“I wish that, too.” I shake my head thinking about my
　　mythical father. “Mom, I’ll let you go. I’ll call soon.”
　　“Love you, darling.”
　　“Me, too, Mom. Good-bye.”
　　Christian’s kitchen is a dream to work in. For a man who
　　knows nothing about cooking, he seems to have
　　everything. I suspect Mrs. Jones loves to cook, too. The
　　only thing I need is some high quality chocolate for the
　　frosting. I leave the two halves of the cake on a cooling
　　rack, grab my purse, and pop my head around Christian’s
　　study door. He’s concentrating on his computer screen.
　　He looks up and smiles at me.
　　“I’m just heading to the store to pick up some
　　ingredients.”
　　“Okay.” He frowns at me.
　　“What?”
　　“You going to put some jeans on or something?”
　　Oh, come on. “Christian, they’re just legs.”
　　He gazes at me, unamused. This is going to be a fight.
　　And it’s his birthday. I roll my eyes at him, feeling like an
　　errant teenager.
　　“What if we were at the beach?” I take a different
　　tack.
　　“We’re not at the beach.”
　　“Would you object if we were at the beach?”
　　“Would you object if we were at the beach?”
　　He considers this for a moment. “No,” he says simply.
　　I roll my eyes again and smirk at him. “Well, just
　　imagine we are. Laters.” I turn and bolt for the foyer. I
　　make it to the elevator before he catches up with me. As
　　the doors close, I wave at him, grinning sweetly as he
　　watches, helpless—but fortunately amused—with
　　narrowed eyes. He shakes his head in exasperation, then I
　　can see him no more.
　　Oh, that was exciting. Adrenaline is pounding through
　　my veins, and my heart feels like it wants to exit my chest.
　　But as the elevator descends, so do my spirits. Shit, what
　　have I done?
　　I have a tiger by the tail. He’s going to be mad when I
　　get back. My subconscious is glaring at me over her halfmoon
　　glasses, a willow switch in her hand. Shit. I think
　　about what little experience I have with men. I’ve never
　　lived with a man before—well, except Ray—and for some
　　reason he doesn’t count. He’s my dad . . . well, the man I
　　consider my dad.
　　And now I have Christian. He’s never really lived with
　　anyone, I think. I’ll have to ask him—if he’s still talking to
　　me.
　　But I feel strongly that I should wear what I like. I
　　remember his rules. Yes, this must be hard for him, but he
　　sure as hell paid for this dress. He should have given
　　Neimans a better brief. Nothing too short!
　　This skirt isn’t that short, is it? I check in the large
　　mirror in the lobby. Damn. Yes, it is quite short, but I’ve
　　made a stand now. And no doubt I’ll have to face the
　　consequences. I wonder idly what he’ll do, but first I need
　　cash.
　　I stare at my receipt from the ATM: $51,689.16. That’s
　　fifty thousand dollars too much! Anastasia, you’re going
　　to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes. And so it
　　begins. I take my paltry fifty dollars and make my way to
　　the store.
　　I head straight to the kitchen when I arrive back, and I
　　can’t help feeling a frisson of alarm. Christian is still in his
　　study. Jeez, that’s most of the afternoon. I decide my best
　　option is to face him and see how much damage I’ve
　　done. I peek cautiously around his study door. He’s on the
　　phone, staring out the window.
　　“And the Eurocopter specialist is due Monday
　　afternoon? . . . Good. Just keep me informed. Tell them
　　that I’ll need their initial findings either Monday evening or
　　Tuesday morning.” He hangs up and swivels his chair
　　round, but stills when he sees me, his expression
　　impassive.
　　“Hi,” I whisper. He says nothing, and my heart freefalls
　　into my stomach. Gingerly I walk into his study and
　　around his desk to where he’s sitting. He still says nothing,
　　his eyes never leaving mine. I stand in front of him, feeling
　　fifty shades of foolish.
　　fifty shades of foolish.
　　“I’m back. Are you mad at me?”
　　He sighs, reaches out for my hand, and pulls me into
　　his lap, folding his arms around me. He buries his nose in
　　my hair.
　　“Yes,” he says.
　　“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” I curl
　　up in his lap inhaling his heavenly Christian smell, feeling
　　safe regardless of the fact that he’s mad.
　　“Me neither. Wear what you like,” he murmurs. He
　　runs his hand up my bare leg to my thigh. “Besides, this
　　dress has its advantages.” He bends to kiss me, and as our
　　lips touch, passion or lust or a deep-seated need to make
　　amends lances through me and desire flares in my blood. I
　　seize his head in my hands, fisting my fingers in his hair. He
　　groans as his body responds, and he hungrily nips at my
　　lower lip—my throat, my ear, his tongue invading my
　　mouth, and before I’m even aware of it he’s unzipping his
　　pants, pulling me astride his lap, and sinking into me. I
　　grasp the back of the chair, my feet just touching the
　　ground . . . and we start to move.
　　“I like your version of sorry,” he breathes into my hair.
　　“And I like yours,” I giggle, snuggling against his chest.
　　“Have you finished?”
　　“Christ, Ana, you want more?”
　　“No! Your work.”
　　“I’ll be done in about half an hour. I heard your
　　message on my voicemail.”
　　message on my voicemail.”
　　“From yesterday.”
　　“You sounded worried.”
　　I hug him tightly.
　　“I was. It’s not like you not to respond.”
　　He kisses my hair.
　　“Your cake should be ready in half an hour.” I smile at
　　him and climb off his lap.
　　“Looking forward to it. It smelled delicious, evocative
　　even, while it was baking.”
　　I smile shyly down at him, feeling a little self-conscious,
　　and he mirrors my expression. Jeez, are we really so
　　different? Perhaps it’s his early memories of baking.
　　Leaning down, I plant a swift kiss on the corner of his
　　mouth and make my way back to the kitchen.
　　I am all prepared when I hear him come out of his study,
　　and I light the solitary gold candle on his cake. He gives
　　me an ear-splitting grin as he saunters toward me, and I
　　softly sing Happy Birthday to him. Then he leans over and
　　blows it out, closing his eyes.
　　“I’ve made my wish,” he says as he opens them again,
　　and for some reason his look makes me flush.
　　“The frosting is still soft. I hope you like it.”
　　“I can’t wait to taste it, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and he
　　makes that sound so rude. I cut us each a slice, and we dig
　　in with small pastry forks.
　　“Mmm,” he groans in appreciation. “This is why I want
　　to marry you.”
　　to marry you.”
　　And I laugh with relief . . . he likes it.
　　“Ready to face my family?” Christian switches the R8
　　ignition off. We’re parked in his parents’ driveway.
　　“Yes. Are you going to tell them?”
　　“Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing their
　　reactions.” He smiles wickedly at me and climbs out of the
　　car.
　　It is seven thirty, and though it’s been a warm day,
　　there’s a cool evening breeze blowing off the bay. I pull
　　my wrap around me as I step out of the car. I’m wearing
　　an emerald green cocktail dress I found this morning while
　　I was rummaging through the closet. It has a wide
　　matching belt. Christian takes my hand, and we head to
　　the front door. Carrick opens it wide before he can knock.
　　“Christian, hello. Happy birthday, son.” He takes
　　Christian’s proffered hand but pulls him into a brief hug,
　　surprising him.
　　“Er . . . thanks, Dad.”
　　“Ana, how lovely to see you again.” He hugs me, too,
　　and we follow him into the house.
　　Before we can set foot in the living room, Kate comes
　　barreling down the hallway toward the two of us. She
　　looks furious.
　　Oh no!
　　“You two! I want to talk to you.” She snarls in her
　　you-better-not-fucking-mess-with-me voice. I glance
　　nervously at Christian, who shrugs and decides to humor
　　her as we follow her into the dining room, leaving Carrick
　　bemused on the threshold of the living room. She shuts the
　　door and turns on me.
　　“What the fuck is this?” she hisses and waves a piece
　　of paper at me. Completely at a loss, I take it from her and
　　scan it quickly. My mouth dries. Holy shit. It’s my e-mail
　　response to Christian, discussing the contract.
　　All the color drains from my face as my blood turns to ice
　　and fear lances through my body. Instinctively I step
　　between her and Christian.
　　“What is it?” Christian murmurs, his tone wary.
　　I ignore him. I cannot believe Kate is doing this.
　　“Kate! This is nothing to do with you.” I glare
　　venomously at her, anger replacing my fear. How dare she
　　do this? Not now, not today. Not on Christian’s birthday.
　　Surprised by my response, she blinks at me, green eyes
　　wide.
　　wide.
　　“Ana, what is it?” Christian says again, his tone more
　　menacing.
　　“Christian, would you just go, please?” I ask him.
　　“No. Show me.” He holds out his hand, and I know
　　he’s not to be argued with—his voice is cold and hard.
　　Reluctantly I give him the e-mail.
　　“What’s he done to you?” Kate asks, ignoring
　　Christian. She looks so apprehensive. I flush as a myriad
　　of erotic images flit quickly across my mind.
　　“That’s none of your business, Kate.” I can’t keep the
　　exasperation out of my voice.
　　“Where did you get this?” Christian asks, his head
　　cocked to one side, his face expressionless, but his
　　voice . . . so menacingly soft. Kate flushes.
　　“That’s irrelevant.” At his stony glare, she hastily
　　continues. “It was in the pocket of a jacket—which I
　　assume is yours—that I found on the back of Ana’s
　　bedroom door.” Faced with Christian’s burning gray gaze,
　　Kate’s steeliness slips a little, but she seems to recover
　　Kate’s steeliness slips a little, but she seems to recover
　　and scowls at him.
　　She’s a beacon of hostility in a slinky, bright red dress.
　　She looks magnificent. But what the hell is she going
　　through my clothes for? It’s usually the other way round.
　　“Have you told anyone?” Christian’s voice is like a silk
　　glove.
　　“No! Of course not,” Kate snaps, affronted. Christian
　　nods and appears to relax. He turns and heads toward the
　　fireplace. Wordlessly Kate and I watch as he picks up a
　　lighter from the mantelpiece, sets fire to the e-mail, and
　　releases it, letting it float afire slowly into the grate until it is
　　no more. The silence in the room is oppressive.
　　“Not even Elliot?” I ask, turning my attention back to
　　Kate.
　　“No one,” Kate says emphatically, and for the first
　　time she looks puzzled and hurt. “I just want to know
　　you’re okay, Ana,” she whispers.
　　“I’m fine, Kate. More than fine. Please, Christian and I
　　are good, really good—this is old news. Please ignore it.”
　　“Ignore it?” she says. “How can I ignore that? What’s
　　he done to you?” And her green eyes are so full of
　　heartfelt concern.
　　“He hasn’t done anything to me, Kate. Honestly—I’m
　　good.”
　　She blinks at me.
　　“Really?” she asks.
　　Christian wraps an arm around me and draws me
　　close, not taking his eyes off Kate.
　　“Ana has consented to be my wife, Katherine,” he says
　　quietly.
　　“Wife!” Kate squeaks, her eyes widening in disbelief.
　　“We’re getting married. We’re going to announce our
　　engagement this evening,” he says.
　　“Oh!” Kate gapes at me. She’s stunned. “I leave you
　　alone for sixteen days, and this happens? It’s very sudden.
　　So yesterday, when I said—” She gazes at me, lost.
　　“Where does that e-mail fit into all this?”
　　“It doesn’t, Kate. Forget it—please. I love him and he
　　loves me. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin his party and our
　　loves me. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin his party and our
　　night,” I whisper. She blinks and unexpectedly her eyes
　　are shining with tears.
　　“No. Of course I won’t. You’re okay?” She wants
　　reassurance.
　　“I’ve never been happier,” I whisper. She reaches
　　forward and grabs my hand regardless of Christian’s arm
　　wrapped around me.
　　“You really are okay?” she asks hopefully.
　　“Yes.” I grin at her, my joy returning. She’s back
　　onside. She smiles at me, my happiness reflecting back on
　　her. I step out of Christian’s hold, and she hugs me
　　suddenly.
　　“Oh, Ana—I was so worried when I read this. I didn’t
　　know what to think. Will you explain it to me?” she
　　whispers.
　　“One day, not now.”
　　“Good. I won’t tell anyone. I love you so much, Ana,
　　like my own sister. I just thought . . . I didn’t know what to

　　think. I’m sorry. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” She
　　think. I’m sorry. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” She
　　looks directly at Christian and repeats her apology. He
　　nods at her, his eyes glacial, and his expression does not
　　change. Oh shit, he’s still mad.
　　“I really am sorry. You’re right, it’s none of my
　　business,” she whispers to me.
　　There’s a knock on the door that startles Kate and I
　　apart. Grace pokes her head around.
　　“Everything okay, darling?” she asks Christian.
　　“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Grey,” Kate says immediately.
　　“Fine, Mom,” Christian says.
　　“Good.” Grace enters. “Then you won’t mind if I give
　　my son a birthday hug.” She beams at both of us. He hugs
　　her tightly and thaws immediately.
　　“Happy birthday, darling,” she says softly, closing her
　　eyes in his embrace. “I’m so glad you’re still with us.”
　　“Mom, I’m fine.” Christian smiles down at her. She
　　pulls back, looks at him closely, and grins.
　　“I’m so happy for you,” she says and caresses his face.
　　He grins at her—his thousand megawatt smile.
　　She knows! When did he tell her?
　　“Well, kids, if you’ve all finished your tête-à-tête,
　　there’s a throng of people here to check that you really are
　　in one piece, Christian, and to wish you a happy birthday.”
　　“I’ll be right there.”
　　Grace glances anxiously at Kate and me and seems
　　reassured by our smiles. She winks at me as she holds the
　　door open for us. Christian holds out his hand to me and I
　　take it.
　　“Christian, I really do apologize,” Kate says humbly.
　　Humble Kate is something to behold. Christian nods at
　　her, and we follow her out.
　　In the hallway, I gaze anxiously up at Christian. “Does
　　your mother know about us?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Oh.” And to think our evening could have been
　　derailed by the tenacious Miss Kavanagh. I shudder at the
　　thought—the ramifications of Christian’s lifestyle revealed
　　to all. Holy cow.
　　“Well, that was an interesting start to the evening.” I
　　“Well, that was an interesting start to the evening.” I
　　smile sweetly at him. He glances down at me—and it’s
　　back, his amused look. Thank heavens.
　　“As ever, Miss Steele, you have a gift for
　　understatement.” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses
　　my knuckles as we walk into the living room to a sudden,
　　spontaneous, and deafening round of applause.
　　Crap. How many people are here?
　　I scan the room quickly: all the Greys, Ethan with Mia,
　　Dr. Flynn and his wife, I assume. There’s Mac from the
　　boat, a tall, handsome African American—I remember
　　seeing him in Christian’s office the first time I met Christian
　　—Mia’s bitchy friend Lily, two women I don’t recognize
　　at all, and . . . Oh no. My heart sinks. That woman . . .
　　Mrs. Robinson.
　　Gretchen materializes with a tray of champagne. She’s
　　in a low-cut black dress, no pigtails but an updo, flushing
　　and fluttering her eyelashes at Christian. The applause dies
　　down, and Christian squeezes my hand as all eyes turn to
　　him expectantly.
　　him expectantly.
　　“Thank you, everyone. Looks like I’ll need one of
　　these.” He grabs two drinks off Gretchen’s tray and gives
　　her a brief smile. I think Gretchen’s going to expire or
　　swoon. He hands a glass to me.
　　Christian raises his glass to the rest of the room, and
　　immediately everyone surges forward. Leading the charge
　　is the evil woman in black. Does she ever wear any other
　　color?
　　“Christian, I was so worried.” Elena gives him a brief
　　hug and kisses both his cheeks. He doesn’t let me go
　　despite the fact I try to free my hand.
　　“I’m good, Elena,” Christian mutters coolly.
　　“Why didn’t you call me?” Her plea is desperate, her
　　eyes searching his.
　　“I’ve been busy.”
　　“Didn’t you get my messages?”
　　Christian shifts uncomfortably and pulls me closer,
　　putting his arm around me. His face remains impassive as
　　he regards Elena. She can no longer ignore me, so she
　　nods politely in my direction.
　　“Ana,” she purrs. “You look lovely, dear.”
　　“Elena,” I purr back. “Thank you.”
　　I catch Grace’s eye. She frowns, watching the three of
　　us.
　　“Elena, I need to make an announcement,” Christian
　　says, eyeing her dispassionately.
　　Her clear blue eyes cloud. “Of course.” She fakes a
　　smile and steps back.
　　“Everyone,” Christian calls. He waits for a moment
　　until the buzz in the room dies down and all eyes are once
　　more on him.
　　“Thank you for coming today. I have to say I was
　　expecting a quiet family dinner, so this is a pleasant
　　surprise.” He stares pointedly at Mia, who grins and gives
　　him a little wave. Christian shakes his head in exasperation
　　and continues.
　　“Ros and I”—he acknowledges the red-haired woman
　　standing nearby with a small bubbly blonde—“we had a
　　close call yesterday.”
　　close call yesterday.”
　　Oh, that’s the Ros that works with him. She grins and
　　raises her glass to him. He nods back at her.
　　“So I’m especially glad to be here today to share with
　　all of you my very good news. This beautiful woman”—he
　　glances down at me—“Miss Anastasia Rose Steele, has
　　consented to be my wife, and I’d like you to be the first to
　　know.”
　　There are general gasps of astonishment, the odd
　　cheer, and then a round of applause! Jeez—this is really
　　happening. I think I am the color of Kate’s dress. Christian
　　grasps my chin, lifts my lips to his, and kisses me quickly.
　　“You’ll soon be mine.”
　　“I am already,” I whisper.
　　“Legally,” he mouths at me and gives me a wicked
　　grin.
　　Lily, who is standing beside Mia, looks crestfallen;
　　Gretchen looks like she’s eaten something nasty and bitter.
　　As I glance anxiously around at the assembled crowd, I
　　catch sight of Elena. Her mouth is open. She’s stunned—
　　catch sight of Elena. Her mouth is open. She’s stunned—
　　horrified even, and I can’t help a small but intense feeling
　　of satisfaction to see her dumbstruck. What the hell is she
　　doing here, anyway?
　　Carrick and Grace interrupt my uncharitable thoughts,
　　and soon I am being hugged and kissed and passed
　　around by all the Greys.
　　“Oh, Ana—I am so delighted you’re going to be
　　family,” Grace gushes. “The change in Christian . . .
　　He’s . . . happy. I am so thankful to you.” I blush,
　　embarrassed by her exuberance but secretly delighted,
　　too.
　　“Where is the ring?” exclaims Mia as she embraces
　　me.
　　“Um . . .” A ring! Jeez. I hadn’t even thought about a
　　ring. I glance anxiously up at Christian.
　　“We’re going to choose one together.” Christian
　　glowers at her.
　　“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Grey!” she scolds him,
　　then wraps her arms around him. “I’m so thrilled for you,
　　Christian,” she says. She’s the only person I know who is
　　not intimidated by the Grey glower. It has me quailing . . .
　　Well, it certainly used to.
　　“When will you get married? Have you set a date?”
　　She beams up at Christian.
　　He shakes his head, his exasperation palpable. “No
　　idea, and no we haven’t. Ana and I need to discuss all
　　that,” he says irritably.
　　“I hope you have a big wedding—here,” she beams
　　enthusiastically, ignoring his caustic tone.
　　“We’ll probably fly to Vegas tomorrow,” he growls at
　　her, and he’s rewarded with a full-on Mia Grey pouty
　　grimace. Rolling his eyes, he turns to Elliot, who gives him
　　his second bear hug in as many days.
　　“Way to go, bro.” He claps Christian’s back.
　　The response from the room is overwhelming, and it’s
　　a few minutes before I find myself back beside Christian
　　with Dr. Flynn. Elena seems to have disappeared, and
　　Gretchen is sullenly refilling champagne glasses.
　　Beside Dr. Flynn is a striking young woman with long,
　　Beside Dr. Flynn is a striking young woman with long,
　　dark, almost black hair, cleavage, and lovely hazel eyes.
　　“Christian,” says Flynn, holding out his hand. Christian
　　shakes it gladly.
　　“John. Rhian.” He kisses the dark-haired woman on
　　her cheek. She’s petite and pretty.
　　“Glad you’re still with us, Christian. My life would be
　　most dull—and penurious—without you.”
　　Christian smirks.
　　“John!” Rhian scolds, much to Christian’s amusement.
　　“Rhian, this is Anastasia, my fiancée. Ana, this is
　　John’s wife.”
　　“Delighted to meet the woman who has finally captured
　　Christian’s heart.” Rhian smiles kindly at me.
　　“Thank you,” I mutter, embarrassed again.
　　“That was one googly you bowled there, Christian,”
　　Dr. Flynn shakes his head in amused disbelief. Christian
　　frowns at him.
　　“John—you and your cricket metaphors.” Rhian rolls
　　her eyes. “Congratulations to the pair of you and happy
　　her eyes. “Congratulations to the pair of you and happy
　　birthday, Christian. What a wonderful birthday present.”
　　She smiles broadly at me.
　　I had no idea Dr. Flynn would be here, or Elena. It’s a
　　shock, and I rack my brains to see if I have anything to
　　ask him, but a birthday party hardly seems the appropriate
　　venue for a psychiatric consult.
　　For a few minutes, we make small talk. Rhian is a stayat-
　　home mom with two young boys. I deduce that she is
　　the reason Dr. Flynn practices in the US.
　　“She’s good, Christian, responding well to treatment.
　　Another couple of weeks and we can consider an outpatient
　　program.” Dr. Flynn’s and Christian’s voices are
　　low, but I can’t help listening in, rather rudely tuning out
　　Rhian.
　　“So it’s all play-dates and diapers at the moment . . .”
　　“That must take up your time.” I flush, turning my
　　attention back to Rhian, who laughs sweetly. I know
　　Christian and Flynn are discussing Leila.
　　“Ask her something for me,” Christian murmurs.
　　“So what do you do, Anastasia?”
　　“Ana, please. I work in publishing.”
　　Christian and Dr. Flynn lower their voices further; it’s
　　so frustrating. But they stop when we’re joined by the two
　　women I didn’t recognize earlier—Ros and the bubbly
　　blonde whom Christian introduces as her partner, Gwen.
　　Ros is charming, and I soon discover they live almost
　　opposite Escala. She is full of praise for Christian’s piloting
　　skills. It was her first time in Charlie Tango, and she says
　　she wouldn’t hesitate to go again. She’s one of the few
　　women I’ve met who isn’t dazzled by him . . . well, the
　　reason is obvious.
　　Gwen is giggly with a wry sense of humor, and
　　Christian seems extraordinarily at ease with both of them.
　　He knows them well. They don’t discuss work, but I can
　　tell that Ros is one smart woman who can easily keep up
　　with him. She also has a great, throaty, too-manycigarettes
　　laugh.
　　Grace interrupts our leisurely conversation to inform
　　everyone that dinner is being served buffet-style in the
　　everyone that dinner is being served buffet-style in the
　　Grey kitchen. Slowly the guests make their way toward
　　the back of the house.
　　Mia collars me in the hallway. In her pale pink, frothy
　　babydoll dress and killer heels, she towers over me like a
　　Christmas tree fairy. She’s holding two cocktail glasses.
　　“Ana,” she hisses conspiratorially. I glance up at
　　Christian, who releases me with a best-of-luck-I-find-herimpossible-
　　to-deal-with-too look, and I sneak into the
　　dining room with her.
　　“Here,” she says mischievously. “This is one of my
　　dad’s special lemon martinis—much nicer than
　　champagne.” She hands me a glass and watches anxiously
　　while I take a tentative sip.
　　“Hmm . . . delicious. But strong.” What does she
　　want? Is she trying to get me drunk?
　　“Ana, I need some advice. And I can’t ask Lily—she’s
　　so judgmental about everything.” Mia rolls her eyes then
　　grins at me. “She is so jealous of you. I think she was
　　hoping one day that she and Christian might get together.”
　　hoping one day that she and Christian might get together.”
　　Mia bursts out laughing at the absurdity, and I quail inside.
　　This is something I will have to contend with for a long
　　time—other women wanting my man. I push the
　　unwelcome thought out of my head and distract myself
　　with the matter in hand. I take another sip of my martini.
　　“I’ll try and help. Fire away.”
　　“As you know, Ethan and I met recently, thanks to
　　you.” She beams at me.
　　“Yes.” Where the hell is she going with this?

　　“Ana—he doesn’t want to date me.” She pouts.
　　“Oh.” I blink at her, stunned, and I think, Maybe he’s
　　just not that into you.
　　“Look, that sounded all wrong. He doesn’t want to
　　date because his sister is going out with my brother. You
　　know—he thinks it’s all kind of incestuous. But I know he
　　likes me. What can I do?”
　　“Oh, I see,” I mutter, trying to buy myself some time.
　　What can I say? “Can you agree to be friends and give it
　　some time? I mean you’ve only just met him.”
　　She cocks her eyebrow and I flush.
　　“Look, I know I’ve only really just met Christian
　　but . . .” I scowl at her not sure what I want to say. “Mia,
　　this is something you and Ethan have to work out together.
　　I would try the friendship route.”
　　Mia grins.
　　“You’ve learned that look from Christian.”
　　I flush. “If you want advice, ask Kate. She may have
　　some insight as to how her brother feels.”
　　“You think?” Mia asks.
　　“Yes.” I smile encouragingly.
　　“Cool. Thanks, Ana.” She gives me another hug and
　　scuttles excitedly—and impressively, given her high heels
　　—to the door, no doubt off to bother Kate. I take another
　　sip of my martini, and I’m about to follow her when I am
　　stopped in my tracks.
　　Elena breezes into the room, her face taut, set in grim,
　　angry determination. She closes the door quietly behind
　　her and scowls at me.
　　Oh crap.
　　Oh crap.
　　“Ana,” she sneers.
　　I summon all my self-possession, slightly fuzzy from
　　two glasses of champagne and the lethal cocktail I hold in
　　my hand. I think the blood has drained from my face, but I
　　marshal both my subconscious and my inner goddess in
　　order to appear as calm and as unflappable as I can.
　　“Elena.” My voice is small, but steady—despite my
　　dry mouth. Why does this woman freak me out so much?
　　And what does she want now?
　　“I would offer you my heartfelt congratulations, but I
　　think that would be inappropriate.” Her piercing cold blue
　　eyes stare frostily into mine, filled with loathing.
　　“I neither need nor want your congratulations, Elena.
　　I’m surprised and disappointed to see you here.”
　　She arches an eyebrow. I think she’s impressed.
　　“I wouldn’t have thought of you as a worthy adversary,
　　Anastasia. But you surprise me at every turn.”
　　“I haven’t thought of you at all,” I lie, coolly. Christian
　　would be proud. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much
　　would be proud. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much
　　better things to do than waste my time with you.”
　　“Not so fast, missy,” she hisses, leaning against the
　　door, effectively blocking it. “What on earth do you think
　　you’re doing, consenting to marry Christian? If you think
　　for one minute you can make him happy, you’re very much
　　mistaken.”
　　“What I’m consenting to do with Christian is none of
　　your concern.” I smile with sarcastic sweetness. She
　　ignores me.
　　“He has needs—needs you cannot possibly begin to
　　satisfy,” she gloats.
　　“What do you know of his needs?” I snarl. My sense
　　of indignation flares brightly, burning inside me as
　　adrenaline surges through my body. How dare this fucking
　　bitch preach to me? “You’re nothing but a sick child
　　molester, and if it was up to me, I’d toss you into the
　　seventh circle of hell and walk away smiling. Now get out
　　of my way—or do I have to make you?”
　　“You’re making a big mistake here, lady.” She shakes
　　a long, skinny, finely manicured finger at me. “How dare
　　you judge our lifestyle? You know nothing, and you have
　　no idea what you’re getting yourself into. And if you think
　　he’s going to be happy with a mousy little gold-digger like
　　you . . .”
　　That’s it ! I throw the rest of my lemon martini in her
　　face, drenching her.
　　“Don’t you dare tell me what I’m getting myself into!” I
　　shout at her. “When will you learn? It’s none of your
　　goddamned business!”
　　She gapes at me, horror struck, wiping the sticky drink
　　off her face. I think she’s about to lunge at me, but she’s
　　suddenly shunted forward as the door opens.
　　Christian is standing in the doorway. It takes him a
　　nanosecond to assess the situation—me ashen and
　　shaking, her soaked and livid. His lovely face darkens and
　　contorts with anger as he comes to stand between us.
　　“What the fuck are you doing, Elena?” he says, his
　　voice glacial and laced with menace.
　　She blinks up at him. “She’s not right for you,
　　She blinks up at him. “She’s not right for you,
　　Christian,” she whispers.
　　“What?” he shouts, startling both of us. I can’t see his
　　face but his whole body has tensed, and he radiates
　　animosity.
　　“How the fuck do you know what’s right for me?”
　　“You have needs, Christian,” she says her voice softer.
　　“I’ve told you before—this is none of your fucking
　　business,” he roars. Oh crap—Very Angry Christian has
　　reared his not-so-ugly head. People are going to hear.
　　“What is this?” He pauses, glaring at her. “Do you
　　think it’s you? You? You think you’re right for me?” His
　　voice is softer but drips contempt, and suddenly I don’t
　　want to be here. I don’t want to witness this intimate
　　encounter. I’m intruding. But I’m stuck—my limbs
　　unwilling to move.
　　Elena swallows and seems to draw herself upright. Her
　　stance changes subtly, becomes more commanding, and
　　she steps toward him.
　　“I was the best thing that ever happened to you,” she
　　“I was the best thing that ever happened to you,” she
　　hisses arrogantly at him. “Look at you now. One of the
　　richest, most successful, entrepreneurs in the US—
　　controlled, driven—you need nothing. You are master of
　　your universe.”
　　He steps back as if he’s been struck and gapes at her
　　in outraged disbelief.
　　“You loved it, Christian, don’t try and kid yourself.
　　You were on the road to self-destruction, and I saved you
　　from that, saved you from a life behind bars. Believe me,
　　baby, that’s where you would have ended up. I taught you
　　everything you know, everything you need.”
　　Christian blanches, staring at her in horror. When he
　　speaks, his voice is low and incredulous.
　　“You taught me how to fuck, Elena. But it’s empty,
　　like you. No wonder Linc left.”
　　Bile rises in my mouth. I should not be here. But I’m
　　frozen to the spot, morbidly fascinated as they eviscerate
　　each other.
　　“You never once held me,” Christian whispers. “You
　　never once said you loved me.”
　　She narrows her eyes. “Love is for fools, Christian.”
　　“Get out of my house.” Grace’s implacable, furious
　　voice startles us. Three heads swing rapidly to where
　　Grace stands on the threshold of the room. She is glaring
　　at Elena, who pales beneath her St. Tropez tan.
　　Time seems suspended as we collectively take a deep
　　gasping breath, and Grace stalks deliberately into the
　　room. Her eyes blaze with fury, never once leaving Elena,
　　until she stands before her. Elena’s eyes widen in alarm,
　　and Grace slaps her hard across the face, the sound of the
　　impact resounding off the walls of the dining room.
　　“Take your filthy paws off my son, you whore, and get
　　out of my house—now!” she hisses through gritted teeth.
　　Elena clutches her reddening cheek and stares in
　　horror for a moment, shocked and blinking at Grace. Then
　　she hurries from the room, not bothering to close the door
　　behind her.
　　Grace turns slowly to face Christian and a tense silence
　　settles like a thick blanket over us as Christian and Grace
　　settles like a thick blanket over us as Christian and Grace
　　stare at each other. After a beat, Grace speaks.
　　“Ana, before I hand him over to you, would you mind
　　giving me a minute or two alone with my son?” Her voice
　　is quiet, husky, but oh-so-strong.
　　“Of course,” I whisper, and exit as quickly as I can,
　　glancing anxiously over my shoulder. But neither of them
　　look at me as I leave. They continue to stare at each other,
　　their unspoken communication blaringly loud.
　　In the hallway, I am momentarily lost. My heart pounds
　　and my blood races through my veins . . . I feel panicked
　　and out of my depth. Holy fuck, that was heavy and now
　　Grace knows. Crap. I can’t think what she’s going to say
　　to Christian, and I know it’s wrong, I know, but I lean
　　against the door trying to listen.
　　“How long, Christian?” Grace’s voice is soft. I can
　　barely hear her.
　　I cannot hear his reply.
　　“How old were you?” Her voice is more insistent. “Tell
　　me. How old were you when this all started?” Again I
　　me. How old were you when this all started?” Again I
　　can’t hear Christian.
　　“Everything okay, Ana?” Ros interrupts me.
　　“Yes. Fine. Thank you. I . . .”
　　Ros smiles. “I’m just going to fetch my purse. I need a
　　cigarette.”
　　For a brief moment, I contemplate joining her.
　　“I’m off to the bathroom.” I need to gather my wits
　　and my thoughts, to process what I’ve just witnessed and
　　heard. Upstairs seems the safest place to be on my own. I
　　watch Ros stroll into the drawing room, and I bolt two
　　stairs at a time to the second floor, then up to the third.
　　There’s only one place I want to be.
　　I open the door to Christian’s childhood bedroom and
　　shut it behind me, taking a huge gulping breath. Heading
　　for his bed, I flop onto it and stare at the plain white
　　ceiling.
　　Holy cow. That has to be, without doubt, one of the
　　most excruciating confrontations I’ve ever had to endure,
　　and now I feel numb. My fiancé and his ex-lover—no
　　would-be bride should have to see that. Having said that,
　　part of me is glad she’s revealed her true self, and that I
　　was there to bear witness.
　　My thoughts turn to Grace. Poor Grace, to hear all
　　that. I clutch one of Christian’s pillows. She’ll have
　　overheard that Christian and Elena had an affair—but not
　　the nature of it. Thank heavens. I groan.
　　What am I doing? Perhaps the evil witch had a point.
　　No, I refuse to believe that. She’s so cold and cruel. I
　　shake my head. She’s wrong. I am right for Christian. I am
　　what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I
　　don’t question how he’s lived his life until recently—but
　　why. His reasons for doing what he’s done to countless
　　girls—I don’t even want to know how many. The how
　　isn’t wrong. They were all adults. They were all—how did
　　Flynn put it?—in safe, sane, consensual relationships. It’s
　　the why. The why was wrong. The why was from his place
　　of darkness.
　　I close my eyes and drape my arm over them. But now
　　he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light.
　　he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light.
　　I’m dazzled by him and he by me. We can guide each
　　other. A thought occurs to me. Shit! A gnawing, insidious
　　thought and I’m in the one place where I can lay this ghost
　　to rest. I sit up. Yes, I must do this.
　　Shakily I get to my feet, kick off my shoes, walk over
　　to his desk, and examine the pin board above it. The
　　photos of young Christian are all still there—more poignant
　　than ever as I think of the spectacle I’ve just witnessed
　　between him and Mrs. Robinson. And there in the corner
　　is the small black and white photo—his mother, the crack
　　whore.
　　I switch on the desk lamp and focus the light on her
　　picture. I don’t even know her name. She looks so much
　　like him but younger and sadder and all I feel, looking at
　　her sorrowful face, is compassion. I try to see the
　　similarities between her face and mine. I squint at the
　　picture, getting really, really close, and see none. Except
　　maybe our hair, but I think hers is lighter than mine. I don’t
　　look like her at all. It’s a relief.
　　look like her at all. It’s a relief.
　　My subconscious tuts at me, arms crossed, glaring
　　over her half-moon glasses. Why are you torturing
　　yourself? You’ve said yes. You’ve made your bed. I
　　purse my lips at her. Yes I have, gladly so. I want to lie in
　　that bed with Christian for the rest of my life. My inner
　　goddess, sitting in the lotus position, smiles serenely. Yes.
　　I’ve made the right decision.
　　I must find him—Christian will be worried. I have no
　　idea how long I’ve been in his room; he’ll think that I’ve
　　fled. I roll my eyes as I contemplate his overreaction. I
　　hope that he and Grace have finished. I shudder to think
　　what else she might have said to him.
　　I meet Christian as he climbs the stairs to the second
　　floor, looking for me. His face is strained and weary—not
　　the carefree Fifty I arrived with. As I stand on the landing,

　　he stops on the top stair so that we are eye to eye.
　　“Hi,” he says cautiously.
　　“Hi,” I answer warily.
　　“I was worried—”
　　“I know,” I interrupt him. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t face
　　the festivities. I just had to get away, you know. To think.”
　　Reaching up, I caress his face. He closes his eyes and
　　leans his face into my hand.
　　“And you thought you’d do that in my room?”
　　“Yes.”
　　He reaches for my hand and pulls me into an embrace,
　　and I go willingly into his arms, my favorite place in the
　　whole world. He smells of fresh laundry, body wash, and
　　Christian—the most calming and arousing scent on the
　　planet. He inhales with his nose in my hair.
　　“I’m sorry you had to endure all that.”
　　“It’s not your fault, Christian. Why was she here?” He
　　gazes down at me, and his mouth curls apologetically.
　　“She’s a family friend.”
　　I try not to react. “Not any more. How’s your mom?”
　　“Mom is pretty fucking mad at me right now. I’m really
　　glad you’re here, and that we’re in the middle of a party.
　　Otherwise I might be breathing my last.”
　　“That bad, huh?”
　　“That bad, huh?”
　　He nods, his eyes serious, and I sense his
　　bewilderment at her reaction.
　　“Can you blame her?” My voice is quiet, cajoling.
　　He hugs me tightly and he seems uncertain, processing
　　his thoughts.
　　Finally he answers. “No.”
　　Whoa! Breakthrough. “Can we sit?” I ask.
　　“Sure. Here?”
　　I nod and we both sit at the top of the stairs.
　　“So, how do you feel?” I ask, anxiously clutching his
　　hand and gazing at his sad, serious face.
　　He sighs.
　　“I feel liberated.” He shrugs, then beams—a glorious,
　　carefree Christian smile, and the weariness and strain
　　present moments ago have vanished.
　　“Really?” I beam back. Wow, I’d crawl over broken
　　glass for that smile.
　　“Our business relationship is over. Done.”
　　I frown at him. “Will you liquidate the salon business?”
　　I frown at him. “Will you liquidate the salon business?”
　　He snorts. “I’m not that vindictive, Anastasia,” he
　　admonishes me. “No. I’ll gift them to her. I’ll talk to my
　　lawyer Monday. I owe her that much.”
　　I arch an eyebrow at him. “No more Mrs. Robinson?”
　　His mouth twists in amusement and he shakes his head.
　　“Gone.”
　　I grin.
　　“I’m sorry you lost a friend.”
　　He shrugs then smirks. “Are you?”
　　“No,” I confess, flushing.
　　“Come.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Let’s join
　　the party in our honor. I might even get drunk.”
　　“Do you get drunk?” I ask as I take his hand.
　　“Not since I was a wild teenager.” We walk down the
　　stairs.
　　“Have you eaten?” he asks.
　　Oh crap.
　　“No.”
　　“Well you should. From the look and smell of Elena,
　　that was one of my father’s lethal cocktails you threw over
　　her.” He gazes at me, trying and failing to keep the
　　amusement off his face.
　　“Christian, I—”
　　He holds up his hand.
　　“No arguing, Anastasia. If you’re going to drink—and
　　throw alcohol over my exes—you need to eat. It’s rule
　　number one. I believe we’ve already had that discussion
　　after our first night together.”
　　Oh yes. The Heathman.
　　Back in the hallway, he pauses to caress my face, his
　　fingers skimming my jaw.
　　“I lay awake for hours and watched you sleep,” he
　　murmurs. “I might have loved you even then.”
　　Oh.
　　He leans down and kisses me softly, and I melt
　　everywhere, all the tension of the last hour or so seeping
　　languidly from my body.
　　“Eat,” he whispers.
　　“Okay,” I acquiesce because right now I’d probably
　　“Okay,” I acquiesce because right now I’d probably
　　do anything for him. Taking my hand, he leads me toward
　　the kitchen where the party is in full swing.
　　“Goodnight, John, Rhian.”
　　“Congratulations again, Ana. You two will be just
　　fine.” Dr. Flynn smiles kindly at us, standing arm in arm in
　　the hallway as he and Rhian take their leave.
　　“Goodnight.”
　　Christian closes the door and shakes his head. He
　　gazes down at me, his eyes suddenly bright with
　　excitement.
　　What’s this?
　　“Just the family left. I think my mother has had too
　　much to drink.” Grace is singing karaoke on some game
　　console in the family room. Kate and Mia are giving her a
　　run for her money.
　　“Do you blame her?” I smirk at him, trying to keep the
　　atmosphere between us light. I succeed.
　　atmosphere between us light. I succeed.
　　“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”
　　“I am.”
　　“It’s been quite a day.”
　　“Christian, recently, every day with you has been quite
　　a day.” My voice is sardonic.
　　He shakes his head. “Fair point well made, Miss
　　Steele. Come—I want to show you something.” Taking
　　my hand, he leads me through the house to the kitchen
　　where Carrick, Ethan, and Elliot are talking Mariners,
　　drinking the last of the cocktails, and eating leftovers.
　　“Off for a stroll?” Elliot teases suggestively as we make
　　our way through the French doors. Christian ignores him.
　　Carrick frowns at Elliot, shaking his head in a silent
　　rebuke.
　　As we make our way up the steps to the lawn, I take
　　off my shoes. The half-moon shines brightly over the bay.
　　It’s brilliant, casting everything in myriad of shades of gray
　　as the lights of Seattle twinkle sweetly in the distance. The
　　lights of the boathouse are on, a soft glowing beacon in the
　　lights of the boathouse are on, a soft glowing beacon in the
　　cool cast of the moon.
　　“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”
　　“Oh?”
　　“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the
　　least I could do.”
　　“Okay.”
　　We wander hand in hand in a relaxed silence for a few
　　moments. Then something occurs to me.
　　“Where are you going to put the photos José took of
　　me?”
　　“I thought we might put them in the new house.”
　　“You bought it?”
　　He stops to stare at me, and his voice full of concern.
　　“Yes. I thought you liked it.”
　　“I do. When did you buy it?”
　　“Yesterday morning. Now we need to decide what to
　　do with it,” he murmurs, relieved.
　　“Don’t knock it down. Please. It’s such a lovely house.
　　It just needs some tender loving care.”
　　Christian glances at me and smiles. “Okay. I’ll talk to
　　Elliot. He knows a good architect; she did some work on
　　my place is Aspen. He can do the remodeling.”
　　I snort, suddenly remembering the last time we crossed
　　the lawn under the moonlight to the boathouse. Oh,
　　perhaps that’s what we’re going to do now. I grin.
　　“What?”
　　“I remember the last time you took me to the
　　boathouse.”
　　Christian chuckles quietly. “Oh, that was fun. In
　　fact . . .” He suddenly stops and scoops me over his
　　shoulder, and I squeal, though we don’t have far to go.
　　“You were really angry, if I remember correctly,” I
　　gasp.
　　“Anastasia, I’m always really angry.”
　　“No you’re not.”
　　He swats my behind as he stops outside the wooden
　　door. He slides me down his body back to the ground and
　　takes my head in his hands.
　　“No, not anymore.” Leaning down, he kisses me, hard.
　　“No, not anymore.” Leaning down, he kisses me, hard.
　　When he pulls away, I’m breathless and desire is racing
　　round my body.
　　He gazes down at me, and in the glow of the strip of
　　light coming from inside the boathouse, I can see he’s
　　anxious. My anxious man, not a white knight or a dark
　　knight, but a man—a beautiful, not-quite-so-fucked-up
　　man—whom I love. I reach up and caress his face, running
　　my fingers through his sideburns and along his jaw to his
　　chin, then let my index finger touch his lips. He relaxes.
　　“I’ve something to show you in here,” he murmurs and
　　opens the door.
　　The harsh light of the fluorescents illuminates the
　　impressive motor launch in the dock, bobbing gently on the
　　dark water. There’s a row boat beside it.
　　“Come.” Christian takes my hand and leads me up the
　　wooden stairs. Opening the door at the top, he steps aside
　　to let me in.
　　My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is
　　unrecognizable. The room is filled with flowers . . . there
　　unrecognizable. The room is filled with flowers . . . there
　　are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical
　　bower of beautiful wild meadow flowers mixed with
　　glowing fairy lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft
　　and pale round the room.
　　My face whips round to meet his, and he’s gazing at
　　me, his expression unreadable. He shrugs.
　　“You wanted hearts and flowers,” he murmurs.
　　I blink at him, not quite believing what I’m seeing.
　　“You have my heart.” And he waves toward the room.
　　“And here are the flowers,” I whisper, completing his
　　sentence. “Christian, it’s lovely.” I can’t think of what else
　　to say. My heart is in my mouth as tears prick my eyes.
　　Tugging my hand, he pulls me into the room, and
　　before I know it, he’s sinking to one knee in front of me.
　　Holy hell . . . I did not expect this! I stop breathing.
　　From his inside jacket pocket he produces a ring and
　　gazes up at me, his eyes bright gray and raw, full of
　　emotion.
　　“Anastasia Steele. I love you. I want to love, cherish,
　　and protect you for the rest of my life. Be mine. Always.
　　Share my life with me. Marry me.”
　　I blink down at him as my tears fall. My Fifty, my man.
　　I love him so, and all I can say as the tidal wave of
　　emotion hits me is, “Yes.”
　　He grins, relieved, and slowly slides the ring on my
　　finger. It’s beautiful, an oval diamond in a platinum ring.
　　Jeez—it’s big . . . Big, but oh-so-simple and stunning in its
　　simplicity.
　　“Oh, Christian,” I sob, suddenly overwhelmed with
　　joy, and I join him on my knees, my fingers fisting in his
　　hair as I kiss him, kiss him with all my heart and soul. Kiss
　　this beautiful man, who loves me as I love him; and as he
　　wraps his arms around me, his hands moving to my hair,
　　his mouth on mine. I know deep down I will always be his,
　　and he will always be mine. We’ve come so far together,
　　we have so far to go, but we are made for each other. We
　　are meant to be.
　　The cigarette end glows brightly in the darkness as he
　　takes a deep pull. He blows the smoke out in a long
　　exhale, finishing with two smoke rings that dissolve in front
　　of him, pale and ghostly in the moonlight. He shifts in his
　　seat, bored, and takes a quick shot of cheap bourbon
　　from a bottle wrapped in shabby brown paper before
　　resting it back between his thighs.
　　He can’t believe he’s still on the trail. His mouth twists
　　in a sardonic sneer. The helicopter had been a rash and
　　bold move. One of the most exhilarating things he’d ever
　　done in his life. But to no avail. He rolls his eyes ironically.
　　Who would have thought the son-of-a-bitch could
　　actually fly the fucker?
　　He snorts.
　　They have underestimated him. If Grey thought for one
　　minute he’d go whimpering quietly into the dusk, that prick
　　minute he’d go whimpering quietly into the dusk, that prick
　　didn’t know jack shit.
　　It had been the same all his life. People constantly
　　underestimating him—just a man who reads books. Fuck
　　that! A man with a photographic memory who reads
　　books. Oh, the things he’s learned, the things he knows.
　　He snorts again—Yeah, about you, Grey. The things I
　　know about you.
　　Not bad for a kid from the gutter end of Detroit.
　　Not bad for the kid who won a scholarship to
　　Princeton.
　　Not bad for the kid who worked his ass off through
　　college and got into publishing.
　　And now all of that’s fucked, fucked because of Grey
　　and his little bitch. He scowls at the house as if it
　　represents everything he despises. But there’s nothing
　　doing. The only drama had been the stacked, blond broad
　　in black, teetering down the driveway in tears before she
　　climbed into the white CLK and fucked off.
　　He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs.
　　He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs.
　　Still sore from the swift kicking Grey’s henchman
　　delivered.
　　He replays the scene in his mind. “You fucking touch
　　Miss Steele again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
　　That motherfucker will get it good, too. Yeah—get
　　what’s coming to him.
　　He settles back in his seat. Looks like it’s going to be
　　a long night. He’ll stay, watch, and wait. He takes
　　another toke of his Marlboro red. His chance will come.
　　His chance will come soon.
　　End of Part Two . . .