Reclaimed By The Icy Billionaire

CHAPTER EIGHT

ELLA.

I woke up to faint morning light streaming through the tall curtains. My body ached from sleeping so still, and for a moment, I forgot where I was.

Then I sat up and remembered everything.

The dress. The ceremony. The reception. Archer’s silence. His back as he walked away from me last night.

I slipped out of bed, padded barefoot across the marble floor, and took a quick shower, letting the warm water wash away the strange stillness that had taken root in me. After drying off, I pulled on a light sundress I found neatly hung in the wardrobe; someone had clearly arranged clothes in my size before my arrival.

The room was beautiful. Cream walls with pale gold trim. A grand window that opened out into the garden. A vanity table. A walk-in closet I hadn’t fully explored.

I wandered through the room slowly, then opened the door and stepped into the hallway. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace but absence.

Downstairs, the scent of something warm and buttery drifted from the dining room. My stomach clenched—I hadn’t eaten much the day before.

I turned the corner and stopped when I saw them.

Archer was standing at the head of the dining table, dressed in black slacks and a navy button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was talking to Welma, who stood a respectful distance away, hands folded.

They both looked up as I entered.

Welma gave a polite nod. “Good morning, Mrs. Wolfe.”

“Morning, Welma,” I replied with a smile. My voice sounded small in the wide room.

I glanced at Archer. “Good morning, Archer.”

He looked at me. Or past me. It was hard to tell.

“Hm,” he hummed in reply, then turned, picked up a tablet from the table, and walked straight past me.

Without a word.

The front door opened. Closed.

I was left standing there, blinking.

I didn’t even know what I’d expected. A grunt, maybe. A curt nod. Anything that resembled... human interaction.

Welma cleared her throat gently. “Would you like to have breakfast now, ma’am?”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Please.”

She led me to the table and served a beautiful arrangement of toast, eggs, avocado slices, and a small fruit bowl. I forced myself to eat, one small bite at a time, wondering what kind of life this was meant to be.

Once I finished, I set the fork down and asked, “Could you have a driver get the car ready for me?”

Welma’s eyes flickered. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that won’t be possible.”

I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll need Mr. Wolfe’s express permission to leave the estate.”

“What?” I sat up straighter. “You’re telling me I can’t go out unless my husband says so?”

“That is the protocol, yes.”

“That’s insane. I’m not a prisoner here.”

Welma gave a soft smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course not. But Mr. Wolfe has security measures in place for guests. And wives.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I was too stunned to speak.

“Fine,” I muttered finally. “I’ll speak to him when he gets back.”

Welma gave a nod and turned to clear the table.

With nothing else to do, I wandered out to explore the estate. The house was huge. Gleaming floors, towering walls, staircases that branched into wings. I passed by the guards posted at some doors. They nodded politely but said nothing more.

“Hi,” I said once, trying to make conversation with one near the rear patio. “Do you know if there’s a map of this place or something? I keep thinking I’ll get lost.”

He didn’t even blink. “No map available, ma’am.”

That was it.

I moved on.

Eventually, I found the library. It was massive—rows upon rows of books stretching to the ceiling, with a winding staircase leading to an upper level. The scent of old pages was comforting.

I ran my fingers along the spines and finally picked out a worn novel with a faded blue cover. I carried it out into the garden and found a wrought-iron bench under a flowering tree. The breeze was light. The pages fluttered in my hand.

I read.

I tried to forget I was newly married. Tried to forget the aching silence from the man I was now bound to.

But the sun dipped low before I realized it.

Welma came to fetch me.

“Dinner is ready, Mrs. Wolfe,” she said gently.

Back inside, I ate quietly at the dining room table. I tried to engage Welma in a bit of conversation, asking where she was from, how long she’d worked for Archer.

She answered politely but vaguely, always returning the focus to me with a practiced kind of deflection.

I gave up after a while.

That night, I didn’t go back to my room.

Instead, I curled up on the living room sofa and turned on the TV, flipping through channels absently, volume low. I watched the clock.

Ten p.m.

Eleven.

Midnight.

Still no sign of Archer.

I folded my arms and tucked my feet beneath me. I was determined to wait.

At 1 a.m., Welma appeared again, holding a blanket in her arms.

“Mrs. Wolfe,” she said softly. “You should go to bed.”

“I’m fine,” I said, though my eyes stung. “I’ll wait.”

She placed the blanket gently over my legs, gave me one last look, and left.

I dozed off eventually, the soft sound of a late-night movie lulling me.

Then I woke again.

My neck hurt. The TV was playing something else. I looked at the clock.

5:03 a.m.

Still no Archer.

I sat upright, my chest hollow.

At 7 a.m., I washed my face and changed clothes, trying to shake the heaviness.

At 8, Welma returned, tray in hand.

“Breakfast, ma’am.”

I shook my head. “No thank you.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t eat much yesterday—”

“I said no.”

She hesitated, then nodded and left the tray on the table.

I went upstairs and shut the door to my room.

And then I cried.

Archer didn’t come home that night.

Or the night after.

Or the one after that.

Days passed like a slow drip of water echoing in an empty room. I woke up, ate, wandered the estate, read books, and sat in the gardens until the sun made me dizzy. It was strange, how easy it was to fall into a routine that didn’t really feel like living.

Welma kept bringing my meals at the same time every day. She never said much unless I asked her something directly, and even then, her answers were clipped but kind. I tried not to take it personally. She was loyal to the house. Loyal to Archer.

I had no one else to talk to.

There were no old friends to call. No one dropped by to check in on me. I didn’t blame them. My former life had been simple, quiet. I had been careful not to get too close to anyone—especially after everything with my parents. Trusting people never ended well.

I tried to shake the sadness off and spent more time in the library. I read historical fiction, memoirs, even a bit of fantasy when I needed to escape badly enough. Sometimes, I just walked aimlessly through the halls, trying not to feel the silence press in on me.

After almost a week of being locked in, the loneliness started clawing at my skin.

So, one morning, I asked Welma for gloves and a hat.

She gave me a confused look. “Mrs. Wolfe, we have gardeners for that.”

“I know,” I said, smiling tightly. “But I’d like to do something with my hands.”

She didn’t argue.

Out in the back garden, I found a forgotten patch near the hedges. The soil was dry, and weeds had crept across like little green invaders. I dropped to my knees and started tugging at them. The sun was hot, the dirt stuck under my nails, but it felt good. It felt *real*.

By noon, sweat trickled down my back, and my dress clung to my skin. My fingers ached, but there was something oddly satisfying about the mess. I stood up, brushing the dirt from my legs.

The gardeners were nearby, tending to the roses. I gave them a small wave. They nodded, their expressions unreadable as always.

“I’ll get us some juice,” I said aloud, mostly to myself.

I walked back into the house, humming softly under my breath.

Then I froze.

Archer was there.

In the hallway, right outside the lounge, standing with a man I didn’t recognize. The man was tall, sharp-looking, wearing a black suit that probably cost more than most people’s rent. They were mid-conversation when both their gazes snapped toward me.

I became acutely aware of the dirt on my face, the soil under my nails, and the state of my sundress. I looked like someone who didn’t belong in a house like this, much less married to a man like Archer Wolfe.

Archer’s jaw flexed, and I caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

The stranger smiled faintly. “Well, well. You must be Mrs. Wolfe.”

I straightened my shoulders. “Yes. I am.”

He extended his hand. “Cole Barrett. Old friend of Archer’s.”

I wiped my hand quickly on the side of my dress before shaking his. “Ella.”

Archer’s voice cut in, low and cold. “She was just leaving.”

I ignored him and looked at him instead. “I need a word.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Now is not the time.”

“It’ll be quick,” I said, planting my feet.

Archer let out a soft breath through his nose. “Excuse us, Cole.”

Cole tilted his head, clearly amused. “Of course. I’ll wait in the study.”

As soon as he was gone, Archer faced me fully. “What is it?”

“I want to go out,” I said plainly. “I need air. Life. Something outside these walls.”

His gaze darkened.

“I’m not asking for a parade,” I added. “Just a driver. An hour.”

He paused, and for a second, I thought he’d say no just to spite me.

Then he nodded once. “Fine. A driver will be arranged. With protection.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, though the stiffness in his voice dulled any gratitude I felt.

He was already turning back to the hallway.

I went to the kitchen, filled a tray with juice and glasses, and carried it out to the garden. The gardeners blinked in surprise when I handed them drinks, but they thanked me quietly.

I knelt back down, my fingers finding the soil again. I focused on the roots, the weeds, the way the earth resisted and then gave in when I tugged hard enough.

Minutes passed.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned.

Archer stood there, arms crossed, looking down at me like I was a stranger he’d found trespassing on his land.

“What promise did you make me?” he asked coldly.

I frowned, shielding my eyes from the sun. “What?”

“At the reception,” he said, his voice like ice. “What did you promise me?”

It hit me then. The awkward dance. The cold space between us. The words I’d said in a whisper, hoping to make peace.

“I said I’d stay out of your way,” I murmured.

He nodded once, sharply. “Then do that. Stick to your promise.”

The words slammed into me like a punch.

I stared at him, stunned. “I wasn’t trying to be in your way. I just—”

“Then don’t start now,” he said, already turning around. “Stay out of my way as much as possible.”

He walked off, not sparing me another glance.

And I stayed on my knees, hands still in the soil, as something sharp and cold cracked through my chest.