Breaking My Runaway Husband

I’d been chasing Leo Ashford for ages, and he still had the nerve to run on our wedding day. Just as I was about to give up, a thought flashed in my mind: [Sloane, he likes to be forced.] So I slapped him across the face. “Feeling the chill? Is the Ashford Group ready to go bankrupt? Now get your ass back there and get married.” On our wedding night, he hit me with a cold reminder: “I have no feelings for you.” My inner voice shot back: [He’s asking for another one.] So I slapped him again. “Feeling anything now? Get over here and kiss me.” After that, he spent his days simmering with resentment, sullenly hand-washing my lingerie with a look of pure hatred on his face. My intuition told me: [Give him the cold shoulder for a couple of days. He’ll learn his place.] But then, the one that got away came back to the country. I stopped coming home. That’s when he started to panic, posting on every anonymous forum he could find: [What do I do if my wife has another man on the side?] [How to outsmart the other man?] 1 He was supposed to be waiting at the altar. Instead, Leo Ashford was making a run for it. After all the time, the energy, the capital I’d invested in chasing him, he had the audacity to bolt on our wedding day. I was just about to cut my losses, call my father, and liquidate his family’s company for sport when a new thought sliced through the noise in my head, sharp and clear as a notification pop-up. The commentary: He likes to be forced, Sloane. He wants you to take control. I found him, just as my intuition—my own personal system for decoding the world—predicted. He was pacing the long, gilded hallway of the venue, lost and looking like a panicked show pony. The commentary: He’s been wandering in circles for thirty minutes. The man can’t even escape his own wedding. Someone get him a seeing-eye dog. A new record. Jilted at the altar before the groom even makes it past the coat check. I cornered him in a private sitting room. He turned his back to me, his shoulders squared in a pathetic attempt at defiance. “I’m not going to marry you, you old woman!” Old woman? I’m twenty-eight. He’s twenty-five. The drama. The commentary: He’s all talk. Time for a little… physical persuasion. He’s begging for it. Well, if the script says so. A smirk played on my lips. I loosened my wrists, took two quick steps forward, and slapped him across the face. The sound echoed in the silent room, sharp and satisfying. He spun around, his hand flying to his cheek, his blue eyes wide with disbelief. “Sloane… did you just fucking hit me?” “I did,” I said, examining my nails with a bored air. I held his gaze, letting the silence stretch. “It’s getting a little chilly in here, Leo. Is it time for the Ashford Group to go bankrupt?” The fight drained out of him instantly. His whole body slumped. I stepped into his space, my voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. I looped my arms around his neck, my smile dangerously sweet. “Now, let’s try this again. Look at me,” I commanded, my eyes roaming over his perfect, pouty face. God, he was beautiful. “Am I old?” His gaze darted away, a flush creeping up his neck. “No…” he mumbled. The commentary: Yes! This is the content we came for. Dominate him. We live for the power dynamics. I tugged on his silk tie, slowly, deliberately tightening the knot until it was perfect. I patted his cheek—the one I hadn’t slapped. “Now,” I whispered, smiling brightly. “Go out there and greet our guests.” 2 Leo shuffled out of the room looking like a chastised puppy, and I had to admit, the kicked-dog look worked for me. It was a new, and surprisingly potent, addition to my very specific set of turn-ons. When he saw his parents, his face lit up with the desperate hope of a child spotting a lifeguard. He practically sprinted over to them, his eyes red-rimmed. “Mom, Dad! Sloane hit me!” Mr. Ashford barely blinked. “And what did you do to provoke her?” he asked, his tone suggesting he was already tired of this conversation. Leo’s jaw dropped. “What?” “Son, you need to learn. A little slap just means she cares,” his father said sagely. His mother nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly, dear. Of all the men in this city, Sloane chose to marry you. That must mean you have something special.” Leo looked like his whole world was crumbling. “You’re supposed to be on my side!” The commentary: Leo’s internal monologue: whimpers Who doesn’t love a man brought to his knees? Go get your man, Sloane! My family and the Ashfords go way back. We grew up in the same suffocatingly manicured circles, our parents members of the same country clubs. Leo was famously… simple. I was famously not. With a three-year age gap, the intellectual gap felt more like a chasm. I had a history of exploiting it. He used to follow me around like a shadow, his admiration palpable. I once traded him a handful of pistachio shells, convincing him they were rare, iridescent seashells I’d collected just for him. He later told me, with complete sincerity, “Sloane, those shells you gave me were amazing. They even tasted salty, like the ocean.” I told him when we grew up, I’d be his wife, and that wives were in charge of all the money. He’d dutifully hand over his allowance and even stole his mother’s gaudy diamond cocktail ring to try and slip it on my finger. My mother had scolded me, telling me to stop playing with the “slow” boy. As I got older, the age gap widened. He was in middle school when I was in high school. I had no time for a childish brat. Then my family moved to the Upper East Side, and he fell off my radar completely. Until last year. He’d just returned from a stint at a business school in Switzerland—a classic move for rich kids with bad grades—and I ran into him at a gallery opening. The short, chubby kid I remembered was gone. In his place was a six-foot-two masterpiece of broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and legs for days. The only thing that remained the same were his eyes: wide, startlingly clear, and just as endearingly stupid as I remembered. He was my type, dialed up to eleven. But he was impossible to crack. I tried everything—the flirty texts, the casual invitations, the full-court press—and he remained stubbornly aloof. “Sloane, I’m not interested. Stop wasting your time.” Then, fate intervened. The Ashford Group hit a rough patch. I saw my opening and proposed a merger, with one non-negotiable condition: a marriage contract. His parents didn’t hesitate for a second. They served up their beautiful, useless son on a silver platter. My own parents were less than thrilled. They thought Leo was nothing more than a pretty face, a liability. But I have my own money, more than I could ever spend. I like having pretty things. And if I was going to be forced into a marriage for appearances, why not choose one with a face that beautiful? We could have gorgeous children. And once I had the heir I wanted, I could always file for divorce. 3 At the reception, Leo drank too much champagne. Back in our suite, I showered and slipped into a silk nightgown that cost more than his monthly allowance. He took one look at me, his ears turning a shade of crimson, and grabbed a pillow, making a break for the door. “We’re married, Sloane. You got what you wanted.” His voice was slurred, but he tried for a cold, detached tone. “This is a business arrangement. No feelings involved. We’ll have separate lives. You stay out of mine, I’ll stay out of yours.” The commentary: He’s just flustered by the lingerie. Time for another dose of reality. He’s asking for it. I smiled sweetly and slapped him again, harder this time. “You’ve had a little too much to drink, and now you’re feeling bold,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I just injected ten million dollars into your family’s failing company. There will be no ‘separate lives.’” The second slap seemed to sober him up instantly. He stared at me, his mouth agape. “What… what do you see me as?” I gave him a dismissive once-over. “A legally sanctioned escort.” He sputtered, words failing him. “You… you…” The commentary: He’s close to breaking. Push him, Sloane! Leo took a hesitant step back, his bravado gone. “Can we… can we just take it slow? Maybe start with holding hands?” The commentary: Oh, he’s a virgin. How precious. A virgin? Well, that was… unexpected. And incredibly appealing. I crossed my arms, my voice firm with command. “Get in the shower. And make sure you’re clean when you come out to attend to me.” He shot me a furious glare and slammed the bathroom door. Half an hour passed. Nothing. “System,” I thought, my patience wearing thin, “what is he doing in there?” The commentary: He’s posting on Reddit. I pulled out my phone and found his profile. His latest posts were a train wreck. On r/relationship_advice: [25M] How do I resist… temptation? From my wife [28F]? A helpful user had replied with a link to a particularly skimpy lingerie set from Savage X Fenty. Another user commented: Dude, you married her. Isn’t the point to NOT resist? Leo had replied, frustrated: NO, I mean how do I RESIST IT. How do I maintain control! He’d followed it up with a new post. On r/TooAfraidToAsk: Need a step-by-step guide for your wedding night. Asking for a friend. URGENT. One of the top replies was simply: Pics or it didn’t happen. Finally, the shower turned on. An hour later, I’d had enough. Was he trying to run up the water bill? I walked over to the suite’s control panel and flipped the main breaker. A moment later, a panicked shout came from the bathroom. “Sloane! The power’s out!” “Oh,” I called back innocently. “The breaker must have tripped.” 4 When Leo finally emerged from the bathroom, he was wrapped in a plush robe, tied so tightly he looked like a panicked burrito. The commentary: Ah, the classic ‘hard to get’ routine. A bold strategy. My eyes traced the lines of his body through the thick terry cloth. I reached out to pull the knot loose. “What… what are you doing?” he stammered, clutching the robe to his chest. “Are you going to take it off, or do I have to do it for you?” I asked, my voice laced with impatience. His face was on fire, from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. “Sloane, have you no shame? Are you even a woman?” The commentary: Leo’s internal monologue: She’s so aggressive. I’m so… why is this happening to my body? My gaze drifted downward. Something was definitely happening to his body. “You’ll find out the answer to that soon enough,” I said, my own patience wearing thin. “You may have my body, but you will never have my heart!” he declared, a last-ditch effort at defiance. Seriously? Was he quoting a bad romance novel? I didn’t want his heart. I wanted the body. “Sloane… you can’t force this! A forced melon isn’t sweet!” It was such a strange, archaic saying. I had to stop myself from laughing. The commentary: You’ll never know if it’s sweet until you taste it. Do it, Sloane. Force the melon! I was starting to like this. “I don’t care if it’s sweet,” I purred, backing him toward the bed. “As long as it quenches my thirst.” And right now, I was very, very thirsty. The system in my head was practically screaming. [Go! Go! Go! NOW!] I shrugged off my own robe. Leo’s eyes widened, his face turning an impossible shade of red. “Sloane… be reasonable…” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “I told you, I don’t have feelings for you! You’re wasting your time!” The commentary: Buddy, your ‘little soldier’ is standing at full attention. Who do you think you’re kidding? He needs another push. The usual prescription. I slapped him. Not hard, just enough to get his attention. “How about now?” I commanded. “Do you have feelings now? Come here and kiss me.” He hung his head, sweat beading on his forehead, his mind clearly at war with his body. “Take off the robe,” I ordered. He clenched his jaw, then ripped the robe off in a single, angry motion. He had a swimmer’s build—lean muscle, perfectly defined without being bulky. I couldn't resist reaching out and running a hand over his abs. The skin was hot and tight. His blush deepened. He looked like a martyr marching to his execution. “Kiss me,” I repeated. He ground his teeth and crashed his lips against mine. It was clumsy, all teeth and brute force. “Your technique is terrible,” I critiqued when he pulled away. A total novice. His hands were fumbling, unsure of where to go. “Just… stop talking,” he muttered. The commentary: He’s trying to remember the guide he just read in the bathroom. “You know what to do next, don’t you? Or do I need to teach you?” His voice was a raw, trembling whisper. “I know…” The commentary: Sloane, you should probably teach him. I ignored my inner voice. I wasn’t in a patient mood. Three seconds later. “Leo, are you fucking serious? Do you even know how this works?” One minute later. “Leo, gently. Jesus.” One minute and thirty seconds later. “Okay, that’s better. You can start now.” He collapsed onto the mattress beside me, panting. “It’s… it’s over…” I blinked. Then blinked again. “Over? What do you mean, over? I waited in a shower for an hour and a half, and you lasted ninety seconds?” The commentary: That’s… it? I’ve seen male leads last longer in a commercial break. Wait, are we sure this is the male lead? My poor Sloane. She deserves so much better. 5 I was furious. And filled with a profound sense of buyer’s remorse. He was all sizzle and no steak. A beautiful, useless sports car with a lawnmower engine. How could I have let a pretty face cloud my judgment so completely? Can you return a husband? Is there a lemon law for this? I shoved him off the bed with my foot. “A microwave burrito takes longer than you did! You lasted ninety seconds!” “That’s not my usual performance!” he protested from the floor, scrambling back up with a look of utter humiliation. “We can go again, Sloane. It was my first time…” My first time… I sighed. Fine. One more chance. It’s not like it would take long. Just as I was resigning myself to my fate, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Maya. Maya: OMG. Guess who I just saw at The Carlyle bar? Maya: Your ghost. Ethan Cole is back in the city! The script in my head went haywire. [SYSTEM ERROR. MALE LEAD IDENTIFICATION FAILED. RECALIBRATING…] Wait a second. “Are you even a legitimate system?” I muttered to myself. [NEW STORYLINE INITIATED: THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY. MEETING AGAIN AFTER A LONG SEPARATION.] [PRIMARY MALE LEAD CANDIDATE: THE EX-BOYFRIEND, ETHAN COLE.] [SECONDARY CHARACTER ANALYSIS: The ‘pretty boy’ husband appears to be a minor, disposable role. A leading man should, at minimum, be capable of lasting through the night. Our beautiful, wealthy heroine deserves better.] Maya sent a photo. It was blurry, taken from across a crowded room, but it was him. A sharp profile, lips pressed into a thin line, glasses perched on his nose as he looked down at something. He radiated a cool, untouchable aura. The power of a ghost. One grainy photo and my heart was doing a staccato rhythm against my ribs. Sloane: ADDRESS. NOW. I leaped out of bed and started rummaging for an outfit, then moved to my vanity to fix my makeup. Leo was in the bathroom, kneeling on the floor, sullenly hand-washing my silk underwear in the sink. He glanced at my reflection in the mirror. “Where are you going this late, all dressed up?” “None of your business,” I said, concentrating on my eyeliner. “And for the record, I agree with your earlier proposal. Separate lives it is.” He grunted, a flash of anger in his eyes. “Fine by me!” He squeezed the fabric in his hand, and I heard a faint ripping sound. “Hey! Be careful with that!” I snapped. “My lingerie is more expensive than your pride.” Honestly, what was he good for? Nothing but a pretty face. The commentary: That face and that body, though. Shame about the performance issues. Maybe he can just stay home and do the laundry. He can be the quiet, supportive man behind the successful woman. 6 I took a cab to the address Maya sent. It was an exclusive members-only club, the kind where deals were made in hushed tones over hundred-dollar cocktails. As I arrived, a group was spilling out onto the sidewalk, their meeting clearly over. The city lights blurred around them, but I saw him immediately. Ethan. Tall and lean in a gray trench coat, his movements economical and precise. He turned his head, and for a split second, our eyes met across the crowd. The man who can make your heart stop with a single glance. No matter how much time has passed, that power never fades. “Ethan,” I said, my voice smoother than I felt. “Long time no see.” He stopped, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it settled back into a neutral mask. “Sloane. It has been a while.” The commentary: And here it is. The reunion scene. My money’s on the ghost. They’re both devastatingly handsome, but Ethan’s got that mature, intellectual vibe that just hits different. He wins. Look at the way their eyes are locked. The tension! This is the pairing we’ve been waiting for. “What a coincidence,” I said, forcing a casual smile. “What brings you to New York?” “I’m here for a case,” he said. His voice was just as I remembered—a low, calming baritone. “Right. You’re a big-shot lawyer now. I hear you’re one of the best.” Before I could continue, a man I recognized—a business associate of my father’s—chimed in. “Ms. Sterling! I didn’t know you knew Mr. Cole.” He beamed at me. “I heard about the wedding. Congratulations on your marriage! I haven’t had a chance to send a gift yet.” Damn him. Of all the people to run into. The polite smile on Ethan’s face froze. “You’re… married?” “Yes, but—” I started, scrambling for an explanation. His expression hardened, a shutter coming down over his eyes. I saw a flash of something—hurt, disappointment—before it was gone. “We should go,” he said to his companions, turning away without another word. “Ethan, wait—” I watched his back as he disappeared into a waiting car, a hollow ache spreading through my chest. Ethan was my first love, back in college. He was the brilliant, broke scholarship kid at Columbia Law. I fell for him instantly, but he was the proverbial man on the mountaintop, aloof and untouchable. It took me a full year of shameless pursuit to finally win him over. For three years, he was my entire world. He was gentle, attentive, and brilliant. But I always knew it had an expiration date. When graduation came, I told him I was moving to London for my master's, and we had to break up. He’d looked at me, his eyes red with unshed tears. “Was I ever even in your plans, Sloane?” I was honest. “I love being with you, Ethan. But we can’t get married. I thought you understood that.” My marriage had to be a strategic alliance. It was a truth I’d been raised with. I loved Ethan, I loved the emotional sanctuary he provided, but that was all it could ever be. I would never throw away my family, my inheritance, for a boy with nothing but a brilliant mind and a crooked smile. After graduation, I went to London. He left New York. I’d dated other men—wealthy, powerful, suitable men—but I always found them lacking. Not as kind as Ethan. Not as handsome. Not as smart. Leo was the first man I’d met who even came close, physically. The same sharp jawline, the same tall, lean frame. But his personality was… abrasive. And his performance in bed was abysmal. Ethan was, and always would be, the gold standard. And seeing him again, my heart was already staging a full-blown insurrection. The system in my head flickered back to life. [ANALYSIS: Subject ‘Ethan Cole’ has not left the immediate vicinity.] [He’s waiting for you, Sloane. He’s pretending to leave, but he’s waiting.] [Go after him!] I gathered the hem of my dress and ran.

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