by E. L. James
Hannah closes the door, leaving Prescott and me alone.
“Mrs. Grey, Leila Williams is on your proscribed list of visitors.”
“What?” I have a proscribed list?
“On our watch list, ma’am. Taylor and Welch have been quite specific about not letting her come into contact with you.”
I frown, not understanding. “Is she dangerous?”
“I can’t say, ma’am.”
“Why do I even know that she’s here?”
Prescott swallows and for a moment looks awkward. “I was on a restroom break. She came in, spoke directly to Claire, and Claire called Hannah.”
“Oh. I see.” I realize that even Prescott has to pee, and I laugh. “Oh dear.”
“Yes ma’am.” Prescott gives me an embarrassed grin, and it’s the first time I’ve seen a chink in her armor. She has a lovely smile.
“I need to talk to Claire about protocol, again,” she says, her tone weary.
“Sure. Does Taylor know she’s here?” I cross my fingers unconsciously, hoping she hasn’t told Christian.
“I left a brief voice message for him.”
Oh. “Then I only have a short time. I’d like to know what she wants.”
Prescott gazes at me for a moment. “I must advise against it, ma’am.”
“She’s here to see me for a reason.”
“I’m supposed to prevent that, ma’am.” Her voice is soft but resigned.
“I really want to hear what she has to say.” My tone is more forceful than I intend.
Prescott stifles her sigh. “I’d like to search them both before you do.”
“Okay. Can you do that?”
“I’m here to protect you, Mrs. Grey, so yes, I can. I’d also like to stay with you while you talk.”
“Okay.” I’ll grant her this concession. Besides, last time I met Leila, she was armed. “Go ahead.”
Prescott rises.
“Hannah,” I call.
Hannah opens the door too quickly. She must have been hovering outside.
“Can you check to see if the meeting room is free, please?”
“I already have, and it’s good to go.”
“Prescott, can you search them in there? Is it private enough?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes, then. Hannah, show Leila Williams and whomever she’s with into the meeting room.”
“Will do.” Hannah looks anxiously from Prescott to me. “Shall I cancel your next meeting? It’s at four, but it’s across town.”
“Yes,” I murmur, distracted. Hannah nods then leaves.
What the hell does Leila want? I don’t think she’s here to do me any harm. She didn’t in the past when she had the opportunity. Christian is going to go nuts. My subconscious purses her lips, primly crosses her legs, and nods. I need to tell him that I am doing this. I type a quick e-mail, then pause, checking the time. I feel a momentary pang of regret. We’ve been getting along so well since Aspen. I press send.
From: Anastasia Grey
Subject: Visitors
Date: September 6, 2011 15:27
To: Christian Grey
Christian
Leila is here to see me. I will see her with Prescott.
I’ll use my newly acquired slapping skills with my now healed hand, should I need to.
Try, and I mean try, not to worry.
I am a big girl.
Will call once we’ve spoken.
A x
Anastasia Grey
Commissioning Editor, SIP
Hurriedly, I hide my BlackBerry in my desk drawer. I stand, smoothing my gray pencil skirt over my hips, pinch my cheeks to give them some color, and undo the next button on my gray silk blouse. Okay, I’m ready. After taking a deep breath, I head out of my office to meet the infamous Leila ignoring “Your Love is King” humming gently from inside my desk.
Leila looks much better. More than better—she’s very attractive. There’s a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright, her hair clean and shiny. She’s dressed in a pale pink blouse and white pants. She stands as soon as I enter the meeting room, as does her friend—another dark-haired young woman with soft brown eyes, the color of brandy. Prescott hovers in the corner, not taking her eyes off Leila.
“Mrs. Grey, thank you so much for seeing me.” Leila’s voice is soft but clear.
“Um . . . Sorry about the security,” I mutter because I cannot think what else to say. I wave a hand distractedly at Prescott.
“This is my friend, Susi.”
“Hi.” I nod at Susi. She looks like Leila. She looks like me. Oh, no. Another one.
“Yes,” Leila says, as if reading my thoughts. “Susi knows Mr. Grey, too.”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I give her a polite smile.
“Please, sit,” I murmur.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Hannah. I motion her in, knowing full well why she’s disturbing us.
“Sorry to interrupt, Ana. I have Mr. Grey on the line?”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“He was quite insistent,” she says fearfully.
“I am sure he was. Would you apologize to him, and say I’ll call him back very shortly?”
Hannah hesitates.
“Hannah, please.”
She nods and scurries out of the room. I turn back to the two women sitting in front of me. They are both staring at me in awe. It’s uncomfortable.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
Susi speaks. “I know this is all kinds of weird, but I wanted to meet you, too. The woman who captured Chris—”
I hold up my hand, stopping her in mid-sentence. I do not want to hear this. “Um . . . I get the picture,” I mutter.
“We call ourselves the sub club.” She grins at me, her eyes shining with mirth.
Oh my God.
Leila gasps and gapes at Susi, at once amused and appalled. Susi winces. I suspect Leila’s kicked her under the table.
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I glance nervously at Prescott, who remains impassive, her eyes never leaving Leila.
Susi seems to remember herself. She blushes, then nods and stands. “I’ll wait in reception. This is Lulu’s show.” I can tell she’s embarrassed.
Lulu?
“You’ll be okay?” she asks Leila, who smiles up at her. Susi gives me a large, open, genuine smile and exits the room.
Susi and Christian . . . it’s not a thought I wish to dwell on. Prescott takes her phone out of her pocket and answers it. I didn’t hear it ring.
“Mr. Grey,” she says. Leila and I turn to look at her. Prescott closes her eyes as if in pain.
“Yes, sir,” she says, stepping forward, and hands me the phone.
I roll my eyes. “Christian,” I murmur, trying to contain my exasperation. I stand and stride briskly out of the room.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” he shouts. He’s seething.
“Don’t shout at me.”
“What do you mean don’t shout at you?” he shouts, louder this time. “I gave specific instructions which you have completely disregarded—again. Hell, Ana, I am fucking furious.”
“When you are calmer, we will talk about this.”
“Don’t you hang up on me,” he hisses.
“Good-bye, Christian.” I hang up and switch off Prescott’s phone.
Holy shit. I don’t have long with Leila. Taking a deep breath, I reenter the meeting room. Both Leila and Prescott look up at me expectantly, and I hand Prescott her phone.
“Where were we?” I ask Leila as I sit back down opposite her. Her eyes widen slightly.
Yes. Apparently, I handle him, I want to say to her. But I don’t think she wants to hear that.
Leila fiddles nervously with the ends of her hair. “First, I wanted to apologize,” she says softly.
Oh . . .
She glances up and registers my surprise. “Yes,” she says quic
kly. “And to thank you for not pressing charges. You know—for your car and in your apartment.”
“I know you weren’t . . . um, well,” I murmur, reeling. I hadn’t expected an apology.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You’re feeling better now?” I ask gently.
“Much. Thank you.”
“Does your doctor know you’re here?”
She shakes her head.
Oh.
She looks suitably guilty. “I know I’ll have to deal with the fallout for this later. But I had to get some things, and I wanted to see Susi, and you, and . . . Mr. Grey.”
“You want to see Christian?” My stomach free-falls to the floor. That’s why she’s here.
“Yes. I wanted to ask you if that would be okay.”
Holy fuck. I gape at her, and I want to tell her that it’s not okay. I don’t want her anywhere near my husband. Why is she here? To assess the opposition? To unsettle me? Or perhaps she needs this as some sort of closure?
“Leila.” I flounder, exasperated. “It’s not up to me, it’s up to Christian. You’ll need to ask him. He doesn’t need my permission. He’s a grown man . . . most of the time.”
She gazes at me for a fraction of a beat as if surprised by my reaction then laughs softly, nervously twiddling the end of her hair.
“He’s repeatedly refused all my requests to see him,” she says quietly.
Oh shit. I’m in more trouble than I thought.
“Why is it so important for you to see him?” I ask gently.
“To thank him. I’d be rotting in a stinking prison psychiatric facility if it wasn’t for him. I know that.” She glances down and runs her finger along the edge of the table. “I suffered a serious psychotic episode, and without Mr. Grey and John—Dr. Flynn . . .” She shrugs and gazes at me once more, her face full of gratitude.
Once again I’m speechless. What does she expect me to say? Surely she should be saying these things to Christian, not me.
“And for art school. I can’t thank him enough for that.”
I knew it! Christian is funding her classes. I remain expressionless, tentatively exploring my feelings for this woman now that she’s confirmed my suspicions about Christian’s generosity. To my surprise, I feel no ill will toward her. It’s a revelation, and I’m glad she’s better. Now, hopefully, she can move on with her life and out of ours.
“Are you missing classes right now?” I ask, because I’m interested.
“Only two. I head home tomorrow.”
Oh good. “What are your plans, while you’re here?”
“Pick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Grey already has a couple of my paintings.”
What the hell! My stomach plunges into the basement once more. Are they hanging in my living room? I bridle at the thought.
“What sort of painting do you do?”
“Abstracts, mainly.”
“I see.” My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room. Two by his ex-sub . . . possibly. Jeez.
“Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?” she asks, completely oblivious to my warring emotions.
“By all means,” I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she’s relaxed a little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.
“I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year.” Her voice drops to a sad whisper.
Holy shit, she’s getting personal.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn’t heard me.
“I loved my husband . . . and one other,” she murmurs.
“My husband.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Yes.” She mouths the word.
This is not news to me. When she lifts her brown eyes to mine, they are wide with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be apprehension . . . of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to this poor young woman is compassion. Mentally I run through all the classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing hard, I clutch the moral high ground.
“I know. He’s very easy to love,” I whisper.
Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. “Yes. He is—was.” She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I can’t help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. I glance at my watch. Deep down I know Christian will be here soon.
“You’ll get your chance to see Christian.”
“I thought I would. I know how protective he can be.” She smiles.
So this is her scheme. She’s very shrewd. Or manipulative, whispers my subconscious. “This is why you’re here to see me?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” And Christian is playing right into her hands. Reluctantly, I have to acknowledge that she knows him well.
“He seemed very happy. With you,” she says.
What? “How would you know?”
“From when I was in the apartment.” She adds cautiously.
Oh hell . . . how could I forget that?
“Were you there often?”
“No. But he was very different with you.”
Do I want to hear this? A shudder runs through me. My scalp prickles as I recall my fear when she was the unseen shadow in our apartment.
“You know it’s against the law. Trespassing.”
She nods, gazing down at the table. She runs a fingernail along the edge. “It was only a few times, and I was lucky not to get caught. Again, I need to thank Mr. Grey for that. He could have had me thrown in jail.”
“I don’t think he’d do that,” I murmur.
Suddenly there is a flurry of activity outside the meeting room, and instinctively I know that Christian is in the building. A moment later he bursts through the door, and before he closes it, I catch Taylor’s eye as he stands patiently outside. Taylor’s mouth is set in a grim line, and he doesn’t return my tight smile. Oh hell, even he’s mad at me.
Christian’s burning gray gaze pins first me then Leila to our chairs. His demeanor is quietly determined, but I know better, and I suspect Leila does, too. The menacing cool glint in his eyes reveals the truth—he’s emanating rage, though he hides it well. In his gray suit, with his dark tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone, he looks at once businesslike and casual . . . and hot. His hair is in disarray—no doubt because he’s been running his hands through it in exasperation.
Leila looks nervously down at the edge of the table, running her index finger along the edge again as Christian looks from me to her and then to Prescott.
“You,” he says to Prescott in a soft tone. “You’re fired. Get out now.”
I blanch. Oh no—this isn’t fair.
“Christian—” I make to stand up.
He holds his index finger up at me in warning. “Don’t,” he says. His voice so ominously quiet that I’m immediately silenced and rooted to my seat. Bowing her head, Prescott walks briskly out of the room to join Taylor. Christian shuts the door behind her and walks to the edge of the table. Crap! Crap! Crap! That was my fault. Christian stands opposite Leila, and placing both hands on the wooden surface, he leans forward.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls at her.
“Christian!” I gasp. He ignores me.
“Well?” he demands.
Leila peeks up at him through long lashes, her eyes wide, her face ashen, her rosy glow gone.
“I wanted to see you, and you wouldn’t let me,” she whispers.
“So you came here to harass my wife?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
Leila looks down at the table again.
He stands, glowering at her. “Leila, if you come anywhere near my wife again, I will cut off all support. Doctors, art school, medical insurance—all of it—gone. Do you unders
tand?”
“Christian—” I try again. But he silences me with a chilling look. Why is he being so unreasonable? My compassion for this sad woman blooms.
“Yes,” she says, her voice just audible.
“What’s Susannah doing in reception?”
“She came with me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, glaring at her.
“Christian, please,” I beg him. “Leila just wants to say thank you. That’s all.”
He ignores me, concentrating his wrath on Leila. “Did you stay with Susannah while you were sick?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know what you were doing while you were staying with her?”
“No. She was away on vacation.”
He strokes his index finger over his lower lip. “Why do you need to see me? You know you should send any requests through Flynn. Do you need something?” His tone has softened, maybe by a fraction.
Leila runs her finger along the edge of the table again.
Stop bullying her, Christian!
“I had to know.” And for the first time she looks up directly at him.
“Had to know what?” he snaps.
“That you’re okay.”
He gapes at her. “That I’m okay?” he scoffs, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
“I’m fine. There, question answered. Now Taylor will run you to Sea-Tac so you can go back to the East Coast. And if you take one step west of the Mississippi, it’s all gone. Understand?”
Holy fuck . . . Christian! I gape at him. What the fuck is eating him? He cannot confine her to one side of the country.
“Yes. I understand,” Leila says quietly.
“Good.” Christian’s tone is more conciliatory.
“It might not be convenient for Leila to go back now. She has plans,” I object, outraged on her behalf.
Christian glares at me. “Anastasia,” he warns, his voice icy, “this does not concern you.”
I scowl at him. Of course it concerns me. She’s in my office. There must be more to this than I know. He’s not being rational.
Fifty Shades, my subconscious hisses at me.
“Leila came to see me, not you,” I murmur petulantly.
Leila turns to me, her eyes impossibly wide.
“I had my instructions, Mrs. Grey. I disobeyed them.” She glances nervously at my husband, then back at me.
