Reclaimed By The Icy Billionaire

ELLA. I blinked against the golden light streaming through my window, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the brightness. With a gentle sigh, I sat up, stretching my arms over her head. A moment passed, and my alarm blared on, its sharp sound filling the room. I reached out, silencing it with a tap, then grabbed my phone. A reminder flashed on my screen. Happy 18th birthday to me! I stared at the letters, then the date signed below. I was eighteen. Official. A legal adult, free to make my own decisions—or so everyone else would think. I browsed through my social media. No calls. No messages. No texts. Not that I expected to get any of them. Being the only child of Victor Sinclair, CEO of Sinclair Corps, I was used to being alone. Isolated. After all, relationships and friendship were not easy and no one cared enough to get close to the daughter of someone as heartless as my father, and if they did, it was only ever for self serving interests. I set y phone aside and dragged myself out of bed to start my morning routine. Shower, brush teeth, skincare, get dressed—the entire process was on autopilot. Before I even came out of my room, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and buttered toast filled the air. I entered the dining room, where my father sat at the head of the mahogany table, dressed in a sharp navy suit. He sipped his coffee, his eyes fixed on something on his tablet. The staff moved around, setting out the breakfast course. I made my way over to the table slowly. "Good morning, Father," I said quietly. Victor Sinclair didn't even glance my way. "Morning," he said curtly. I sat down, gently with my head bent forward as a plate was placed in front of me. The room was heavy with tension, broken only by the clinking of silverware every now and then. It was always like that. Cold. Distant. I couldn't decide what was worse—his indifference or the rare occasions when he did acknowledge me, only to issue commands. A moment lingered before he dropped his chin, his annoyed eyes pinning me in place. "Today's your birthday." My fork dangled in midair. My breath caught as I looked up at him, my eyes wide with shock. Hope flickered in my chest—small, fragile, but there. Did he remember? Did he care? I swallowed hard. "Yes," I said hesitantly. He nodded, taking another sip of coffee before he answered. "Good. Your wedding will take place a week from today. Plans will begin immediately." The fork dropped out of my hand, clattering against the plate. My stomach went numb. “…Wedding?" I whispered, barely able to get the word out. My father glared at me, as if irritated by my reaction. "Yes. To Dominic Armanetti." My heart fell. Right. I had forgotten. The ancient custom. The one I had been an unwilling partaker of when I was five years old. I had been betrothed to Dominic, son of the Armanetti family, one of the most powerful underground syndicate families. The wedding was to take place when I turned eighteen. I had not seen Dominic since the night of the agreement. He had been twelve at the time—a boy, just as I had been a child. And now, I was being told to marry him, a stranger. I swallowed hard, my fists clenching in her lap. But I did not speak. No use. This had been long determined. I had no choice. No control. No voice. Father leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee for the last time before rising. Adjusting his suit, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a thin black Amex card. Instead of offering it to me, he offered it to Jimmy, the butler. "She can buy herself a treat," he said brusquely, and headed towards the front door. I heard the slam of the car door, followed by the growl of the engine fading into the distance, a minute later. I let out a shuddering breath, looking at the breakfast still untouched in front of me. Jimmy stood in the corner, watching me with an expressionless face—except for the very evident sympathy etched in his eyes. I sniffed, brushing away the pricking of tears. I did not want sympathy. It would not matter. Without another word, I rose and went towards my room. --- The week whirled by on a blur of wedding activity. Fittings. Tastings for cake. Choices of venue. Arrangements of flowers. My aunts were going over every detail, chattering happily about the impending union. And no one even saw me. I was a ghost bride. Invisible. Irrelevant. No one asked how I felt. No one asked if I was happy. I knew why. I was there to marry well, to produce heirs, and to be a good advertisement for the Sinclair name. I was not worth any more than that. The night of the wedding, I sat beside the large window of my bedroom, gazing out over the city. The wedding dress hung in the corner—a lace and pearl-white vision, suitable for a bride who had not been asked about her own destiny. Tomorrow, I would walk down the aisle. I would vow myself to a man I didn’t know. And I would accept it. Because I had no choice. But then, everything changed.