by E. L. James
He stares at me blankly. “I need a shower,” he murmurs.
“And I’ve provided enough of a floor show.”
“It’s a mighty fine floor show,” he whispers. He steps forward, and I step back again.
“Don’t.”
“I hate that you won’t let me touch you.”
“Ironic, huh?”
His eyes narrow once more. “We haven’t resolved much, have we?”
“I’d say not. Except that I’m moving out of this bedroom.”
His eyes flare and widen briefly. “She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Except when you need her.”
“I don’t need her. I need you.”
“You didn’t yesterday. That woman is a hard limit for me, Christian.”
“She’s out of my life.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ana.”
“Please let me get dressed.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair once more. “I’ll see you this evening,” he says, his voice bleak and devoid of feeling. And for a brief moment I want to take him in my arms and soothe him . . . but I resist because I’m just too mad. He turns and heads for the bathroom. I stand frozen until I hear the door close.
I stagger to the bed and flop down on to it. My inner goddess and my subconscious are both giving me a standing ovation. I did not resort to tears, shouting, or murder, nor did I succumb to his sexpertise. I deserve a Congressional Medal of Honor, but I feel so low. Shit. We resolved nothing. We’re on the edge of a precipice. Is our marriage is at stake here? Why can’t he see what a complete and utter ass he’s been running to that woman? And what does he mean when he says he’ll never see her again? How on earth am I supposed to believe that? I glance at the radio alarm—eight thirty. Shit! I’ll don’t want to be late. I take a deep breath.
“Round Two was a stalemate, Little Blip,” I whisper, patting my belly. “Daddy may be a lost cause, but I hope not. Why, oh why, did you come so early, Little Blip? Things were just getting good.” My lip trembles, but I take a deep cleansing breath and bring my rolling emotions under control.
“Come on. Let’s go kick ass at work.”
I don’t say good-bye to Christian. He’s still in the shower when Sawyer and I leave. As I gaze out of the darkened windows of the SUV, my composure slips and my eyes water. My mood is reflected in the gray, dreary sky, and I feel a strange sense of foreboding. We didn’t actually discuss the baby. I have had less than twenty-four hours to assimilate the news of Little Blip. Christian has had even less time. “He doesn’t even know your name.” I caress my belly and wipe tears from my face.
“Mrs. Grey.” Sawyer interrupts my reverie. “We’re here.”
“Oh. Thanks, Sawyer.”
“I’m going to make a run to the deli, ma’am. Can I get you anything?”
“No. Thank you, no. I’m not hungry.”
Hannah has my latte waiting for me. I take one sniff of it and my stomach roils.
“Um . . .can I have tea, please?” I mutter, embarrassed. I knew there was a reason I never really liked coffee. Jeez, it smells foul.
“You okay, Ana?”
I nod and scurry into the safety of my office. My BlackBerry buzzes. It’s Kate.
“Why was Christian looking for you?” she asks with no preamble at all.
“Good morning, Kate. How are you?”
“Cut the crap, Steele. What gives?” The Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition begins.
“Christian and I had a fight, that’s all.”
“Did he hurt you?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, but not the way you’re thinking.” I cannot deal with Kate at the moment. I know I will cry, and right now I am so proud of myself for not breaking down this morning. “Kate, I have a meeting. I’ll call you back.”
“Good. You’re all right?”
“Yes.” No. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay, Ana, have it your own way. I’m here for you.”
“I know,” I whisper and fight the backlash of emotion at her kind words. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry.
“Ray okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper the word.
“Oh, Ana,” she whispers.
“Don’t.”
“Okay. Talk later.”
“Yes.”
During the course of the morning, I sporadically check my e-mails, hoping for word from Christian. But there’s nothing. As the day wears on, I realize that he’s not going to contact me at all and that he’s still mad. Well, I’m still mad, too. I throw myself into my work, pausing only at lunchtime for a cream cheese and salmon bagel. It’s extraordinary how much better I feel once I’ve eaten something.
At five o’clock Sawyer and I set off for the hospital to see Ray. Sawyer is extra vigilant, and even oversolicitous. It’s irritating. As we approach Ray’s room, he hovers over me.
“Shall I get you some tea while you visit with your father?” he asks.
“No thanks, Sawyer. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait outside.” He opens the door for me, and I’m grateful to get away from him for a moment. Ray is sitting up in bed reading a magazine. He’s shaved, wearing a pajama top—he looks like his old self.
“Hey, Annie.” He grins. And his face falls.
“Oh, Daddy . . .” I rush to his side, and in a very uncharacteristic move, he opens his arms wide and hugs me.
“Annie?” he whispers. “What is it?” He holds me tight and kisses my hair. As I’m in his arms, I realize how rare these moments between us have been. Why is that? Is that why I like to crawl into Christian’s lap? After a moment, I pull away from him and sit down in the chair beside the bed. Ray’s brow is furrowed with concern.
“Tell your old man.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t need my problems right now.
“It’s nothing, Dad. You look well.” I clasp his hand.
“Feeling more like myself, though this leg in a cast is bitchin’.”
“Bitchin’?” His word prompts my smile.
He smiles back. “Bitchin’ sounds better than itchin’.”
“Oh, Dad, I am so glad you’re okay.”
“Me, too, Annie. I’d like to bounce some grandchildren on this bitchin’ knee one day. Wouldn’t want to miss that for the world.”
I blink at him. Shit. Does he know? And I fight the tears that prick the corners of my eyes.
“You and Christian getting along?”
“We had a fight,” I whisper, trying to speak past the knot in my throat. “We’ll work it out.”
He nods. “He’s a fine man, your husband,” Ray says reassuringly.
“He has his moments. What did the doctors say?” I don’t want to talk about my husband right now; he’s a painful topic of conversation.
Back at Escala, Christian is not home.
“Christian called and said that he’d be working late,” Mrs. Jones informs me apologetically.
“Oh. Thanks for letting me know.” Why couldn’t he tell me? Jeez, he really is taking his sulk to a whole new level. I am briefly reminded of the fight over our wedding vows and the major tantrum he had then. But I’m the aggrieved one here.
“What would you like to eat?” Mrs. Jones has a determined, steely glint in her eye.
“Pasta.”
She smiles. “Spaghetti, penne, fusilli?”
“Spaghetti, your Bolognese.”
“Coming up. And Ana . . . you should know Mr. Grey was frantic this morning when he thought you’d left. He was beside himself.” She smiles fondly.
Oh . . .
He’s still not home by nine. I am sitting at my desk in the library, wondering where he is. I call him.
“Ana,” he says, his voice cool.
“Hi.”
He inhales softly. “Hi,” he says, his voice lower.
“Are you coming home?”
“Later.”
“Are you in the of
fice?”
“Yes. Where did you expect me to be?”
With her. “I’ll let you go.”
We both hang on the line, the silence stretching and tightening between us.
“Goodnight, Ana,” he says eventually.
“Goodnight, Christian.”
He hangs up.
Oh shit. I gaze at my BlackBerry. I don’t know what he expects me to do. I’m not going to let him walk all over me. Yes, he’s mad, fair enough. I’m mad. But we are where we are. I haven’t run off loose-lipped to my ex-paedo lover. I want him to acknowledge that that is not an acceptable way to behave.
I sit back in my chair, gazing at the billiard table in the library, and recall fun times playing snooker. I place my hand on my belly. Maybe it’s just too early. Maybe this is not meant to be . . . And even as I think that, my subconscious is screaming no! If I terminate this pregnancy, I will never forgive myself—or Christian. “Oh, Blip, what have you done to us?” I can’t face talking to Kate. I can’t face talking to anyone. I text her, promising to call soon.
By eleven, I can no longer keep my eyelids open. Resigned, I head up to my old room. Curling up beneath the duvet, I finally let myself go, sobbing into my pillow, great heaving unladylike sobs of grief . . .
My head is heavy when I wake. Crisp fall light shines through the great windows of my room. Glancing at my alarm I see it’s seven thirty. My immediate thought is where’s Christian? I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. On the floor beside the bed is Christian’s silver-gray tie, my favorite. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night. I pick it up and stare at it, caressing the silky material between my thumbs and forefingers, then hug it against my cheek. He was here, watching me sleep. And a glimmer of hope sparks deep inside me.
Mrs. Jones is busy in the kitchen when I arrive downstairs.
“Good morning,” she says brightly.
“Morning. Christian?” I ask.
Her face falls. “He’s already left.”
“So he did come home?” I need to check, even though I have his tie as evidence.
“He did,” she pauses, “Ana, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, but don’t give up on him. He’s a stubborn man.”
I nod and she stops. I’m sure my expression tells her I do not want to discuss my errant husband right now.
When I arrive at work, I check my e-mails. My heart leaps into overdrive when I see there’s one from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Portland
Date: September 15, 2011 06:45
To: Anastasia Grey
Ana,
I am flying down to Portland today.
I have some business to conclude with WSU.
I thought you would want to know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Oh. Tears prick my eyes. That’s it? My stomach flips. Shit! I am going to be sick. I race to the powder room and make it just in time, depositing my breakfast into the toilet. I sink to the floor of the cubicle and put my head in my hands. Could I be any more miserable? After a while, there’s a gentle knock on the door.
“Ana?” It’s Hannah.
Fuck. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Boyce Fox is here to see you.”
Shit. “Show him into the meeting room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Do you want some tea?”
“Please.”
After my lunch—another cream cheese and salmon bagel, which I manage to keep down—I sit staring listlessly at my computer, looking for inspiration and wondering how Christian and I are going to resolve this huge problem.
My BlackBerry buzzes, making me jump. I glance at the screen—it’s Mia. Jeez, that’s all I need, her gushing and enthusiasm. I hesitate, wondering if I could just ignore it, but courtesy wins out.
“Mia,” I answer brightly.
“Well, hello there, Ana—long time no speak.” The male voice is familiar. Fuck!
My scalp prickles and all the hair on my body stands to attention as adrenaline floods through my system and my world stops spinning.
It’s Jack Hyde.
“Jack.” My voice has disappeared, choked by fear. How is he out of jail? Why does he have Mia’s phone? The blood drains from my face, and I feel dizzy.
“You do remember me,” he says, his tone soft. I sense his bitter smile.
“Yes. Of course.” My answer is automatic as my mind races.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you.”
“Yes.”
Hang up.
“Don’t hang up. I’ve been having a chat with your little sister-in-law.”
What? Mia! No! “What have you done?” I whisper, trying to quell my fear.
“Listen here, you prick-teasing, gold-digging whore. You fucked up my life. Grey fucked up my life. You owe me. I have the little bitch with me now. And you, that cock-sucker you married, and his whole fucking family are going to pay.”
Hyde’s contempt and bile shock me. His family? What the hell?
“What do you want?”
“I want his money. I really want his fucking money. If things had been different, it could have been me. So you’re going to get it for me. I want five million dollars, today.”
“Jack, I don’t have access to that kind of money.”
He snorts his derision. “You have two hours to get it. That’s it—two hours. Tell no one or this little bitch gets it. Not the cops. Not your prick of a husband. Not his security team. I will know if you do. Understand?” He pauses and I try to respond, but panic and fear seal my throat.
“You understand!” he shouts.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Or I will kill her.”
I gasp.
“Keep your phone with you. Tell no one or I’ll fuck her up before I kill her. You have two hours.”
“Jack, I need longer. Three hours. How do I know that you have her?”
The line goes dead. I gape in horror at the phone, my mouth parched with fear, leaving the nasty metallic taste of terror. Mia, he has Mia. Or does he? My mind whirrs at the obscene possibility, and my stomach roils again. I think I’m going to be sick, but I inhale deeply, trying to steady my panic, and the nausea passes. My mind rockets through the possibilities. Tell Christian? Tell Taylor? Call the police? How will Jack know? Does he actually have Mia? I need time, time to think—but I can only accomplish that by following his instructions. I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Hannah, I have to go out. I am not sure how long I’ll be. Cancel my appointments this afternoon. Let Elizabeth know I have to deal with an emergency.”
“Sure, Ana. Everything okay?” Hannah frowns, concern etched on her face as she watches me flee.
“Yes,” I call back distractedly, hurrying toward reception where Sawyer is waiting.
“Sawyer.” He leaps up from the armchair at the sound of my voice, and frowns when he sees my face.
“I’m not feeling well. Please take me home.”
“Sure, ma’am. Do you want to wait here while I get the car?”
“No, I’ll come with you. I’m in a hurry to get home.”
I gaze out the window in stark terror as I go over my plan. Get home. Change. Find checkbook. Escape from Ryan and Sawyer somehow. Go to bank. Hell, how much room does five million dollars take up? What will it weigh? Will I need a suitcase? Should I telephone the bank in advance? Mia. Mia. What if he doesn’t have Mia? How can I check? If I call Grace it will raise her suspicions, and possibly endanger Mia. He said he would know. I glance out the back window of the SUV. Am I being followed? My heart races as I examine the cars following us. They look innocuous enough. Oh, Sawyer, drive faster. Please. My eyes flicker to meet his in the rearview mirror and his brow creases.
Sawyer presses a button on his Bluetooth headset to answer a call. “T . . . I wanted to let you know Mrs. Grey is w
ith me.” Sawyer’s eyes meet mine once more before he looks back at the road and continues. “She’s unwell. I’m taking her back to Escala . . . I see . . . Sir.” Sawyer’s eyes flick from the road to mine in the rearview mirror again. “Yes,” he agrees and hangs up.
“Taylor?” I whisper.
He nods.
“He’s with Mr. Grey?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer’s look softens in sympathy.
“Are they still in Portland?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Good. I have to keep Christian safe. My hand strays down to my belly, and I rub it consciously. And you, Little Blip. Keep you both safe.
“Can we hurry please? I’m not feeling well.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer presses the accelerator and our car glides through the traffic.
Mrs. Jones is nowhere to be seen when Sawyer and I arrive at the apartment. Since her car is missing from the garage, I assume she’s running errands with Ryan. Sawyer heads for Taylor’s office while I bolt to Christian’s study. Stumbling in panic around his desk, I wrench open the drawer to find the checkbooks. Leila’s gun slides forward into view. I feel an incongruous twinge of annoyance that Christian has not secured this weapon. He knows nothing about guns. Jeez, he could get hurt.
After a moment’s hesitation, I grab the pistol, check to ensure it’s loaded, and tuck it into the waistband of my black slacks. I may need it. I swallow hard. I’ve only ever practiced on targets. I’ve never fired a gun at anyone; I hope Ray will forgive me. I turn my attention to tracking down the right checkbook. There are five, and only one is in the names of C. Grey and Mrs. A. Grey. I have about fifty-four thousand dollars in my own account. I have no idea how much money is in this one. But Christian must be good for five million dollars, surely. Perhaps there’s money in the safe? Crap. I have no idea of the number. Didn’t he mention the combination was it his filing cabinet? I try the cabinet, but it’s locked. Shit. I’ll have to stick to plan A.
I take a deep breath and, in a more composed but determined manner, stride to our bedroom. The bed has been made, and for a moment, I feel a pang. Perhaps I should have slept here last night. What is the point of arguing with someone who, by their own admission, is Fifty Shades? He’s not even talking to me now. No—I do not have time to think about this.
