Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Christian.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Errant Wives

Date: August 22, 2011 09:56

To: Anastasia Steele

Wife

I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.

And it’s because you haven’t changed your name.

Something you want to tell me?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

At achment:

From: Christian Grey

FW Subject: Bubble

Date: August 22, 2011 09:32

To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey

Love covering all the bases with you.

Have a great first day back.

Miss our bubble already.

x

Christian Grey

Back in the Real World CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Shit. I hit reply immediately.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Don’t Burst the Bubble

Date: August 22, 2011 09:58

To: Christian Grey

Husband

I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. Grey.

I want to keep my name here.

I’ll explain this evening.

I am going in to a meeting now.

Miss our bubble, too . . .

PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?

Anastasia Steele

Commissioning Editor, SIP

This is going to be such a fight. I can feel it. Sighing, I gather up my papers for the meeting.

The meeting lasts for two hours. All the commissioning editors are there, plus Roach and Elizabeth. We discuss personnel, strategy, marketing, security, and year-

end. As the meeting progresses, I grow more and more uncomfortable. There’s a subtle change in how my colleagues are treating me—a distance and deference that

wasn’t there before I left for my honeymoon. And from Courtney, who heads up the non-fiction division, there’s downright hostility. Maybe I’m just being paranoid

but it goes some way to explaining Elizabeth’s odd greeting this morning.

My mind drifts back to the yacht, then to the playroom, then to the R8 speeding away from the mystery Dodge on I-5. Perhaps Christian’s right . . . perhaps I

can’t do this anymore. The thought is depressing—this is all I’ve ever wanted to do. If I can’t do this, what will I do? As I walk back to my office, I try to dismiss

these dark thoughts.

When I sit down at my desk, I quickly check my e-mails. Nothing from Christian. I check my BlackBerry . . . Still nothing. Good. At least there’s been no

adverse reaction to my e-mail. Perhaps we’ll discuss this tonight as per my request. I find that hard to believe, but ignoring my uneasy feeling, I open the marketing

adverse reaction to my e-mail. Perhaps we’ll discuss this tonight as per my request. I find that hard to believe, but ignoring my uneasy feeling, I open the marketing

plan I was given at the meeting.

As is our ritual on a Monday, Hannah comes into my office with a plate for my packed lunch courtesy of Mrs. Jones, and we sit and eat our lunches together,

discussing what we want to achieve during the week. She brings me up to date with the office gossip, too, which—considering I’ve been away for three weeks—is

pretty thin on the ground. As we’re chatting, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Roach opens the door, and standing beside him is Christian. I’m momentarily struck dumb. Christian shoots me a blazing look and stalks in, before smiling

politely at Hannah.

“Hello, you must be Hannah. I’m Christian Grey,” he says. Hannah scrambles to her feet and holds out her hand.

“Mr. Grey. H-how nice to meet you,” she stutters as they shake hands. “Can I fetch you a coffee?”

“Please,” he says warmly. With a quick puzzled glance at me, she scuttles out of the office past Roach, who stands as dumbstruck as me on the threshold of my

office.

“If you’ll excuse me, Roach, I’d like a word with Ms. Steele.” Christian hisses the S sibilantly . . . sarcastically.

This is why he’s here . . . Oh shit.

“Of course, Mr. Grey. Ana,” Roach mutters, shutting the door to my office as he departs. I recover my power of speech.

“Mr. Grey, how nice to see you.” I smile, far too sweetly.

“Ms. Steele, may I sit down?”

“It’s your company.” I wave at the chair Hannah vacated.

“Yes, it is.” He smiles wolfishly at me, the smile not reaching his eyes. His tone is clipped. He’s bristling with tension—I can feel it all around me. Fuck. My

heart sinks.

“Your office is very small,” he says as he sits down facing my desk.

“It suits me.”

He regards me neutrally, but I know he’s mad. I take a deep breath. This is not going to be fun.

“So what can I do for you, Christian?”

“I’m just looking over my assets.”

“Your assets? All of them?”

“All of them. Some of them need rebranding.”

“Rebranding? In what way?”

“I think you know.” His voice is menacingly quiet.

“Please—don’t tell me you have interrupted your day after three weeks away to come over here and fight with me about my name.” I am not a freaking asset!

He shifts and crosses his legs. “Not exactly fight. No.”

“Christian, I’m working.”

“Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me.”

My cheeks heat. “We were going through our schedules,” I snap. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I shout, too loudly.

Hannah opens the door and brings in a small tray. Milk jug, sugar bowl, coffee in a French press—she’s gone all out. She places the tray on my desk.

“Thank you, Hannah,” I mutter, embarrassed that I have just shouted so loudly.

“Do you need anything else, Mr. Grey?” she asks all breathless. I want to roll my eyes at her.

“No, thank you. That’s all.” He smiles his dazzling, panty-dropping smile at her. She flushes and exits simpering. Christian turns his attention back to me.

“Now, Ms. Steele, where were we?”

“You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my name.”

Christian blinks once—surprised, I think, by the vehemence in my voice. Deftly, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his knee with long skilled fingers. It’s

distracting. He’s doing it on purpose. I narrow my eyes at him.

“I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes, wives in their place. You know.” He shrugs, his mouth set in an arrogant line.

Wives in their place! “I had no idea you could spare the time,” I snap.

His eyes frost. “Why don’t you want to change your name here?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.

“Christian, do we have to discuss this now?”

“I’m here. I don’t see why not.”

“I have a ton of work to do, having been away for the last three weeks.”

He gazes at me, his eyes cool and assessing—distant even. I marvel that he can appear so cold after last night, after the last three weeks. Shit. He must be so mad

–really mad. When will he learn not to overreact?

“Are you ashamed of me?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“No! Christian, of course not.” I scowl at him. “This is about me—not you.” Jeez, he’s exasperating sometimes. Silly overbearing megalomaniac.

“How is this not about me?” He cocks his head to one side, genuinely perplexed, some of his detachment slipping as he stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize

that he’s hurt. Holy fuck. I’ve hurt his feelings. Oh no . . . he’s the last person I want to hurt. I have to make him see my logic. I have to explain my reasoning for my

decision.

“Christian, when I took this job, I’d only just met you,” I say patiently, struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t know you were going to buy the company—”

What can I say about that event in our brief history? His deranged reasons for doing so—his control freakery, his stalker tendencies gone mad, given completely

free rein because he is so wealthy. I know he wants to keep me safe, but it’s his ownership of SIP that is the fundamental problem here. If he’d never interfered, I

could continue as normal and not have to face the disgruntled and whispered recriminations of my colleagues. I put my head in my hands just to break eye contact

with him.

“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?

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 back 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. Jeez—change

of mood, again! How can I ever keep up with Mr. Mercurial?

“I’m renaming 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 again 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 my body can make. He narrows his eyes.

“You’ll be a laughing stock. 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.”

“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.”

“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?

“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.

Commissioning 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 at him.

“You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”

I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan 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.

“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 myself not to 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 once more. 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 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 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 back 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.”

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.”

I scowl at him. This is true.

“Anastasia, if you’re still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later.” His voice is suddenly low and full of sensual longing, his eyes heated.

What? Bed? How?

He smiles indulgently down at my expression. Is he expecting me to tie him up? Holy crap! My inner goddess removes her iPod earbuds and starts listening with

rapt attention.

“Seven shades of Sunday,” he whispers. “Looking forward to it.”

Whoa!

“Gail!” he shouts abruptly, and four seconds later, Mrs. Jones appears. Where was she? Taylor’s office? Listening? Oh jeez.

“Mr. Grey?”

“We’d like to eat now, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

Christian doesn’t take his eyes off me. He watches me vigilantly as if I’m some exotic creature about to bolt. I take a sip of my wine.

“I think I’ll join you in a glass,” he says, sighing, and runs a hand through his hair again.

“You’re not going to finish?”

“No.” I gaze down at my barely touched plate of fettuccini to avoid Christian’s darkening expression. Before he can say anything, I stand and clear our plates

from the dining table.

“Gia will be with us shortly,” I mutter. Christian’s mouth twists in an unhappy scowl, but he says nothing.

“I’ll take those, Mrs. Grey,” says Mrs. Jones as I walk into the kitchen.

“Thank you.”

“You didn’t like it?” she asks, concerned.

“It was fine. I’m just not hungry.”

Giving me a small sympathetic smile, she turns to clear my plate and put everything in the dishwasher.

“I’m going to make a couple of calls,” Christian announces, giving me an assessing look before he disappears into his study.

I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Dinner was awkward. I’m still mad at Christian, and he doesn’t seem to think he’s done anything wrong. Has

he? My subconscious cocks an eyebrow at me and gazes benignly over her half-moon glasses. Yes, he has. He’s made it even more awkward for me at work. He

didn’t wait to discuss this issue with me when we were in the relative privacy of our own home. How would he feel if I came barging into his office, laying down

the law? And to cap it all, he wants to give me SIP! How the hell could I run a company? I know next to nothing about business.

I gaze out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the pearly pink light of dusk. And as usual, he wants to solve our differences in the bedroom . . . um . . . foyer . . .

playroom . . . TV room . . . kitchen countertop . . . Stop! It always comes back to sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.

I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while

we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now? Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that day—

marry in haste . . . No, I mustn’t think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with him.

I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to deal with.

I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cleavage. I wash my face then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I then brush my

hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of

my pumps, rather than my flats.

When I reemerge into the great room, Christian has the house plans spread out on the dining table. He has music playing through the sound system. It stops me in

my tracks.

“Mrs. Grey,” he says warmly then looks quizzically at me.

“What’s this?” I ask. The music is stunning.

“Fauré’s Requiem. You look different,” he says, distracted.

“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”

“It’s very calming, relaxing,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Have you done something to your hair?”

“Brushed it,” I mutter. I’m transported by the haunting voices. Abandoning the plans on the table, he walks toward me, a slow saunter in time to the music.

“Dance with me?” he murmurs.

“To this? It’s a requiem.” I squeak, shocked.

“Yes.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.

Oh . . . I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry. Why are you so infuriating?

“I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.

“Well, stop being such an arse.”

He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”

“Ass.”

“I prefer arse.”

“You should. It suits you.”

He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.

“A requiem?” I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it.

He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.”

Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and Christian releases me.

“Miss Matteo is here,” he says.

Oh joy!

“Show her in,” Christian says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss Gia Matteo enters the room.

Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman—a tall, good-looking woman. She wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown.

She’s dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary diamond glints,

matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well groomed—one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be

lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.

“Christian. Ana.” She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Christian’s, then my hand. It means I have to release

Christian’s hand to reciprocate. She’s a fraction shorter than Christian, but then she’s in killer heels.

“Gia,” Christian says politely. I smile coolly.

“You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she says smoothly, her brown eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his arm