Page 20 of Breaking the Annulment

Friday

Aurelia woketo a dawn that seemed both sluggish and ominous, as if even the Florida sun hesitated to shine too brightly on Michalis Giannopoulos’s estate. Pale gold light touched the plush carpet of her bedroom as she blinked against the muted rays. The air inside was thick, not just from humidity but also from her simmering resentment. She’d tried to get the ropes off her wrists when she got back to her room Monday night, but they wouldn’t budge. That was four days ago.

Since she couldn’t get both arms through the sleeves, her clothing options had shrunk from men’s clothing to bath towels or the dress she’d been wearing when she got there. Her mood had darkened with every passing hour of every day.

She rose from the canopy bed—a decadent piece of furniture draped in pale silks, so luxurious, even royalty wouldn’t complain. Walking to the window overlooking the courtyard in nothing but a peach towel, she pressed her palm against the windowpane. Down below, she noted the guard––he had introduced himself as Ryan the previous day. His rifle glintedunder the sun’s uncertain glow. He appeared sharp, tense, his expression unreadable from this distance.

She set her jaw, stomach twisting. She also hadn’t eaten in more than thirty-six hours. It was both an act of rebellion and a testament to her anxiety.

Since the “lesson” in the limo, she’d purposely walked around the house like she belonged there, just waiting for Michalis to show up so that she could start implementing her plan to do everything she could to get under his skin. To drive him crazy. But he never appeared.

She was beginning to wonder if he’d left town, which would piss her off even more if he left without telling her he was going somewhere.

He wants to control everyone and everything around him. Be the big boss. Well, he doesn’t get to control me. Whatever that man wants, he’s going to get the opposite.

A gentle rap at the door made her tense. A faint voice followed: “Mrs. Giannopoulos? May I come in?”

Aurelia scowled at the formal address—she despised his last name attached to her. “Enter,” she snapped.

The door swung open, revealing Gita, a slim young woman in a crisp gray uniform with beautiful olive skin, dark, concerned eyes, and braided hair wrapped in a neat coil. She carried a wooden tray laden with an omelet, toast, grapefruit, coffee and a glass of orange juice that glowed under the room’s subdued light.

Gita dipped her head, stepping softly over the rug. A mild citrus scent wafted from the fresh oranges on the tray, and the smell of the freshly made omelet had her mouth watering.

“Good morning,” Gita murmured, avoiding looking directly at Aurelia––and the ropes. “Chef Eliana said you missed dinner again. She thought maybe you’d feel better if?—”

“I’m not hungry,” Aurelia cut in, crossing her arms over her chest. She had just enough slack in the rope to do it.

Gita blinked, an apologetic flicker crossing her face. “Shall I leave the tray on the table, ma’am?”

Aurelia considered snapping, but the raw fear in Gita’s eyes made her falter. “Fine,” she said, voice softer. “Please tell Chef I said it smells delicious.”

Gita set the tray down, stepping back. An enticing swirl of aromas teased Aurelia’s nose—making her mouth water. Her stomach growled traitorously.

No. I’ll drink, but I won’t eat. I refuse to submit like a trained dog.

Gita lingered. “I’ll be in the hall if you need anything, Mrs. Giannopoulos.” She turned, leaving quietly.

Alone again, Aurelia fumed.Let it sit there, uneaten. I don’t care if it’s petty.

By mid-morning, she was climbing the walls. She’d spent the last two days wandering around the house and introducing herself to the household staff, including the guards. There were areas she remembered, like the main living room and kitchen, but her memories of the rest of the house, the rooms she’d only toured when she and her mother moved in, had faded.

Now that she was a little more mature, she noticed every room was crammed with antique furniture, carpets, and artwork that Michalis’s mother and father had brought over from Greece or collected during their marriage. If she didn’t resent being trapped there, she could easily see herself falling in love with the house.Well, I suppose I could check out the east wing today. I don’t think I’ve ever been over there.

With that thought in her mind, she dropped the towel and wiggled back into her dress. She’d begun washing it in the sink at night, along with her panties, then letting them air dry. The alternative was to keep wearing them dirty. As soon as she sawMichalis again, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. If he was going to make her stay there, the least he could do was give her some clothes.And untie me!

The moment she stepped into the hallway, she was blasted with stifling heat, despite the air conditioning. She didn’t let that stop her, focusing on exploring, instead. The walls bore Renaissance-inspired paintings—lush forests, tranquil lakes, Grecian columns. The faint whir of vents provided a monotonous backdrop. She inhaled deeply, taking note of the lemony scent of polished wood, the faint smell of cleaning agents, and a subtle floral perfume that drifted from several large floral arrangements. Every home had a unique smell.Yes, and this one smells like money. Don’t get used to it.

At the corridor’s end, she spotted Darios,a middle-aged guard with a thick mustache and formal bearing. He wore a black suit jacket over a tactical vest, arms folded. As she approached, he dipped his head in a guarded greeting.

She paused, noticing how his mustache twitched as though he wanted to say something but thought better of it. “Morning… ma’am,” he finally muttered, voice gruff.

“Good morning,” she offered stiffly, brushing past him.

An undercurrent of tension swept through every staff member she encountered, from the slightest twitch in their body language to the way they avoided her eyes. Something was going on.

She decided to cut through the breakfast nook where Chef Eliana—a tall, broad-shouldered woman with silver-threaded braids—stood arranging pastries on ornate silver platters. The air was rich with the smell of baking dough, oranges and grapefruit, and freshly brewed coffee, reminding Aurelia she still hadn’t eaten.

The table itself was an expanse of polished mahogany that could seat six people comfortably. She walked in, thenimmediately stopped short. At the table on the far end sat Michalis.

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