Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed

by E. L. James

  “Why is it so important to you?” I ask, desperately trying to hold on to my fraying temper. I look up at his impassive stare, his eyes luminous, giving nothing away, his earlier hurt now hidden. But even as I ask the question, deep down I know the answer before he says it.

  “I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

  “I am yours—look.” I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding and engagement rings.

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Not enough that I married you?” My voice is barely a whisper.

  He blinks, registering the horror on my face. Where can I go from here? What else can I do?

  “That’s not what I mean,” he snaps and runs a hand through his overlong hair so that it flops onto his forehead.

  “What do you mean?”

  He swallows. “I want your world to begin and end with me,” he says, his expression raw. His comment completely derails me. It’s like he’s punched me hard in the stomach, winding and wounding me. And the vision comes to mind of a small, frightened, copper-haired, gray-eyed boy in dirty, mismatched, ill-fitting clothes.

  “It does,” I say without guile, because it’s the truth. “I’m just trying to establish a career, and I don’t want to trade on your name. I have to do something, Christian. I can’t stay imprisoned at Escala or the new house with nothing to do. I’ll go crazy. I’ll suffocate. I’ve always worked, and I enjoy this. This is my dream job; it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But doing this doesn’t mean I love you less. You are the world to me.” My throat swells and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I must not cry, not here. I repeat it over and over in my head. I must not cry. I must not cry.

  He stares at me, saying nothing. Then a frown crosses his face as if he’s considering what I’ve said.

  “I suffocate you?” His voice is bleak, and it’s an echo of a question he’s asked me before.

  “No … yes … no.” This is such an exasperating conversation—not one that I want to have now, here. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, trying to fathom how we got to this.

  “Look, we were talking about my name. I want to keep my name here because I want to put some distance between you and me … but only here, that’s all. You know everyone thinks I got the job because of you, when the reality is—” I stop when his eyes widen. Oh no … it is because of him?

  “Do you want to know why you got the job, Anastasia?”

  Anastasia? Shit. “What? What do you mean?”

  He shifts in his chair as if steeling himself. Do I want to know?

  “The management here gave you Hyde’s job to babysit. They didn’t want the expense of hiring a senior executive when the company was mid-sale. They had no idea what the new owner would do with it once it passed into his ownership, and wisely, they didn’t want an expensive redundancy. So they gave you Hyde’s job to caretake until the new owner”—he pauses, and his lips twitch in an ironic smile—“namely me, took over.”

  Holy crap! “What are you saying?” So it was because of him. Fuck! I’m horrified.

  He smiles and shakes his head at my alarm. “Relax. You’ve more than risen to the challenge. You’ve done very well.” There’s the tiniest hint of pride in his voice, and it’s almost my undoing.

  “Oh,” I murmur incoherently, reeling from this news. I sit right back in my chair, open-mouthed, staring at him. He shifts again.

  “I don’t want to suffocate you, Ana. I don’t want to put you in a gilded cage. Well …” He pauses, his face darkening. “Well, the rational part of me doesn’t.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully as his mind concocts some plan.

  Oh, where is he going with this? Christian looks up suddenly, as if he’s had a eureka moment. “So one of the reasons I’m here—apart from dealing with my errant wife,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “is to discuss what I am going to do with this company.”

  Errant wife! I am not errant, and I’m not an asset! I scowl at Christian again and the threat of tears subsides.

  “So what are your plans?” I incline my head to one side, mirroring him, and I can’t help my sarcastic tone. His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. Whoa—change of mood, again! How can I ever keep up with Mr. Mercurial?

  “I’m changing the name of the company—to Grey Publishing.”

  Holy shit.

  “And in a year’s time, it will be yours.”

  My mouth drops open once more—wider this time.

  “This is my wedding present to you.”

  I shut my mouth then open it, trying to articulate something—but there’s nothing there. My mind is blank.

  “So, do I need to change the name to Steele Publishing?”

  He’s serious. Holy fuck.

  “Christian,” I whisper when my brain finally reconnects with my mouth. “You gave me a watch … I can’t run a business.”

  He tilts his head to one side and gives me a censorious frown. “I ran my own business from the age of twenty-one.”

  “But you’re … you. Control freak and whiz-kid extraordinaire. Jeez, Christian, you majored in economics at Harvard before you dropped out. At least you have some idea. I sold paint and cable ties for three years on a part-time basis, for heaven’s sake. I’ve seen so little of the world, and I know next to nothing!” My voice rises, growing louder and higher, as I complete my tirade.

  “You’re also the most well-read person I know,” he counters earnestly. “You love a good book. You couldn’t leave your job while we were on our honeymoon. You read how many manuscripts? Four?”

  “Five,” I whisper.

  “And you wrote full reports on all of them. You’re a very bright woman, Anastasia. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Crazy for you,” he whispers.

  And I snort because it’s the only expression I can manage. He narrows his eyes.

  “You’ll be a laughingstock. Buying a company for the little woman, who has only had a full-time job for a few months of her adult life.”

  “Do you think I give a fuck what people think? Besides, you won’t be on your own.”

  I gape at him. He really has lost his marbles this time. “Christian, I …” I put my head in my hands—my emotions have been through a wringer. Is he crazy? And from somewhere dark and deep inside I have the sudden, inappropriate need to laugh. When I look up at him again, his eyes widen.

  “Something amusing you, Ms. Steele?”

  “Yes. You.”

  His eyes widen further, shocked but also amused. “Laughing at your husband? That will never do. And you’re biting your lip.” His eyes darken … in that way. Oh no—I know that look. Sultry, seductive, salacious … No, no, no! Not here.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warn, alarm clear in my voice.

  “Think about what, Anastasia?”

  “I know that look. We’re at work.”

  He leans forward, his eyes glued to mine, molten gray and hungry. Holy shit! I swallow instinctively.

  “We’re in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a lockable door,” he whispers.

  “Gross moral turpitude.” I enunciate each word carefully.

  “Not with your husband.”

  “With my boss’s boss’s boss,” I hiss.

  “You’re my wife.”

  “Christian, no. I mean it. You can fuck me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!”

  He blinks and narrows his eyes once more. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

  “Seven shades of Sunday?” He arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “I may hold you to that, Ms. Steele.”

  “Oh, stop with the Ms. Steele!” I snap and thump the desk, startling us both. “For heaven’s sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I’ll change my name!”

  His mouth pops open as he inhales sharply. And then he grins, a radiant, all-teeth-showing, joyous grin. Wow …

  “Good.” He claps his hands, and all of a sudden he stands.

  What now?

&nb
sp; “Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Grey.”

  Gah—this man is so maddening! “But—”

  “But what, Mrs. Grey?”

  I sag. “Just go.”

  “I intend to. I’ll see you this evening. I’m looking forward to seven shades of Sunday.”

  I scowl.

  “Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

  I gape at him. Will you just go?

  “I’ll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule from now on.”

  “Okay,” I mumble, completely bemused, bewildered, and shell-shocked.

  He leans over my desk. What now? I am caught in his hypnotic gaze.

  “Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey.” He leans in closer as I sit paralyzed, and he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. “Laters, baby,” he murmurs. He stands abruptly, winks at me, and leaves.

  I lay my head on my desk, feeling like I’ve been run over by a freight train—the freight train that is my beloved husband. He has to be the most frustrating, annoying, contrary man on the planet. I sit up and frantically rub my eyes. What have I just agreed to? Okay, Ana Grey running SIP—I mean, Grey Publishing. The man is insane. There’s a knock on the door, and Hannah pokes her head around.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I just stare at her. She frowns.

  “I know you don’t like me doing this—but can I make you some tea?”

  I nod.

  “Twinings English Breakfast, weak and black?”

  I nod.

  “Coming right up, Ana.”

  I stare blankly at my computer screen, still in shock. How can I make him understand? E-mail!

  * * *

  From: Anastasia Steele

  Subject: NOT AN ASSET!

  Date: August 22 2011 14:23

  To: Christian Grey

  Mr. Grey

  Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.

  Yours

  Anastasia Grey <——please note name.

  Editor, SIP

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday

  Date: August 22 2011 14:34

  To: Anastasia Steele

  My Dear Mrs. Grey (emphasis on My)

  What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.

  And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.

  As ever, you make my day.

  Christian Grey

  CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  He’s trying to be funny, but I am in no mood to laugh. I take a deep breath and go back to my correspondence.

  CHRISTIAN IS QUIET WHEN I climb into the car that evening. “Hi,” I murmur.

  “Hi,” he responds, warily—as he should.

  “Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” I ask too sweetly.

  A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Only Flynn’s.”

  Oh.

  “Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered,” I hiss.

  “You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”

  I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan’s and Sawyer’s heads in front of me. Christian shifts beside me.

  “Hey,” he says softly and reaches for my hand. All afternoon, when I should have been concentrating on work, I was trying to figure out what to say to him. But I became angrier and angrier with each passing hour. I’ve had enough of his cavalier, petulant, and, frankly, childish behavior. I snatch my hand out of his—in a cavalier, petulant, and childish manner.

  “You’re mad at me?” he whispers.

  “Yes,” I hiss. Folding my arms protectively across my body, I gaze out my window. He shifts beside me once more, but I will not let myself look at him. I don’t understand why I’m so mad at him—but I am. Really fucking mad.

  As soon as we pull up outside Escala, I break protocol and leap out of the car with my briefcase. I stomp into the building, not checking to see who is following. Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the “call” button.

  “What?” I snap when I’m alongside him. His cheeks redden.

  “Apologies, ma’am,” he mutters.

  Christian comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan retreats.

  “So it’s not just me you’re mad at?” Christian murmurs dryly. I glare up at him and see a trace of a smile on his face.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I narrow my eyes.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he says, holding his hands up like I’m threatening him at gunpoint. He’s in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex hair and a guileless expression.

  “You need a haircut,” I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.

  “Do I?” he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.

  “Yes.” I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.

  “So you’re talking to me now?”

  “Just.”

  “What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication,” he asks cautiously.

  I turn and gape at him.

  “Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”

  He takes an alarmed step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office,” he murmurs, perplexed.

  “Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”

  The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway. He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.

  “Hi, Taylor,” I mutter.

  “Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs.

  Dropping my briefcase in the hallway, I head into the great room. Mrs. Jones is at the stove.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Jones,” I mutter. I head straight to the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. Christian follows me into the kitchen and watches me like a hawk as I take a glass down from the cupboard. He removes his jacket and casually places it on the countertop.

  “Do you want a drink?” I ask super sweetly.

  “No thanks,” he says, not taking his eyes off me, and I know that he’s helpless. He does not know what to do with me. It’s comical on one level and tragic on another. Well, screw him! I am having trouble locating my compassionate self since our meeting this afternoon. Slowly, he removes his tie and then opens the top button of his shirt. I pour myself a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and Christian runs a hand through his hair. When I turn around, Mrs. Jones has disappeared. Shit! She’s my human shield. I take a slug of wine. Hmm. It tastes good.

  “Stop this,” Christian whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he’s standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I’ve missed all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at him.

  “Talk to me,” he murmurs.

  “What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”

  “Yes I do. You’re one of the few people I do listen to.”

  I take another swig of wine.

  “Is this about your name?”

  “Yes and no. It’s about how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you.” I glare up at him, expecting him to be angered.

  His brow furrows. “Ana, you know I have … issues. It’s hard for me to let go where you’re concerned. You know that.”

  “But I’m not a child, and I’m not an asset.”

  “I know.” He sighs.

  “Then stop treating me as though I am,” I whisper, imploring him.

  He brushes the backs
of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his thumb across my bottom lip.

  “Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,” he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like a child. Precious like a child … a child would be precious to him!

  “I’m neither of those things, Christian. I’m your wife. If you were hurt that I wasn’t going to take your name, you should have said.”

  “Hurt?” He frowns deeply, and I know that he’s exploring the possibility in his mind. He straightens suddenly, still frowning, and glances quickly at his wristwatch. “The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat.”

  Oh no. I groan inwardly. He hasn’t answered me, and now I have to deal with Gia Matteo. My shitty day just got shittier. I scowl at Christian.

  “This discussion isn’t finished,” I mutter.

  “What else is there to discuss?”

  “You could sell the company.”

  Christian snorts. “Sell it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think I’d find a buyer in today’s market?”

  “How much did it cost you?”

  “It was relatively cheap.” His tone is guarded.

  “So if it folds?”

  He smirks. “We’ll survive. But I won’t let it fold, Anastasia. Not while you’re there.”

  “And if I leave?”

  “And do what?”

  “I don’t know. Something else.”

  “You’ve already said this is your dream job. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I promised before God, Reverend Walsh, and a congregation of our nearest and dearest to ‘cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at my side.’ ”

  “Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair.”

  “I’ve never promised to play fair where you’re concerned. Besides,” he adds, “you’ve wielded your vows at me like a weapon before.”