenly felt too tight. The AC in my office wasn’t doing anything for the heat crawling up my neck. And right after it came something worse.

Anger.

Because now she was back. My wife.

And I wouldn’t lie—I had waited for this moment longer than I should have admitted even to myself. Four years of hearing her name in business meetings, seeing VincElla Hotel on letterheads, signing checks that still carried her initials. Four years of pretending I didn’t care if she ever came back.

“She came back…” I muttered, leaning back in my chair. The leather creaked under the shift of my weight. I stared at the ceiling, at the recessed lights that suddenly felt too bright. “Now you’re back, Ella.”

My jaw tightened. My knuckles went white against the armrest.

“This is payback, Mrs. Dela Merced.”

The words sounded colder than I meant them to. But I didn’t take them back. I couldn’t. Because I still remembered everything.

The wedding. The noise. The flashes. The people pretending they weren’t watching every crack forming between us. The vows we said like they meant something permanent. Father Mendoza’s voice echoing _till death do us part_ while her hand shook in mine. The string quartet faltering when she didn’t say “I do” fast enough.

And then—

Her silence after. Her disappearance. Like she erased herself from the story and left me holding the ending alone.

I remember the phone calls. Hundreds of them. From my parents. From hers. From the press. From distant relatives I hadn’t spoken to in years asking what happened. I remember standing in our wedding reception, a thousand empty chairs, food getting cold, ice sculptures melting into nothing.

She didn’t just leave me. She left everything behind—our marriage, the expectations, the humiliation. And I was the one who stayed behind in it. The one who had to answer questions I didn’t even understand myself. The one who stood there while people whispered. The one who carried it.

My fist slowly curled. The skin over my knuckles pulled taut.

Why did she marry me if she was going to run?

That question had been stuck in my head for four years. No answer. No closure. Just silence that never stopped echoing. I hired investigators. I flew to London twice. I stood outside her grandmother’s flat in Kensington like a fool, watching the windows. She never came out. She never called.

And now she was back like nothing happened. Like she didn’t destroy something important. Like she didn’t take four years of my life and light them on fire.

My thoughts darkened further. She owed me explanations. No. She owed me more than that. She owed me the years. The dignity. The peace I lost every night for four years wondering what I did wrong.

A sharp vibration cut through the silence—my intercom. I exhaled through my nose. Controlled.

“Yes?”

My secretary’s voice came through, careful. “Sir, Mr. Ynarez is on the line. He’s asking for you in his office.”

I already knew why. Ella. She was back. Of course he’d call. Of course everything would start moving again like the past had never stopped breathing. Like we could just rewind and press play.

I stood slowly, dragging in a breath that didn’t quite settle in my chest. My ribs felt too tight. “Let him know I’m coming,” I said.

Before I left, I fixed my suit. Adjusted my cufflinks. Rolled my shoulders back. My expression. Whatever I felt—irritation, anger, something sharper underneath it—I buried it where it belonged. Not in business. Not in front of him. Not in front of her father.

“Ella is still upset… and she’s crying,” Mr. Ynarez said the moment I stepped into his office.

I didn’t react immediately. I kept my face still. Controlled. Neutral. The way I’d trained myself to be in boardrooms when deals were falling apart.

“She asked me to stop all of this,” he continued, voice heavy. He looked older. Thinner. The last four years had carved lines into his face that weren’t there before. “But she is your wife now. The decision is in your hands, Vincent.”

Wife. The word landed differently when someone else said it. Heavier. Like a sentence.

I stayed silent. He turned toward the window like he needed distance from the conversation. Outside, San Miguel was quiet. The same streets Ella and I used to walk when we were kids.

“I brought her back because I believe you two need to live together. As husband and wife. Four years apart… that should’ve been enough time.”

Enough. For what? Healing? Forgetting? Pretending the damage didn’t exist just because time kept moving? I almost laughed. Time didn’t heal anything. It just taught you how to walk with the wound.

I didn’t answer.

Then he looked at me directly. His eyes were glassy, tired. “Can you promise me something, Vincent?” His voice lowered. Serious now. “Don’t hurt her.”

That was when I finally met his eyes. My posture straightened. “I won’t,” I said firmly. “We’re going to start over. We still have time to fix what we both messed up.”

The words came out steady. Convincing. Even to me.

And they weren’t entirely a lie. Because I wanted answers. And I wanted control over what was mine. What had always been mine on paper—even if she ran from it. Legally, she was still Mrs. Dela Merced. Her passport still said it. Her bank accounts still said it.

Mr. Ynarez sighed. “I trusted you once,” he said quietly. “Don’t make me regret it again.”

“I understand.”

Silence stretched. The clock on the wall ticked too loud. Then he added, slower this time—like he knew it would stay with me longer than anything else.

“Try to love her, Vincent. If not… at least don’t destroy what’s left.”

Love. The word felt foreign in my situation. Like it belonged to someone else’s life. Not mine. Not hers. Not this. Love was for people who hadn’t been abandoned at the altar. Love was for people who didn’t wake up angry every morning for four years.

I didn’t respond. Because I wasn’t sure what was worse—wanting answers… or the fact that seeing her again made things I buried start to move again. Things I thought were dead.

Later that evening, I went to their house to pick her up. Dinner had already been arranged. The place looked the same. Familiar. Too familiar. The same white gate. The same gazebo where I first kissed her when we were seventeen. The same rose bushes her mom planted.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ynarez,” I greeted politely as I stepped inside. The smell of adobo hit me immediately. Ella’s favorite.

She smiled warmly. “Good evening, handsome.”

I gave a slight nod. “Where is Ella?”

“She’s upstairs,” Mr. Ynarez answered from the dining room. He was already seated, but he didn’t touch his food.

“I’ll call her,” his wife offered.

“No,” I said immediately. Faster than I meant to. “I’ll do it.”

A pause. They exchanged a look. Then he nodded. “Second door to the left.”

I didn’t waste time. I went upstairs. Each step felt heavier than it should’ve. Like the house itself remembered things I didn’t want it to. The creak on the fifth step was still there. The family portrait on the landing—me and Ella at eighteen, before everything went to hell—was still there.

When I reached her door, I knocked once. Then again. No response.

I frowned. I opened it slowly. The hinges didn’t squeak. Her mom must’ve oiled them.

The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the side table. Pink walls. Pink curtains. Everything pink, just like I remembered.

And there she was.

My breath slowed without permission.

Ella. Lying on the bed. Still. Quiet. Her face relaxed in sleep, stripped of every guard she wore when she was awake. Too vulnerable. Too unaware. Her chest rose and fell steadily. One arm was thrown over her head. Her hair spilled across the pillow.

My eyes stayed on her longer than necessary.

I shouldn’t have walked in. I shouldn’t be here. But I was.

I stepped closer anyway. The air shifted with every step I took. Heavier. Quieter. Wrong in a way I couldn’t name. The carpet muffled my footsteps. She didn’t stir.

She was sleeping deeply. Breathing steady. Soft. I watched it for a second too long before forcing my gaze away. To the window. To the floor. Anywhere but her.

This was dangerous. Not her. Me.

Because I shouldn’t be noticing this much. The way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The faint freckle under her left eye. The way her lips parted when she slept. I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. Not after everything. Not after four years of telling myself I was done thinking about her.

I exhaled slowly. My hands were shaking. I curled them into fists to stop it.

“You’re still the same trouble…” I muttered under my breath.

Then I said her name again. Quieter. Almost like I was testing it. Like I needed to hear it in my voice to believe she was real.

“Ella.”

She didn’t move.

I stood there a moment longer than I needed to, fists tightening at my sides without me noticing. This was supposed to be simple. A marriage on paper. A correction. A continuation of something left unfinished. Business. Duty. Revenge, maybe.

But seeing her again…

It wasn’t simple anymore. It was something else entirely. Something hot and sharp and living under my skin.

And I hated not knowing what that was.

I turned slightly, forcing myself to leave the room. My legs didn’t want to move. But even as I walked out, her presence stayed behind me—quiet, heavy, impossible to ignore.

And I already knew—

This wasn’t going to be as simple as I told her father. Not anymore. No this time.