by E. L. James
Christian stirs and rolls over, pulling his legs up from the side of the bed, and curls up beneath the duvet. He stretches out a hand as if searching for something, then grumbles and frowns but settles back to sleep, his arm outstretched.
Oh, Fifty. What am I going to do with you? And what the hell were you doing with the Bitch Troll? I need to know.
I glance once more at the offending text and quickly hatch a plan. Taking a deep breath, I forward the text to my BlackBerry. Step one complete. I quickly check the other recent texts, but can only see messages from Elliot, Andrea, Taylor, Ros, and me. None from Elena. Good, I think. I exit the text screen, relieved that he hasn’t been texting her, and my heart lurches into my throat. Oh my. The wallpaper on his phone is photograph upon photograph of me, a patchwork of tiny Anastasias in various poses—our honeymoon, our recent weekend sailing and soaring, and a few of José’s photos, too. When did he do this? It must have been recently.
I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I could read Christian’s e-mails. See if he’s been talking to her. Should I? Sheathed in jade-green silk, my inner goddess nods emphatically, her mouth set in a scowl. Before I can stop myself, I invade his privacy.
There are hundreds and hundreds of e-mails. I spin down through them, and they look dull as ditchwater . . . mostly from Ros, Andrea and me, and various executives in his company. None from Bitch Troll. While I’m at it, I’m relieved to see there are none from Leila either.
One e-mail catches my eye. It’s from Barney Sullivan, Christian’s IT guy, and the subject line is: Jack Hyde. I glance guiltily at Christian, but he’s still snoring gently. I’ve never heard him snore. I open the e-mail.
From: Barney Sullivan
Subject: Jack Hyde
Date: September 13, 2011 14:09
To: Christian Grey
CCTV around Seattle tracks the white van from South Irving Street. Before that I can find no trace, so Hyde must have been based in that area.
As Welch has told you the unsub car was rented with a false license by an unknown female, though nothing that ties it to the South Irving Street area.
Details of known GEH and SIP employees who live in the area are in the attached file, which I have forwarded to Welch, too.
There was nothing on Hyde’s SIP computer about his former PAs.
As a reminder, here is a list of what was retrieved from Hyde’s SIP computer.
Greys’ Home Addresses:
Five properties in Seattle
Two properties in Detroit
Detailed Resumés for:
Carrick Grey
Elliot Grey
Christian Grey
Dr. Grace Trevelyan
Anastasia Steele
Mia Grey
Newspaper and online articles relating to:
Dr. Grace Trevelyan
Carrick Grey
Christian Grey
Elliot Grey
Photographs:
Carrick Grey
Dr. Grace Trevelyan
Christian Grey
Elliot Grey
Mia Grey
I’ll continue my investigation, see what else I can find.
B Sullivan
Head of IT, GEH
This odd e-mail momentarily sidetracks me from my night of woe. I click on the attachment to check through the names on the list, but it’s obviously huge, too big to open on the BlackBerry.
What am I doing? It’s late. I’ve had a tiring day. There are no e-mails from the Bitch Troll or Leila Williams, and I take some cold comfort from that. I glance quickly at the alarm clock: it’s just after two in the morning. Today has been a day of revelations. I am to be a mother, and my husband has been fraternizing with the enemy. Well, let him stew. I am not sleeping here with him. He can wake up alone tomorrow. After placing his BlackBerry on the bedside table, I retrieve my purse from beside the bed and, after one last look at my angelic, sleeping Judas, I leave the bedroom.
The spare playroom key is in its usual place in the cabinet in the utility room. I grab it and scoot upstairs. From the linen closet, I retrieve a pillow, duvet and sheet, then unlock the playroom door and enter, switching the lights to dim. Odd that I find the smell and ambience of this room so comforting, considering I safe worded the last time we were in here. I lock the door behind me, leaving the key in the lock. I know that tomorrow morning Christian will be frantic to find me, and I don’t think he’ll look in here if the door’s locked. Well, it will serve him right.
I curl up on the Chesterfield couch, wrap myself in the duvet and drag my BlackBerry from my purse. Checking my texts, I find the one from the evil Bitch Troll that I forwarded from Christian’s phone. I press FORWARD and type:
*WOULD YOU LIKE MRS. LINCOLN TO JOIN US WHEN WE EVENTUALLY DISCUSS THIS TEXT SHE SENT TO YOU? IT WILL SAVE YOU RUNNING TO HER AFTERWARD. YOUR WIFE*
I press SEND and switch the volume to mute. I huddle under my duvet. For all my bravado, I’m overwhelmed by the enormity of Christian’s deceit. This should be a happy time. Jeez, we’re going to be parents. Briefly, I relive telling Christian that I’m pregnant and fantasize that he falls to his knees with joy in front of me, pulling me into his arms and telling me how much he loves me and our Little Blip.
Yet here I am, alone and cold in a BDSM fantasy playroom. Suddenly I feel old, older than my years. Taking on Christian was always going to be a challenge, but he really has surpassed himself this time. What was he thinking? Well, if he wants a fight, I’ll give him a fight. No way am I going to let him get away with running off to see that monstrous woman whenever we have a problem. He’s going to have to choose—her or me and our Little Blip. I sniffle softly, but because I’m so exhausted, I soon fall asleep.
I wake with a start, momentarily disorientated . . . Oh yes—I’m in the playroom. Because there are no windows, I have no idea what time it is. The door handle rattles.
“Ana!” Christian shouts from outside the door. I freeze, but he doesn’t come in. I hear muffled voices, but they move away. I exhale and check the time on my BlackBerry. It’s seven fifty, and I have four missed calls and two voice messages. The missed calls are mostly from Christian, but there’s also one from Kate. Oh, no. He must have called her. I don’t have time to listen to them. I don’t want to be late for work.
I wrap the duvet around me and pick up my purse before making my way to the door. Unlocking it slowly, I peek outside. No sign of anyone. Oh shit . . . Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic. I roll my eyes at myself, take a deep breath, and head downstairs.
Taylor, Sawyer, Ryan, Mrs. Jones, and Christian are all standing in the entrance to the great room, and Christian is issuing rapid-fire instructions. As one they all turn and gape at me. Christian is still wearing the clothes he slept in last night. He looks disheveled, pale, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. His large gray eyes are wide, and I don’t know if he’s fearful or angry. It’s difficult to tell.
“Sawyer, I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes,” I mutter, wrapping the duvet tighter around me for protection.
He nods, and all eyes turn to Christian, who is still staring intensely at me.
“Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?” Mrs. Jones asks. I shake my head.
“I’m not hungry, thank you.” She purses her lips but says nothing.
“Where were you?” Christian asks, his voice low and husky. Suddenly Sawyer, Taylor, Ryan and Mrs. Jones scatter, scurrying into Taylor’s office, into the foyer, and into the kitchen like terrified rats from a sinking ship.
I ignore Christian and march toward our bedroom.
“Ana,” he calls after me, “answer me.” I hear his footsteps behind me as I walk into the bedroom and continue into our bathroom. Quickly, I lock the door.
“Ana!” Christian pounds on the door. I turn on the shower. The door rattles. “Ana, open the damned door.”
“Go away!”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Suit yourself.
”
“Ana, please.”
I climb into the shower, effectively blocking him out. Oh, it’s warm. The healing water cascades over me, cleansing the exhaustion of the night off my skin. Oh my. This feels so good. For a moment, for one short moment, I can pretend all is well. I wash my hair and by the time I’ve finished, I feel better, stronger, ready to face the freight train that is Christian Grey. I wrap my hair in a towel, briskly dry myself with another towel, and wrap it around me.
I unlock the door and open it and find Christian is leaning against the wall opposite, his hands behind his back. His expression is wary, that of a hunted predator. I stride past him and into our walk-in closet.
“Are you ignoring me?” Christian asks in disbelief as he stands on the threshold of the closet.
“Perceptive, aren’t you?” I murmur absentmindedly as I search for something to wear. Ah, yes—my plum dress. I slide it off the hanger, choose my high black stiletto boots, and head for the bedroom. I pause for Christian to step out of my way, which he does, eventually—his intrinsic good manners taking over. I sense his eyes boring into me as I walk over to my chest of drawers, and I peek at him in the mirror, standing motionless in the doorway, watching me. In an act worthy of an Oscar winner, I let my towel fall to the floor and pretend that I am oblivious to my naked body. I hear his restrained gasp and ignore it.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is low.
“Why do you think?” My voice is velvet soft as I pull out a pretty pair of black lace La Perla panties.
“Ana—” He stops as I shimmy into them.
“Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I’m sure she’ll have an explanation for you,” I mutter as I search for the matching bra.
“Ana, I’ve told you before, she’s not my—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Christian.” I wave my hand dismissively. “The time for talking was yesterday, but instead you decided to rant and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call. I am sure she’ll be more than willing to listen to you now.” I find the matching bra and slowly pull it on and fasten it. Christian walks further into the bedroom and places his hands on his hips.
“Why were you snooping on me?” he says.
In spite of my resolve I flush. “That’s not the point, Christian,” I snap at him. “Fact is, going gets tough and you run to her.”
His mouth settles into a grim line. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I’m not interested.” Picking a pair of black thigh-highs with lacey tops, I retreat to the bed. I sit, point my toe, and gently ease the gossamer material up to my thigh.
“Where were you?” he asks, his eyes following my hands up my legs, but I continue to ignore him as I slowly roll on the other stocking. Standing, I bend to towel-dry my hair. Through my parted thighs, I can see his bare feet, and I sense his intense gaze. When I’ve finished, I stand and step back to the chest of drawers where I grab my hairdryer.
“Answer me.” Christian’s voice is low and husky.
I switch on the hairdryer so I can no longer hear him and watch him through my lashes in the mirror as I finger dry my hair. He glares at me, eyes narrow and cool, chilling even. I look away, focusing on the task at hand and trying to suppress the shiver that runs through me. I swallow hard and concentrate on drying my hair. He’s still mad. He goes out with that damned woman, and he’s mad at me? How dare he! When my hair looks wild and untamed, I stop. Yes . . . I like it. I switch off the hairdryer.
“Where were you?” he whispers, his tone arctic.
“What do you care?”
“Ana, stop this. Now.”
I shrug, and Christian moves quickly across the room toward me. I whirl around, stepping back as he reaches out.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss and he freezes.
“Where were you?” he demands. His hands fist at his side.
“I wasn’t out getting drunk with my ex,” I seethe. “Did you sleep with her?”
He gasps. “What? No!” He gapes at me and has the gall to look wounded and angry at the same time. My subconscious breathes a small, welcome sigh of relief.
“You think I’d cheat on you?” His tone is one of moral outrage.
“You did,” I snarl. “By taking our very private life and spilling your spineless guts to that woman.”
His mouth drops open. “Spineless. That’s what you think?” His eyes blaze.
“Christian, I saw the text. That’s what I know.”
“That text was not meant for you,” he growls.
“Well, fact is I saw it when your BlackBerry fell out of your jacket while I was undressing you because you were too drunk to undress yourself. Do you have any idea how much you’ve hurt me by going to see that woman?”
He pales momentarily, but I’m on a roll, my inner bitch unleashed.
“Do you remember last night when you came home? Remember what you said?”
He stares at me blankly, his face frozen.
“Well, you were right. I do choose this defenseless baby over you. That’s what any loving parent does. That’s what your mother should have done for you. And I am sorry that she didn’t—because we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now if she had. But you’re an adult now—you need to grow up and smell the fucking coffee and stop behaving like a petulant adolescent.
“You may not be happy about this baby. I’m not ecstatic, given the timing and your less-than-lukewarm reception to this new life, this flesh of your flesh. But you can either do this with me, or I’ll do it on my own. The decision is yours.
“While you wallow in your pit of self-pity and self-loathing, I’m going to work. And when I return I’ll be moving my belongings to the room upstairs.”
He blinks at me, shocked.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish getting dressed.” I am breathing hard.
Very slowly, Christian retreats one step, his demeanor hardening. “Is that what you want?” he whispers.
“I don’t know what I want any more.” My tone mirrors his, and it takes a monumental effort to feign disinterest while I casually dip the tips of my fingers into my moisturizer and smooth it gently over my face. I peer at myself in the mirror. Blue eyes wide, face pale, but cheeks flushed. You’re doing great. Don’t back down now. Don’t back down now.
“You don’t want me?” he whispers.
Oh—no . . . oh no you don’t, Grey.
“I’m still here aren’t I?” I snap. Taking my mascara, I apply some first to my right eye.
“You’ve thought about leaving?” His words are barely audible.
“When one’s husband prefers the company of his ex-mistress, it’s usually not a good sign.” I pitch the disdain at just the right level, evading his question. Lip gloss now. I pout my shiny lips at the image in the mirror. Stay strong, Steele . . . um—Grey. Holy fuck, I can’t even remember my name. I pick up my boots, stride over to the bed once more, and quickly put them on, tugging them up over my knees. Yep. I look hot just in underwear and boots. I know. Standing, I gaze dispassionately at him. He blinks at me, and his eyes travel swiftly and greedily down my body.
“I know what you’re doing here,” he murmurs, and his voice has acquired a warm, seductive edge.
“Do you?” And my voice cracks. No, Ana . . . hold on.
He swallows and takes a step forward. I step back and hold my hands up.
“Don’t even think about it, Grey,” I whisper menacingly.
“You’re my wife,” he says softly, threateningly.
“I’m the pregnant woman you abandoned yesterday, and if you touch me I will scream the place down.”
His eyebrows rise in disbelief. “You’d scream?”
“Bloody murder.” I narrow my eyes.
“No one would hear you,” he murmurs, his gaze intense, and briefly I’m reminded of our morning in Aspen. No. No. No.
“Are you trying to frighten me?” I mutter breathless, deliberately trying to derail him
.
It works. He stills and swallows. “That wasn’t my intention.” He frowns.
I can barely breathe. If he touches me, I will succumb. I know the power he wields over me and over my traitorous body. I know. I hang on to my anger.
“I had a drink with someone I used to be close to. We cleared the air. I am not going to see her again.”
“You sought her out?”
“Not at first. I tried to see Flynn. But I found myself at the salon.”
“And you expect me to believe you’re not going to see her again?” I cannot contain my fury as I hiss at him. “What about the next time I step across some imaginary line? This is the same argument we have over and over again. Like we’re on some Ixion’s wheel. If I fuck up again, are you going to run back to her?”
“I am not going to see her again,” he says with a chilling finality. “She finally understands how I feel.”
I blink at him. “What does that mean?”
He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, exasperated and angry and mute. I try a different tack.
“Why can you talk to her and not to me?”
“I was mad at you. Like I am now.”
“You don’t say!” I snap. “Well I am mad at you right now. Mad at you for being so cold and callous yesterday when I needed you. Mad at you for saying I got knocked up deliberately, when I didn’t. Mad at you for betraying me.” I manage to suppress a sob. His mouth drops open in shock, and he closes his eyes briefly as if I’d slapped him. I swallow. Calm down, Anastasia.
“I should have kept better track of my shots. But I didn’t do it on purpose. This pregnancy is a shock to me, too.” I mutter, trying for a modicum of civility. “It could be that the shot failed.”
He glares at me, silent.
“You really fucked up yesterday,” I whisper, my anger boiling over. “I’ve had a lot to deal with over the last few weeks.”
“You really fucked up three or four weeks ago. Or whenever you forgot your shot.”
“Well, God forbid I should be perfect like you!”
Oh stop, stop, stop. We stand glowering at each other.
“This is quite a performance, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers.
“Well, I’m glad that even knocked up I’m entertaining.”
