Breaking My Runaway Husband Chapter 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.