The Billionaire's Ex-Wife

Run

Alison's POV.

The picture was taken on a Spring [A/N: Spring Day ❤️ ARMY? ] afternoon, the sun beginning to melt into the hills. Both Blake's and mine's relatives had gathered for the special event, fake it may have been.

Our parents had insisted that we had real marriage ceremony to make the proposal much more important, not just the ink splayed against the contract.

Back then, I wasn't Blake's biggest fan. I had found him an egotistical jerk who had no manners whatsoever.

But during our marriage I had began to notice the small gestures and I was caught in whirling wind where I had fell.

However there had been no one to catch me. I had fallen, and hit the concrete with a sickening crack.

We had been given a month to get to know each other. I had grudgingly tried to capture his attention, as I had come to accept that this was the man I was possibly stuck with for the rest of my life and I would have to make the most of it.

Yet, Blake seemed to have not view my decision in the same light, adamantly ignoring my desperation in reaching out to him.

I was a girl who didn't give up, so I had pathetically tried to get him to smile. Talk to me even. I did succeed in getting him to talk to me, but he would only utter harsh and cold words. Never once did a compliment fall from his lips. Especially not one aimed at me.

All I got was the constant swearing or snaggy comment about my weight.

So it was no surprise that even on our wedding day, that Blake still remained unreachable. He was still distant and I doubted that he would ever open up to me.

Even as the priest spoke, he threw up his emotionless facade. Even as we both recited our vows, he did not once smile or sound willing. Even as we leaned forward, our lips capturing each other, he still didn't he show any love or emotion to our embrace.

It was quite the opposite really.

He was disgusted, and pulled away a second into the kiss, not very subtly may I add, feverishly rubbing his lips against the sleeve of his suit. Disgust etched his features, and he continued to throw me repulsed glances throughout the entire day.

But for the sake of the photographers, I had held back my tears as we posed for photos. His hand was draped around my waist, bringing me into his chest. I remember closing my eyes, and taking in a strangled deep breath before wiping my face clear of any emotion and pasting a much too happy grin on my face.

The moment the photographer had smiled at us, giving us the thumbs up, confirming the end of the photo shoot, I had darted out of Blake's arms.

It had been first kiss.

And the man of my first kiss seemed disgusted at it. He looked like he would shove a spoon down his throat than even come into contact with me.

And that hurt I guess. It hurt to know that I wasn't accepted. It hurt to know that my own husband hated me. It hurt to know that our kiss, my first kiss, meant nothing to him. It hurt to know that I meant nothing to him.

Yet, I continued to pursue the man of my dreams. It was only until I saw how much he really thought of me, did the truth hit me.

You were never good enough.

I blinked back my tears as memories of our past rolled in my mind. My hands were shaking by my sides as my eyes continued to bore into the picture.

He was smiling.

Not a full blown smile. No, it was a gentle, calm smile. A smile that tugged at my heartstrings.

During the shoot, I had only concentrated on grinning for the camera and getting hell away from the idiot who had his arms wrapped around me. Not once did I look back or pre-view the photos, fearing that I would break down in front of my husband.

I hated crying.

Even as seven-year old, I had despised crying in front of my father after he had scolded me for smashing the fragile vase my grandmother had once owned.

It gave me the sense of being weak. It showed others that I was vulnerable. And I hate showing others, even family, my vulnerable side. I hated when my anger or frustration would disperse into tears.

However, I stood in front of him, my smile large. But even as I looked at the photo, I could easily through the facade I had put up. My eyes had never looked so dull before. The hurt and pain that swirled within them seemed to push me back, and I staggered slightly.

But before I could examine the once memorable event that was displayed in the frame, a firm figure covered my view from it.

"What are you doing?"he snarled.

My eyes widened at his tone.

He looked terrifying.

His eyes were narrowed down at me, a malicious look swarming his features. His body shielded the picture from me, while his fists where raised, ready to strike. His knuckles were pure white, his muscles flexing dangerously.

I found myself cowering away from him, fear getting the best of me.

"I-I..."

I was at loss at words. He still had the photo.

The photo that resembled our stuttering relationship. The photo that held memories that caused tears and heartbreak. The photo that had clawed at me, it's scars still fresh.

The photo of us.

"Get out!" he roared.

I couldn't.

My feet were glued to the floor, my eyes wide as I started directly into his mocha brown eyes that was lit with flames, licking at the corner of his pupil.

"Get the fuck out!"

I blinked rapidly. There was a swirling storm in my mind. And I was caught up in the middle of it all.

The memories. The feelings. His rage. My hurt.

It was as if I was being pulled down to the Earth, once again.

Pulled back to my body. Pulled back to the life I was in.

I staggered backwards as he continued to shout.

The photo.

It was tapped against the front of my mind, as a constant reminder of my love for the man that broke my heart to shatters. The man that destroyed me.

And so without looking back, I ran.

I ran out his office, the sound of his shouts becoming distant as tears fell from my eyes, my choked sobs strangled at the back of my throat. I ran past the curious stares of the staff. I ran past a concerned Luke.

I ran from us.

Our relationship was a mystery.

A painting that lurked at the end of an alleyway. The stroke of the brush was hesitant yet delicate. The colours were dark and gloomy, winding together. A droplet of tear fell onto the canvas, the dark colours mixing into a much more powerful emotion.

The wet patch grew. Grew in hurt. In heartbreak. In love.

He had ran. He had ran away from what he believed was right and what was wrong. He had pushed away his feeling. He had pushed loved ones away.

I had tried. I had laughed. I had cried. The I too, I had ran.

Away from the tears that trickled closer to us. We had ran away from our fears. We had ran away from the truth. We had ran away from life.

But you couldn't run from love.