Page 27 of Breaking the Annulment

“A few?” Gita laughed softly. “There’s a parade of couriers in the foyer. I think the staff has stopped counting.”

Aurelia couldn’t help the flicker of amusement that passed through her, though it quickly gave way to unease. “Well, I guess I should go downstairs and deal with it.”

Gita’s smile widened. “Or you could head up to the master suite and start trying things on. I’d be happy to help.”

Aurelia stiffened slightly. “The master suite? Why would I—” She paused, her mind racing. “Actually, just leave everything here. It’ll be easier for me to sort through.”

Gita hesitated, her smile faltering as she avoided Aurelia’s gaze. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, ma’am.”

Aurelia frowned. “Why not?”

“Mr. Giannopoulos gave explicit instructions,” Gita admitted, her tone careful. “All the packages are to be delivered and put away in the master suite.”

Aurelia’s stomach twisted, though she kept her expression neutral. “I see. And if I don’t want them there?”

Gita gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the staff always follow his orders. I don’t think we’re allowed to… rearrange.”

For a moment, Aurelia didn’t respond, her fingers curling against the armrests of her chair. Michalis’s control was as maddening as it was thorough. Even in his absence, he was reminding her who held the reins.

“Of course,” she said finally, her voice clipped. “That makes perfect sense.”

Gita’s expression softened. “You should go up there and see everything. Some of those designers… I’ve never even heard of them. They must be amazing.”

Aurelia forced a smile. “Maybe later.”

“Would you like me to bring you something to eat?”

Not wanting to break down in front of Gita, Aurelia nodded. She may as well eat. The only person she was hurting by refusing was herself. “Something light would be nice. Thank you.”

While she waited for her lunch to arrive, she ran herself a bath, the steaming water and rose-scented oil a small comfort against the chaos in her mind. Steam curled in the air as she sank in, the water embracing her like a second skin, soothing the tension in her shoulders as the events of the previous evening replayed in her mind.

The memory of her impulsive spending spree stirred equal parts guilt and defiance. She blew out a long breath, brushing a hand through her hair as she reassured herself:He deserves it. After everything he’s done, he deserves it.

His credit card was still tucked safely inside the dresser, though it had begun to feel like a live grenade just waiting to explode. He knew about the clothes, yet he hadn’t said a word. Was he angry? Would he give her another “lesson”?

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Her lips tingled at the memory of Michalis’s kiss, the possessive way he’d held her, as if daring her to pull away. Her cheeks burned, and she pressed her palms to her face, willing the memories to vanish.He’s controlling. Infuriating. But he makes me feel…

A soft knock interrupted her reverie. “Ma’am?” Gita’s voice came from the other side of the door.

“Yes?” Aurelia called, sitting up slightly.

Gita stepped in, carrying a delicate but indulgent spread, arranged with meticulous care on a porcelain tray. A chilled bowl of gazpacho sat alongside a fresh arugula salad topped with shaved Parmesan and glistening cherry tomatoes. Beside it, a small plate held a pair of miniature croissant sandwiches stuffed with smoked salmon, dill cream, and thinly sliced cucumber. For dessert, there was a petite lemon tart, its glossy surface catchingthe light. The faint aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the tang of citrus and herbs, creating a tempting tableau that seemed almost too perfect to disturb. But what drew Aurelia’s attention was the single red rose resting alongside the napkin, next to and envelope and a small black velvet box.

Gita set the tray on the vanity and turned to leave. “He said not to hurry with the bath, but there will be a few people arriving soon.” she said softly. “Enjoy, Mrs. Giannopoulos.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Aurelia alone with the tray.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the envelope, unfolding the heavy paper. Michalis’s handwriting was bold and unmistakable:

I didn’t see any formal gowns among your purchases, so a representative from each of the fashion houses you selected will arrive this afternoon to rectify the oversight. In the meantime, my wife’s wardrobe would never be complete without this. -M.

She stared at the words, her chest tightening as she deliberated over their meaning. With slow, deliberate movements, she picked up the velvet box. Her breath hitched when she saw what was inside: The diamond ring was nothing short of breathtaking—a masterpiece designed to command attention and proclaim ownership with unapologetic boldness. The centerpiece was an enormous, flawless diamond, at least six carats, its radiant-cut facets catching every sliver of light and scattering it into a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of rainbows. Surrounding the central stone was a delicate halo of smaller, perfectly matched diamonds, each one set by hand to enhance the ring’s brilliance. The platinum band was thick, its weight unmistakable, and encrusted with a double row of pavé diamonds that sparkled even in the dimmest light. It was not a piece of jewelry meant to whisper—it shouted, loud and clear, of wealth, power, and an unyielding claim. Anyone who saw itwould know immediately: she belonged to someone who could move mountains and bend the world to his will.

She stared at it, her heart pounding. Sliding it onto her finger, she raised her hand, watching as the diamond scattered rainbows across the room. The ring was impossibly beautiful. Overwhelming. It felt heavy, not just physically but symbolically, a silent declaration of Michalis’s intent.

It was the kind of ring most women dreamed of wearing, a fairytale piece that could make her feel desired, cherished—even envied. But beneath the surface of that fleeting admiration simmered resentment. It wasn’t just a ring; it was a shackle, heavy with expectation and control.

She pulled the ring off, setting it back in the box—only minutes later, she found herself slipping it on again. Her hands danced with indecision, their grace a stark contrast to her tumultuous thoughts. Each time the ring was returned to its box, a brief calm washed over her, only to be swiftly replaced by a gnawing uncertainty as she slid it back onto her finger. The cycle repeated like a never-ending waltz, a silent battle playing out in the solitary confinement of her mind.

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