“I’ve missed you . . . really missed you, Christian. The
　　past few days have been . . . difficult.” I swallow, and a
　　lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish
　　since I left him.
　　This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain
　　almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality
　　hits home, winding me.
　　hits home, winding me.
　　“Nothing’s changed. I can’t be what you want me to
　　be.” I squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.
　　“You are what I want you to be,” he says, his soft
　　voice emphatic.
　　“No, Christian, I’m not.”
　　“You’re upset because of what happened last time. I
　　behaved stupidly, and you . . . So did you. Why didn’t you
　　safe word, Anastasia?” His tone changes, becoming
　　accusatory.
　　What? Whoa—change of direction. I flush, blinking
　　at him.
　　“Answer me.”
　　“I don’t know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be
　　what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain,
　　and it went out of my mind. You know . . . I forgot,” I
　　whisper ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.
　　Jeez, perhaps we could have avoided all this
　　heartache.
　　“You forgot!” he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides
　　of the table and glaring at me. I wither under his stare.
　　Shit! He’s furious again. My inner goddess glares at
　　me, too. See, you brought all this on yourself!
　　“How can I trust you?” he says, his voice low. “Ever?”
　　The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at
　　each other, blue eyes to gray. Both of us filled with
　　unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the
　　cork with an unnecessary flourish and pours a little wine
　　into Christian’s glass. Automatically Christian reaches out
　　and takes a sip.
　　and takes a sip.
　　“That’s fine.” His voice is curt.
　　Gingerly the waiter fills our glasses, placing the bottle
　　on the table before beating a hasty retreat. Christian has
　　not taken his eyes off me the whole time. I am the first to
　　crack, breaking eye contact, picking up my glass and
　　taking a large gulp. I barely taste it.
　　“I’m sorry,” I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I left
　　because I thought we were incompatible, but he’s saying I
　　could have stopped him?
　　“Sorry for what?” he says alarmed.
　　“Not using the safe word.”
　　He closes his eyes, as if in relief.
　　“We might have avoided all this suffering,” he mutters.
　　“You look fine.” More than fine. You look like you.
　　“Appearances can be deceptive,” he says quietly. “I’m
　　anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for
　　five days, Ana. I’m in perpetual night here.”
　　I’m winded by his admission. Oh my, like me.
　　“You said you’d never leave, yet the going gets tough
　　and you’re out the door.”
　　“When did I say I’d never leave?”
　　“In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I’d
　　heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax.”
　　My heart constricts and I reach for my wine.
　　“You said you loved me,” he whispers. “Is that now in
　　the past tense?” His voice is low, laced with anxiety.
　　“No, Christian, it’s not.”
　　He gazes at me, and he looks so vulnerable as he
　　exhales. “Good,” he murmurs.
　　exhales. “Good,” he murmurs.
　　I’m shocked by his admission. He’s had a change of
　　heart. When I told him I loved him before, he was
　　horrified. The waiter is back. Briskly he places our plates
　　in front of us and scuttles away.
　　Holy hell. Food.
　　“Eat,” Christian commands.
　　Deep down I know I’m hungry, but right now, my
　　stomach is in knots. Sitting across from the only man I
　　have ever loved and debating our uncertain future does not
　　promote a healthy appetite. I look dubiously at my food.
　　“So help me God, Anastasia, if you don’t eat, I will
　　take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will
　　have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!”
　　Jeez, keep your hair on, Grey. My subconscious
　　stares at me over her half-moon specs. She is
　　wholeheartedly in agreement with Fifty Shades.
　　“Okay, I’ll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please.”
　　He doesn’t smile but continues to glare at me.
　　Reluctantly I lift my knife and fork and slice into my steak.
　　Oh, it’s mouthwateringly good. I am hungry, really hungry.
　　I chew and he visibly relaxes.
　　We eat our supper in silence. The music’s changed. A
　　soft-voiced woman sings in the background, her words
　　echoing my thoughts.
　　I glance at Fifty. He’s eating and watching me. Hunger,
　　longing, anxiety combined in one hot look.
　　“Do you know who’s singing?” I try for some normal
　　conversation.
　　Christian pauses and listens. “No . . . but she’s good,
　　Christian pauses and listens. “No . . . but she’s good,
　　whoever she is.”
　　“I like her, too.”
　　Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What’s he
　　planning?
　　“What?” I ask.
　　He shakes his head. “Eat up,” he says mildly.
　　I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any
　　more. How can I negotiate this?
　　“I can’t manage any more. Have I eaten enough for
　　Sir?”
　　He stares at me impassively, not answering, then
　　glances at his watch.
　　“I am really full,” I add, taking a sip of the delicious
　　wine.
　　“We have to go shortly. Taylor’s here, and you have to
　　be up for work in the morning.”
　　“So do you.”
　　“I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia.
　　At least you’ve eaten something.”
　　“Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?”
　　“No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will collect
　　us. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for
　　a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?”
　　Oh, that’s his plan.
　　Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check,
　　then picks up his Blackberry and makes a call.
　　“We’re at Le Picotin, South West Third Avenue.” He
　　hangs up.
　　Jeez, he’s curt over the phone.
　　Jeez, he’s curt over the phone.
　　“You’re very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most
　　people.”
　　“I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.”
　　“You haven’t gotten to the point this evening.
　　Nothing’s changed, Christian.”
　　“I have a proposition for you.”
　　“This started with a proposition.”
　　“A different proposition.”
　　The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit
　　card without checking the bill. He gazes at me
　　speculatively while the waiter swipes his card. Christian’s
　　phone buzzes once, and he peers at it.
　　He has a proposition? What now? A couple of
　　scenarios run through my mind: kidnap, working for him.
　　No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying.
　　“Come. Taylor’s outside.”
　　We stand and he takes my hand.
　　“I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia.” He kisses my
　　knuckles tenderly, and the touch of his lips on my skin
　　resonates throughout my body.
　　Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door.
　　Climbing in, I sink into the plush leather. He heads to the
　　driver’s side, Taylor steps out of the car and they talk
　　briefly. This isn’t their usual protocol. I’m curious. What
　　are they talking about? Moments later, they both climb in,
　　and I glance at Christian who’s wearing his impassive face
　　as he stares ahead.
　　I allow myself a brief moment to examine his godlike
　　profile: straight nose, sculptured full lips, hair falling
　　deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not
　　meant for me.
　　Soft music suddenly fills the rear of the car, an
　　orchestral piece that I don’t know, and Taylor pulls into
　　the light traffic, heading for the I-5 and Seattle.
　　Christian shifts to face me. “As I was saying,
　　Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.”
　　I glance nervously at Taylor.
　　“Taylor can’t hear you,” Christian reassures me.
　　“How?”
　　“Taylor,” Christian calls. Taylor doesn’t respond. He
　　calls again, still no response. Christian leans over and taps
　　his shoulder. Taylor removes an ear bud I hadn’t noticed.
　　“Yes, sir?”
　　“Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay; resume your listening.”
　　“Sir.”
　　“Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini.
　　Forget he’s here. I do.”
　　“Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”
　　“Yes.”
　　Oh. “Okay, your proposition?”
　　Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike.
　　Holy shit. We’re negotiating a deal. I listen attentively.
　　“Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular
　　vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?”
　　My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak.
　　“Kinky fuckery.”
　　“I can’t believe you said that.” I glance nervously at
　　Taylor.
　　“Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly.
　　I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee
　　with her hands clasped in supplication begging me.
　　“I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper.
　　“That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”
　　Not being able to touch you. You enjoying my pain,
　　the bite of the belt . . .
　　“The threat of cruel and unusual punishment.”
　　“What does that mean?”
　　“Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in
　　your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of
　　me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”
　　“Okay, so no whips or canes—or belts, for that
　　matter,” he says sardonically.
　　I gaze at him puzzled. “Are you attempting to redefine
　　the hard limits?”
　　“Not as such, I’m just trying to understand you, get a
　　clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.”
　　“Fundamentally, Christian, it’s your joy in inflicting pain
　　on me that’s difficult for me to handle. And the idea that
　　you’ll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line.”
　　“But it’s not arbitrary; the rules are written down.”
　　“I don’t want a set of rules.”
　　“None at all?”
　　“No rules.” I shake my head, but my heart is in my
　　mouth. Where is he going with this?
　　“But you don’t mind if I spank you?”
　　“Spank me with what?”
　　“This.” He holds up his hand.
　　I squirm uncomfortably. “No, not really. Especially
　　with those silver balls . . .” Thank heavens it’s dark, my
　　face is flaming and my voice trails off as I recall that night.
　　Yeah . . . I’d do that again.
　　He smirks at me. “Yes, that was fun.”
　　“More than fun,” I mutter.
　　“So you can deal with some pain.”
　　I shrug. “Yes, I suppose.” Oh, where is he going with
　　this? My anxiety level has shot up several magnitudes on
　　the Richter scale.
　　He strokes his chin, deep in thought. “Anastasia, I
　　want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe,
　　once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to
　　communicate with me, we could move on and do some of
　　the things that I like to do.”
　　I stare at him, stunned, with no thoughts in my head at
　　all—like a computer crash. He gazes at me anxiously, but I

　　can’t see him clearly, as we’re shrouded in the Oregon
　　darkness. It occurs to me, finally, this is it.
　　He wants the light, but can I ask him to do this for me?
　　And don’t I like the dark? Some dark, sometimes.
　　Memories of the Thomas Tallis night drift invitingly through
　　my mind.
　　“But what about punishments?”
　　“No punishments.” He shakes his head. “None.”
　　“And the rules?”
　　“No rules.”
　　“None at all? But you have needs.”
　　“None at all? But you have needs.”
　　“I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have
　　been purgatory. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell
　　me I don’t deserve you.
　　“Those photos the boy took . . . I can see how he sees
　　you. You look so untroubled and beautiful, not that you’re
　　not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It’s
　　hard knowing that I’m the one who has made you feel this
　　way.
　　“But I’m a selfish man. I’ve wanted you since you fell
　　into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong,
　　witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I am in awe
　　of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having
　　you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul.”
　　My mouth goes dry. Holy shit. My subconscious nods
　　with satisfaction. If that isn’t a declaration of love, I don’t
　　know what is. And the words tumble out of me—a dam
　　breached.
　　“Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul? I
　　would never say that. Sad maybe, but you’re a good man.
　　I can see that . . . you’re generous, you’re kind, and
　　you’ve never lied to me. And I haven’t tried very hard.
　　“Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was
　　my wake-up call. I realized that you’d been easy on me
　　and that I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be.
　　Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain
　　you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do
　　want to please you, but it’s hard.”
　　“You please me all the time,” he whispers. “How often
　　do I have to tell you that?”
　　do I have to tell you that?”
　　“I never know what you’re thinking. Sometimes you’re
　　so closed off . . . like an island state. You intimidate me.
　　That’s why I keep quiet. I don’t know which way your
　　mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and
　　back again in a nanosecond. It’s confusing and you won’t
　　let me touch you, and I want to so much to show you how
　　much I love you.”
　　He blinks at me in the darkness, warily I think, and I
　　can resist him no longer. I unbuckle my seatbelt and
　　scramble into his lap, taking him by surprise, and take his
　　head in my hands.
　　“I love you, Christian Grey. And you’re prepared to
　　do all this for me. I’m the one who is undeserving, and I’m
　　just sorry that I can’t do all those things for you. Maybe
　　with time . . . I don’t know . . . but yes, I accept your
　　proposition. Where do I sign?”
　　He snakes his arms around me and crushes me to him.
　　“Oh, Ana,” he breathes as he buries his nose in my
　　hair.
　　We sit, our arms wrapped around each other, listening
　　to the music—a soothing piano piece—mirroring the
　　emotions in the car, the sweet tranquil calm after the storm.
　　I snuggle into his arms, resting my head in the crook of his
　　neck. He gently strokes my back.
　　“Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia,” he
　　whispers.
　　“I know. I wish I understood why.”
　　After a while, he sighs, and in a soft voice he says, “I
　　had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s
　　had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore’s
　　pimps . . .” His voice trails off, and his body tenses as he
　　recalls some unimaginable horror. “I can remember that,”
　　he whispers, shuddering.
　　Abruptly, my heart constricts as I remember the burn
　　scars marring his skin. Oh, Christian. I tighten my arms
　　around his neck.
　　“Was she abusive? Your mother?” My voice is low
　　and soft with unshed tears.
　　“Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn’t
　　protect me from her pimp.”
　　He snorts. “I think it was me who looked after her.
　　When she finally killed herself, it took four days for
　　someone to raise the alarm and find us . . . I remember
　　that.”
　　I cannot contain my gasp of horror. Holy mother fuck.
　　Bile rises in my throat.
　　“That’s pretty fucked-up,” I whisper.
　　“Fifty shades,” he murmurs.
　　I turn my head and press my lips against his neck,
　　seeking and offering solace as I imagine a small, dirty,
　　gray-eyed boy lost and lonely beside the body of his dead
　　mother.
　　Oh, Christian. I breathe in his scent. He smells
　　heavenly, my favorite fragrance in the entire world. He
　　tightens his arms around me and kisses my hair, and I sit
　　wrapped in his embrace as Taylor speeds into the night.
　　When I wake, we’re driving through Seattle.
　　When I wake, we’re driving through Seattle.
　　“Hey,” Christian says softly.
　　“Sorry,” I murmur as I sit up, blinking and stretching. I
　　am still in his arms, on his lap.
　　“I could watch you sleep forever, Ana.”
　　“Did I say anything?”
　　“No. We’re nearly at your place.”
　　Oh? “We’re not going to yours?”
　　“No.”
　　I sit up and gaze at him. “Why not?”
　　“Because you have work tomorrow.”
　　“Oh.” I pout.
　　He smirks at me. “Why, did you have something in
　　mind?”
　　I flush. “Well, maybe.”
　　He chuckles. “Anastasia, I am not going to touch you
　　again, not until you beg me to.”
　　“What!”
　　“So that you’ll start communicating with me. Next time
　　we make love, you’re going to have to tell me exactly what
　　you want in fine detail.”
　　“Oh.” He shifts me off his lap as Taylor pulls up
　　outside my apartment. Christian climbs out and holds the
　　car door open for me.
　　“I have something for you.” He moves to the back of
　　the car, opens the trunk, and pulls out a large gift-wrapped
　　box. What the hell is this?
　　“Open it when you get inside.”
　　“You’re not coming in?”
　　“No, Anastasia.”
　　“No, Anastasia.”
　　“So when will I see you?”
　　“Tomorrow.”
　　“My boss wants me to go for a drink with him
　　tomorrow.”
　　Christian’s face hardens. “Does he, now?” His voice is
　　laced with latent menace.
　　“To celebrate my first week,” I add quickly.
　　“Where?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“I could pick you up from there.”
　　“Okay . . . I’ll e-mail or text you.”
　　“Good.”
　　He walks me to the lobby door and waits while I dig
　　my keys out of my purse. As I unlock the door, he leans
　　forward and cups my chin, tilting my head back. His mouth
　　hovers over mine, and closing his eyes, he runs a trail of
　　kisses from the corner of my eye to the corner of my
　　mouth.
　　A small moan escapes my mouth as my insides melt
　　and unfurl.
　　“Until tomorrow,” he breathes.
　　“Goodnight, Christian,” I whisper, and I hear the need
　　in my voice.
　　He smiles.
　　“In you go,” he orders, and I walk through the lobby
　　carrying my mysterious parcel.
　　“Laters, baby,” he calls, then turns and with his easy
　　grace, heads back to the car.
　　Once in the apartment, I open the gift box and find my
　　MacBook Pro laptop, the Blackberry, and another
　　rectangular box. What is this? I unwrap the silver paper.
　　Inside is a black, slim, leather case.
　　Opening the case, I find an iPad. Holy shit . . . an
　　iPad. A white card is resting on the screen with a message
　　written in Christian’s handwriting:
　　Holy cow. I have a Christian Grey mix-tape in the
　　guise of a high-end iPad. I shake my head in disapproval
　　because of the expense, but deep down I love it. Jack at
　　the office has one, so I know how they work.
　　I switch it on and gasp as the wallpaper image appears:
　　a small model glider. Oh my. It’s the Blanik L23 I gave
　　him, mounted on a glass stand and sitting on what I think is
　　Christian’s desk at his office. I gape at it.
　　He built it! He really did build it. I remember now he
　　mentioned it in the note with the flowers. I’m reeling, and I
　　know in that instant that he’s put a great deal of thought
　　into this gift.
　　I slide the arrow at the bottom of the screen to unlock
　　I slide the arrow at the bottom of the screen to unlock
　　it and gasp again. The background photograph is of
　　Christian and me at my graduation in the marquee. It’s the
　　one that appeared in the Seattle Times. Christian looks so
　　handsome and I can’t help my face-splitting grin, as my
　　inner goddess curls up hugging herself on her chaise longue
　　—Yes, and he’s mine!
　　With a swipe of my finger, the icons shift, and several
　　new ones appear on the next screen. A Kindle app,
　　iBooks, Words—whatever that is.
　　Holy shit! The British Library? I touch the icon and a
　　menu appears: HISTORICAL COLLECTION. Scrolling down,
　　I select NOVELS OF THE 18TH AND 19TH CENTURY.
　　Another menu. I tap on a title: THE AMERICAN BY HENRY
　　JAMES. A new window opens, offering me a scanned
　　copy of the book to read. Holy crap—it’s an early edition,
　　published in 1879, and it’s on my iPad! He’s bought me
　　the British Library at a touch of a button.
　　I exit quickly, knowing that I could be lost in this app
　　for an eternity. I notice a “good food” app that makes me
　　roll my eyes and smile at the same time, a news app, a
　　weather app, but his note mentioned music. I go back to
　　the main screen, hit the iPod icon and a playlist appears. I
　　scroll through the songs, and the list makes me smile.
　　Thomas Tallis—I’m not going to forget that in a hurry. I
　　heard it twice, after all, while he flogged and fucked me.
　　“Witchcraft.” My grin gets wider—dancing round the
　　great room. The Bach Marcello piece—oh no, that’s way
　　too sad for my mood right now. Hmm. Jeff Buckley
　　—yeah, I’ve heard of him. Snow Patrol—my favorite
　　—yeah, I’ve heard of him. Snow Patrol—my favorite
　　band—and a song called “Principles of Lust” by Enigma.
　　How Christian. I smirk. Another called “Possession” . . .
　　oh yes, very Fifty Shades. And a few more I have never
　　heard.
　　Selecting a song that catches my eye, I press play. It’s
　　called “Try” by Nellie Furtado. She starts to sing, and her
　　voice is a silken scarf wrapping around me, enveloping me.
　　I lie down on my bed.
　　Does this mean Christian’s going to try? Try this new
　　relationship? I drink in the lyrics, staring at the ceiling,
　　trying to understand his turnaround. He missed me. I
　　missed him. He must have some feelings for me. He must.
　　This iPad, these songs, these apps—he cares. He really
　　cares. My heart swells with hope.
　　The song ends and tears spring to my eyes. I quickly
　　scroll to another—“The Scientist” by Coldplay—one of
　　Kate’s favorite bands. I know the track, but I’ve never
　　really listened to the lyrics before. I close my eyes and let
　　the words wash over and through me.
　　My tears start to flow. I can’t stem them. If this isn’t an
　　apology, what is it? Oh, Christian.

　　Or is this an invitation? Will he answer my questions?
　　Am I reading too much into this? I am probably
　　reading too much into this. My subconscious nods at
　　me, trying to hide her pity.
　　I dash my tears away. I have to e-mail him to thank
　　him. I leap off my bed to fetch the mean machine.
　　Coldplay continues as I sit cross-legged on my bed.
　　The Mac powers up and I log in.
　　The Mac powers up and I log in.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: IPAD
　　Date: June 9, 2011 23:56
　　To: Christian Grey
　　You’ve made me cry again.
　　I love the iPad.
　　I love the songs.
　　I love the British Library App.
　　I love you.
　　Thank you.
　　Goodnight.
　　Ana xx
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: iPad
　　Date: June 10, 2011 00:03
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　I’m glad you like it. I bought one for myself.
　　Now, if I were there, I would kiss away your tears.
　　But I’m not—so go to sleep.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　His response makes me smile, still so bossy, still so
　　Christian. Will that change, too? And I realize in that
　　moment that I hope not. I like him like this—commanding
　　—as long as I can stand up to him without fear of
　　punishment.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Mr. Grumpy
　　Date: June 10, 2011 00:07
　　To: Christian Grey
　　You sound your usual bossy and possibly tense, possibly
　　grumpy self, Mr. Grey.
　　I know something that could ease that. But then, you’re not here
　　—you wouldn’t let me stay, and you expect me to beg . . .
　　Dream on, Sir.
　　Ana xx
　　PS: I also note that you included the Stalker’s Anthem, “Every
　　Breath You Take.” I do enjoy your sense of humor, but does Dr.
　　Flynn know?
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Zen-Like Calm
　　Date: June 10, 2011 00.10
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　My Dearest Miss Steele
　　Spanking occurs in vanilla relationships, too, you know. Usually
　　consensually and in a sexual context . . . but I am more than happy
　　to make an exception.
　　You’ll be relieved to know that Dr. Flynn also enjoys my sense of
　　humor.
　　Now, please go to sleep as you won’t get much tomorrow.
　　Incidentally—you will beg, trust me. And I look forward to it.
　　Christian Grey
　　Tense CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Goodnight, Sweet Dreams
　　Date: June 10, 2011 00:12
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Well, since you ask so nicely, and I like your delicious threat, I
　　shall curl up with the iPad that you have so kindly given me and
　　fall asleep browsing in the British Library, listening to the music
　　fall asleep browsing in the British Library, listening to the music
　　that says it for you.
　　A xxx
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: One more request
　　Date: June 10, 2011 00:15
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Dream of me.
　　x
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　Dream of you, Christian Grey? Always.
　　I change quickly into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and
　　slip into bed. Putting my ear buds in, I pull the flattened
　　Charlie Tango balloon from underneath my pillow and hug
　　it to me.
　　I am brimming with joy, a stupid, widemouthed grin on
　　my face. What a difference a day can make. How am I
　　ever going to sleep?
　　José Gonzalez starts to sing a soothing melody with a
　　hypnotic guitar riff, and I drift slowly into sleep, marveling
　　how the world has righted itself in one evening and
　　wondering idly if I should make a playlist for Christian.
　　wondering idly if I should make a playlist for Christian.
　　The one good thing about being car-less is that on the bus
　　on my way to work, I can plug my headphones into my
　　iPad while it’s safely in my purse and listen to all the
　　wonderful tunes Christian has given me. By the time I
　　arrive at the office, I have the most ludicrous grin on my
　　face.
　　Jack glances up at me and does a double take.
　　“Good morning, Ana. You look . . . radiant.” His
　　remark flusters me. How inappropriate!
　　“I slept well, thank you, Jack. Good morning.”
　　His brow crinkles.
　　“Can you read these for me and have reports on them
　　by lunchtime, please?” He hands me four manuscripts. At
　　my horrified expression, he adds, “Just first chapters.”
　　“Sure,” I smile with relief, and he gives me a broad
　　smile in return.
　　I switch on the computer to start work, finishing my
　　latte and eating a banana. There’s an e-mail from
　　Christian.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: So Help Me . . .
　　Date: June 10, 2011 08:05
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　I do hope you’ve had breakfast.
　　I missed you last night.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Old books . . .
　　Date: June 10, 2011 08:33
　　To: Christian Grey
　　I am eating a banana as I type. I have not had breakfast for several
　　days, so it is a step forward. I love the British Library App—I
　　started rereading Robinson Crusoe . . . and of course, I love you.
　　Now leave me alone—I am trying to work.
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Is that all you’ve eaten?
　　Date: June 10, 2011 08:36
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　You can do better than that. You’re going to need your energy for
　　begging.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Pest
　　Date: June 10, 2011 08:39
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Mr. Grey—I am trying to work for a living—and it’s you that will
　　be begging.
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Bring it On!
　　Subject: Bring it On!
　　Date: June 10, 2011 08:36
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Why Miss Steele, I love a challenge . . .
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　I sit grinning at the screen like an idiot. But I need to read
　　these chapters for Jack and write reports on all of them.
　　Placing the manuscripts on my desk, I begin.
　　At lunchtime I head to the deli for a pastrami sandwich
　　and listen to the playlist on my iPad. First up there’s Nitin
　　Sawhney, some world music called “Homelands”—it’s
　　good. Mr. Grey has an eclectic taste in music. I wander
　　back, listening to a classical piece, Fantasia on a Theme
　　of Thomas Tallis by Vaughn Williams. Oh, Fifty has a
　　sense of humor, and I love him for it. Will this stupid grin
　　ever leave my face?
　　The afternoon drags. I decide, in an unguarded
　　moment, to e-mail Christian.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Bored . . .
　　Date: June 10, 2011 16:05
　　To: Christian Grey
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Twiddling my thumbs.
　　How are you?
　　What are you doing?
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Your thumbs
　　Date: June 10, 2011 16:15
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　You should have come to work for me.
　　You wouldn’t be twiddling your thumbs.
　　I am sure I could put them to better use.
　　In fact I can think of a number of options . . .
　　I am doing the usual humdrum mergers and acquisitions.
　　It’s all very dry.
　　Your e-mails at SIP are monitored.
　　Christian Grey
　　Distracted CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　Oh shit. I had no idea. How the hell does he know? I
　　scowl at the screen and quickly check the e-mails we’ve
　　scowl at the screen and quickly check the e-mails we’ve
　　sent, deleting them as I do.
　　Promptly at five thirty, Jack is at my desk. It is Dressdown
　　Friday so he’s wearing jeans and a black shirt. He
　　looks very casual.
　　“Drink, Ana? We usually like to go for a quick one at
　　the bar across the street.”
　　“We?” I ask, hopeful.
　　“Yeah, most of us go . . . you coming?”
　　For some unknown reason, which I don’t want to
　　examine too closely, relief floods through me.
　　“I’d love to. What’s the bar called?”
　　“50s.”
　　“You’re kidding.”
　　He looks at me oddly. “No. Some significance for
　　you?”
　　“No, sorry. I’ll join you over there.”
　　“What would you like to drink?”
　　“A beer please.”
　　“Cool.”
　　I make my way to the powder room and e-mail
　　Christian from the Blackberry.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: You’ll Fit Right In
　　Date: June 10, 2011 17:36
　　To: Christian Grey
　　We are going to a bar called Fifty’s.
　　The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.
　　I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Grey.
　　A x
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Hazards
　　Date: June 10, 2011 17:38
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Mining is a very, very dangerous occupation.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Hazards?
　　Date: June 10, 2011 17:40
　　To: Christian Grey
　　And your point is?
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Merely . . .
　　Date: June 10, 2011 17:42
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Making an observation, Miss Steele.
　　I’ll see you shortly.
　　Sooners rather than laters, baby.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　I check myself in the mirror. What a difference a day can
　　make. I have more color in my cheeks, and my eyes are
　　shining. It’s the Christian Grey effect. A little e-mail
　　sparring with him will do that to a girl. I grin at the mirror
　　and straighten my pale blue shirt—the one Taylor bought
　　me. I am wearing my favorite jeans today, too. Most of
　　the women in the office wear either jeans or floaty skirts. I
　　will need to invest in a floaty skirt or two. Perhaps I’ll do
　　that this weekend and bank the check Christian gave me
　　for Wanda, my Beetle.
　　As I head out of the building, I hear my name called.
　　“Miss Steele?”
　　I turn expectantly, and an ashen young woman
　　approaches me cautiously. She looks like a ghost—so
　　pale and strangely blank.
　　“Miss Anastasia Steele?” she repeats, and her features
　　“Miss Anastasia Steele?” she repeats, and her features
　　stay static even though she’s speaking.
　　“Yes?”
　　She stops, staring at me from about three feet away on
　　the sidewalk, and I stare back, immobilized. Who is she?
　　What does she want?
　　“Can I help you?” I ask. How does she know my
　　name?
　　“No . . . I just wanted to look at you.” Her voice is
　　eerily soft. Like me, she has dark hair that starkly contrasts
　　with her fair skin. Her eyes are brown, like bourbon, but
　　flat. There’s no life in them at all. Her beautiful face is pale,
　　and etched with sorrow.
　　“Sorry—you have me at a disadvantage,” I say
　　politely, trying to ignore the warning tingle up my spine. On
　　closer inspection, she looks odd, disheveled and uncared
　　for. Her clothes are two sizes too big, including her
　　designer trench coat.
　　She laughs, a strange, discordant sound that only feeds
　　my anxiety.
　　“What do you have that I don’t?” she asks sadly.
　　My anxiety turns to fear. “I’m sorry—who are you?”
　　“Me? I’m nobody.” She lifts her arm to drag her hand
　　through her shoulder length hair, and as she does, the
　　sleeve of her trench coat rides up, revealing a soiled
　　bandage around her wrist.
　　Holy fuck.
　　“Good day, Miss Steele.” Turning, she walks up the
　　street as I stand rooted to the spot. I watch as her slight
　　frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers
　　frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers
　　pouring out of their various offices.

　　What was that about?
　　Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to
　　assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious
　　rears her ugly head and hisses at me—She has something
　　to do with Christian.
　　Fifty’s is a cavernous, impersonal bar with baseball
　　pennants and posters hanging on the wall. Jack is at the
　　bar with Elizabeth, Courtney the other commissioning
　　editor, two guys from finance, and Claire from reception.
　　She is wearing her trademark silver hooped earrings.
　　“Hi, Ana!” Jack hands me a bottle of Bud.
　　“Cheers . . . thank you,” I murmur, still shaken by my
　　encounter with Ghost Girl.
　　“Cheers.” We clink bottles, and he continues his
　　conversation with Elizabeth. Claire smiles sweetly at me.
　　“So, how has your first week been?” she asks.
　　“Good, thank you. Everyone seems very friendly.”
　　“You seem much happier today.”
　　I flush. “It’s Friday,” I mutter quickly. “So—have you
　　any plans this weekend?”
　　My patented distraction technique works and I’m saved.
　　Claire turns out to be one of seven kids, and she’s going to
　　a big family get-together in Tacoma. She becomes quite
　　animated, and I realize I haven’t spoken to any women my
　　own age since Kate left for Barbados.
　　Absently I wonder how Kate is . . . and Elliot. I must
　　Absently I wonder how Kate is . . . and Elliot. I must
　　remember to ask Christian if he’s heard from him. Oh, and
　　Ethan her brother will be back next Tuesday, and he’ll be
　　staying in our apartment. I can’t imagine Christian is going
　　to be happy about that. My earlier encounter with strange
　　Ghost Girl slips further from my mind.
　　During my conversation with Claire, Elizabeth hands
　　me another beer.
　　“Thanks,” I smile at her.
　　Claire is very easy to talk to—she likes to talk—and
　　before I know it, I am on my third beer, courtesy of one of
　　the guys from finance.
　　When Elizabeth and Courtney leave, Jack joins Claire
　　and me. Where is Christian? One of the finance guys
　　engages Claire in conversation.
　　“Ana, think you made the right decision coming here?”
　　Jack’s voice is soft, and he’s standing a bit too close. But
　　I’ve noticed that he has a tendency to do this with
　　everyone, even at the office. My subconscious narrows
　　her eyes. You’re reading too much into this , she
　　admonishes me.
　　“I’ve enjoyed myself this week, thank you, Jack. Yes,
　　I think I made the right decision.”
　　“You’re a very bright girl, Ana. You’ll go far.”
　　I blush. “Thank you,” I mutter, because I don’t know
　　what else to say.
　　“Do you live far?”
　　“The Pike Market district.”
　　“Not far from me.” Smiling, he moves even closer and
　　leans against the bar, effectively trapping me. “Do you
　　have any plans this weekend?”
　　“Well . . . um—”
　　I feel him before I see him. It’s as if my whole body is
　　highly attuned to his presence. It relaxes and ignites at the
　　same time—a weird, internal duality—and I sense that
　　strange pulsing electricity.
　　Christian drapes his arm around my shoulder in a
　　seemingly casual display of affection—but I know
　　differently. He is staking a claim, and on this occasion, it’s
　　very welcome. Softly he kisses my hair.
　　“Hello, baby,” he murmurs.
　　I can’t help but feel relieved, safe, and excited with his
　　arm around me. He draws me to his side, and I glance up
　　at him while he stares at Jack, his expression impassive.
　　Turning his attention to me, he gives me a brief crooked
　　smile followed by a swift kiss. He’s wearing his navy
　　pinstriped jacket over jeans and an open white shirt. He
　　looks edible.
　　Jack shuffles back uncomfortably.
　　“Jack, this is Christian,” I mumble apologetically. Why
　　am I apologizing? “Christian, Jack.”
　　“I’m the boyfriend,” Christian says with a small, cool
　　smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he shakes Jack’s hand.
　　I glance up at Jack who is mentally assessing the fine
　　specimen of manhood in front of him.
　　“I’m the boss,” Jack replies arrogantly. “Ana did
　　mention an ex-boyfriend.”
　　Oh, shit. You don’t want to play this game with
　　Fifty.
　　“Well, no longer ex,” Christian replies calmly. “Come
　　on, baby, time to go.”
　　“Please, stay and join us for a drink,” Jack says
　　smoothly.
　　I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why is this so
　　uncomfortable? I glance at Claire, who is, of course
　　staring, open-mouthed and with frankly carnal appreciation
　　at Christian. When will I stop caring about the effect he
　　has on other women?
　　“We have plans,” Christian replies with his enigmatic
　　smile.
　　We do? And a frisson of anticipation runs through my
　　body.
　　“Another time, perhaps,” he adds. “Come,” he says to
　　me as he takes my hand.
　　“See you Monday.” I smile at Jack, Claire, and the
　　guys from finance, trying hard to ignore Jack’s less-thanpleased
　　expression, and follow Christian out of the door.
　　Taylor is at the wheel of the Audi waiting at the curb.
　　“Why did that feel like a pissing contest?” I ask
　　Christian as he opens the car door for me.
　　“Because it was,” he murmurs and gives me his
　　enigmatic smile then shuts my door.
　　“Hello, Taylor,” I say and our eyes meet in the review
　　mirror.
　　“Miss Steele,” Taylor acknowledges with a genial
　　smile.
　　Christian slides in beside me, clasps my hand, and
　　gently kisses my knuckles. “Hi,” he says softly.
　　My cheeks turn pink, knowing that Taylor can hear us,
　　grateful that he can’t see the scorching, panty-combusting
　　look that Christian is giving me. It takes all my self-restraint
　　not to leap on him right here, in the back seat of the car.
　　Oh, the back seat of the car . . . hmm. My inner
　　goddess strokes her chin gently in quiet contemplation.
　　“Hi,” I breathe, my mouth dry.
　　“What would you like to do this evening?”
　　“I thought you said we had plans.”
　　“Oh, I know what I’d like to do, Anastasia. I’m asking
　　you what you want to do.”
　　I beam at him.
　　“I see,” he says with a wickedly salacious grin. “So . . .
　　begging it is, then. Do you want to beg at my place or
　　yours?” He tilts his head to one side and smiles his oh-sosexy
　　smile at me.
　　“I think you’re being very presumptuous, Mr. Grey.
　　But by way of a change, we could go to my apartment.” I
　　bite my lip deliberately, and his expression darkens.
　　“Taylor, Miss Steele’s, please.”
　　“Sir,” Taylor acknowledges and he heads off into the
　　traffic.
　　“So how has your day been?” he asks.
　　“Good. Yours?”
　　“Good, thank you.”
　　His ridiculously broad grin reflects mine, and he kisses
　　my hand again.
　　“You look lovely,” he says.
　　“You look lovely,” he says.
　　“As do you.”
　　“Your boss, Jack Hyde, is he good at his job?”
　　Whoa! That’s a sudden change in direction? I frown.
　　“Why? This isn’t about your pissing contest?”
　　Christian smirks. “That man wants into your panties,
　　Anastasia,” he says dryly.
　　I go crimson as my mouth drops open, and I glance
　　nervously at Taylor. My subconscious inhales sharply,
　　shocked.
　　“Well, he can want all he likes . . . why are we even
　　having this conversation? You know I have no interest in
　　him whatsoever. He’s just my boss.”
　　“That’s the point. He wants what’s mine. I need to
　　know if he’s good at his job.”
　　I shrug. “I think so.” Where is he going with this?
　　“Well, he’d better leave you alone, or he’ll find himself
　　on his ass on the sidewalk.”
　　“Oh, Christian, what are you talking about? He hasn’t
　　done anything wrong.” . . .Yet. He just stands too close.
　　“He makes one move, you tell me. It’s called gross
　　moral turpitude—or sexual harassment.”
　　“It was just a drink after work.”
　　“I mean it. One move and he’s out.”
　　“You don’t have that kind of power.” Honestly! And
　　before I roll my eyes at him, the realization hits me with the
　　force of a speeding freight truck. “Do you, Christian?”
　　Christian gives me his enigmatic smile.
　　“You’re buying the company,” I whisper in horror.
　　His smile slips in response to the panic in my voice.
　　His smile slips in response to the panic in my voice.
　　“Not exactly,” he says.
　　“You’ve bought it. SIP. Already.”
　　He blinks at me, warily. “Possibly.”
　　“You have or you haven’t?”
　　“Have.”
　　What the hell? “Why?” I gasp, appalled. Oh, this just
　　is too much.
　　“Because I can, Anastasia. I need you safe.”
　　“But you said you wouldn’t interfere in my career!”
　　“And I won’t.”
　　I snatch my hand out of his. “Christian . . .” Words fail
　　me.
　　“Are you mad at me?”
　　“Yes. Of course I’m mad at you.” I seethe. “I mean,
　　what kind of responsible business executive makes
　　decisions based on who they are currently fucking?” I
　　blanch and glance nervously once more at Taylor who is
　　stoically ignoring us.
　　Shit. What a time to have a brain-to-mouth filter
　　malfunction. Anastasia! My subconscious glares at me.
　　Christian opens his mouth then closes it again and
　　scowls at me. I glare at him. The atmosphere in the car
　　plunges from warm with sweet reunion to frigid with
　　unspoken words and potential recriminations as we glower
　　at each other.
　　Fortunately, our uncomfortable car journey doesn’t last
　　long, and Taylor pulls up outside my apartment.
　　I scramble out of the car quickly, not waiting for
　　anyone to open the door.
　　anyone to open the door.
　　I hear Christian mutter to Taylor, “I think you’d better
　　wait here.”
　　I sense him standing close behind me as I struggle to
　　find the front door keys in my purse.
　　“Anastasia,” he says calmly as if I’m some cornered
　　wild animal.
　　I sigh and turn to face him. I am so mad at him, my
　　anger is palpable—a dark entity threatening to choke me.
　　“First, I haven’t fucked you for a while—a long while,
　　it feels—and second, I wanted to get into publishing. Of
　　the four companies in Seattle, SIP is the most profitable,
　　but it’s on the cusp and it’s going to stagnate—it needs to
　　branch out.”
　　I stare frigidly at him. His eyes are so intense,
　　threatening even, but sexy as hell. I could get lost in their
　　steely depths.
　　“So you’re my boss now,” I snap.
　　“Technically, I’m your boss’s boss’s boss.”
　　“And, technically, it’s gross moral turpitude—the fact
　　that I am fucking my boss’s boss’s boss.”
　　“At the moment, you’re arguing with him.” Christian
　　scowls.
　　“That’s because he’s such an arse,” I hiss.
　　Christian steps back in stunned surprise. Oh shit. Have
　　I gone too far?
　　“An arse?” he murmurs as his expression changes to
　　one of amusement.
　　Goddamn it! I am mad at you, do not make me