Breaking My Runaway Husband Chapter 1

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?]

* * *

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.”