I narrow my eyes at him. “That sounds like a very
　　evasive answer.”
　　“I am always honest with you, Ana. I don’t want to
　　play games. Well, not those sorts of games,” he qualifies,
　　as his eyes heat.
　　“What sort of games do you want to play?”
　　He inclines his head to one side and smirks at me.
　　“Miss Steele, you are so easily distracted.”
　　I giggle. He’s right. “Mr. Grey, you are distracting on
　　so many levels.” I gaze at his dancing gray eyes alight with
　　humor.
　　“My favorite sound in the whole world is your giggle,
　　Anastasia. Now—what was your original question?” he
　　asks smoothly, and I think he’s laughing at me. I try to
　　twist my mouth to show my displeasure, but I like playful
　　Fifty—he’s fun. I love some early morning banter. I frown,
　　trying to recall my question.
　　“Oh yes. You only saw your subs on the weekends?”
　　“Yes, that’s correct,” he says regarding me nervously.
　　I grin at him. “So, no sex during the week.”
　　He laughs. “Oh, that’s where we’re going with this.”
　　He looks vaguely relieved. “Why do you think I work out
　　He looks vaguely relieved. “Why do you think I work out
　　every weekday?” Now he really is laughing at me, but I
　　don’t care. I want to hug myself with glee. Another first—
　　well, several firsts.
　　“You look very pleased with yourself, Miss Steele.”
　　“I am, Mr. Grey.”
　　“You should be.” He grins. “Now eat your breakfast.”
　　Oh, bossy Fifty . . . he’s never far away.
　　We are in the back of the Audi. Taylor is driving with the
　　intention of dropping me off at work, then Christian.
　　Sawyer is riding shotgun.
　　“Didn’t you say your roommate’s brother was arriving
　　today?” Christian asks, almost casually, his voice and
　　expression giving nothing away.
　　“Oh, Ethan,” I gasp. “I forgot. Oh Christian, thank you
　　for reminding me. I’ll have to go back to the apartment.”
　　His face falls. “What time?”
　　“I’m not sure what time he’s arriving.”
　　“I don’t want you going anywhere on your own,” he
　　says sharply.
　　“I know,” I mutter and resist rolling my eyes at Mr.
　　Over-Reaction. “Will Sawyer be spying—um . . .
　　patrolling today?” I glance slyly in Sawyer’s direction to
　　see the backs of his ears turn red.
　　“Yes,” Christian snaps, his eyes glacial.
　　“If I was driving the Saab it would be easier,” I mutter
　　petulantly.
　　“Sawyer will have a car, and he can drive you to your
　　“Sawyer will have a car, and he can drive you to your
　　apartment, depending on what time.”
　　“Okay. I think Ethan will probably contact me during
　　the day. I’ll let you know what the plans are then.”
　　He gazes at me, saying nothing. Oh, what is he
　　thinking?
　　“Okay,” he acquiesces. “Nowhere on your own. Do
　　you understand?” He waves a long finger at me.
　　“Yes, dear,” I mutter.
　　There’s a trace of a smile on his face. “And maybe you
　　should just use your Blackberry—I’ll e-mail you on it.
　　That should prevent my IT guy having a thoroughly
　　interesting morning, okay?” His voice is sardonic.
　　“Yes, Christian.” I can’t resist. I roll my eyes at him,
　　and he smirks at me.
　　“Why Miss Steele, I do believe you’re making my
　　palm twitch.”
　　“Ah, Mr. Grey, your perpetually twitching palm. What
　　are we going to do with that?”
　　He laughs and then is distracted by his Blackberry,
　　which must be on vibrate because it doesn’t ring. He
　　frowns when he sees the caller ID.
　　“What is it?” he snaps into the phone, then listens
　　intently. I use the opportunity to study his lovely features—
　　his straight nose, his hair hanging scruffily over his
　　forehead. I am distracted from my surreptitious ogling by
　　his expression, which turns from incredulity to amusement.
　　I pay attention.
　　“You’re kidding . . . For a scene . . . When did he tell
　　you this?” Christian chuckles, almost reluctantly. “No,
　　you this?” Christian chuckles, almost reluctantly. “No,
　　don’t worry. You don’t have to apologize. I’m glad
　　there’s a logical explanation. It did seem a ridiculously low
　　amount of money . . . I have no doubt you’ve something
　　evil and creative planned for your revenge. Poor Isaac.”
　　He smiles. “Good . . . Good-bye.” He snaps the phone
　　shut and glances at me. His eyes are suddenly wary, but
　　oddly, he looks relieved, too.
　　“Who was that?” I ask.
　　“You really want to know?” he asks quietly.
　　And, I know. I shake my head and stare out my
　　window at the gray Seattle day, feeling forlorn. Why can’t
　　she leave him alone?
　　“Hey.” He reaches for my hand and kisses each of my
　　knuckles in turn, and suddenly he’s sucking my little finger,
　　hard. Then biting it softly.
　　Whoa! He has a hotline to my groin, I gasp and glance
　　nervously at Taylor and Sawyer, then at Christian, and his
　　eyes are darker. He gives me a slow carnal smile.
　　“Don’t sweat it, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “She’s in the
　　past.” And he plants a kiss in the center of my palm,
　　sending tingles everywhere, and my momentary pique is
　　forgotten.
　　“Morning, Ana,” Jack mutters as I make my way to my
　　desk. “Nice dress.”
　　I flush. The dress is part of my new wardrobe,
　　courtesy of my incredibly rich boyfriend. It’s a sleeveless
　　shift dress of pale blue linen, quite fitted, and I’m wearing
　　shift dress of pale blue linen, quite fitted, and I’m wearing
　　cream high-heeled sandals. Christian likes heels, I think. I
　　smile secretly at the thought but quickly recover my bland
　　professional smile for my boss.
　　“Good morning, Jack.”
　　I set about ordering a messenger to take his brochure
　　to the printers. He pops his head around his office door.
　　“Could I have a coffee, please, Ana?”
　　“Sure.” I wander into the kitchen and bump into Claire
　　from reception, who is also fixing coffee.
　　“Hey, Ana,” she says cheerfully.
　　“Hi, Claire.”
　　We chat briefly about her extended-family gathering
　　over the weekend, which she enjoyed immensely, and I tell
　　her about sailing with Christian.
　　“Your boyfriend is so dreamy, Ana,” she says, her
　　eyes glazing over.
　　I am tempted to roll my eyes at her.
　　“He’s not bad-looking,” I smile and we both start
　　laughing.
　　“You took your time!” Jack snaps when I bring in his
　　coffee.
　　Oh! “I’m sorry.” I flush then frown. I took the usual
　　amount of time. What’s his problem? Perhaps he’s
　　nervous about something.
　　He shakes his head. “Sorry, Ana. I didn’t mean to
　　bark at you, honey.”
　　Honey?
　　“There’s something going on at senior management
　　level, and I don’t know what it is. Keep your ear to the
　　ground, okay? If you hear anything—I know how you girls
　　talk.” He grins at me, and I feel slightly sick. He has no
　　idea how we “girls” talk. Besides, I know what’s
　　happening.
　　“You’ll let me know, right?”
　　“Sure,” I mutter. “I’ve sent the brochure to the
　　printers. It will be back by two o’clock.”
　　“Great. Here.” He hands me a pile of manuscripts. “All
　　these need synopses of the first chapter, then filing.”
　　“I’ll get on it.”
　　I am relieved to step out of his office and sit down at
　　my desk. Oh, it’s hard being in the know. What will he do
　　when he finds out? My blood runs cold. Something tells
　　me Jack will be annoyed. I glance at my Blackberry and
　　smile. There’s an e-mail from Christian.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Sunrise
　　Date: June 14, 2011 09:23
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　I love waking up to you in the morning.
　　Christian Grey
　　Completely & Utterly Smitten CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　I think my face splits in two with my grin, and my inner
　　goddess back-flips over her chaise longue.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Sundown
　　Date: June 14, 2011 09:35
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Dear Completely & Utterly Smitten
　　I love waking up to you, too. But I love being in bed with you and
　　in elevators and on pianos and billiard tables and boats and desks
　　and showers and bathtubs and strange wooden crosses with
　　shackles and four-poster beds with red satin sheets and
　　boathouses and childhood bedrooms.
　　Yours
　　Sex Mad and Insatiable xx
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Wet Hardware
　　Date: June 14, 2011 09:37
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Dear Sex Mad and Insatiable
　　I’ve just spat coffee all over my keyboard.
　　I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before.
　　I do admire a woman who concentrates on geography.
　　Am I to infer you just want me for my body?
　　Christian Grey
　　Completely & Utterly Shocked CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings
　　Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Giggling—and wet too
　　Date: June 14, 2011: 09:42
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Dear Completely & Utterly Shocked
　　Always.
　　I have work to do.
　　Stop bothering me.
　　SM&I xx
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Do I have to?
　　Date: June 14, 2011 09:50
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Dear SM&I
　　As ever, your wish is my command.
　　Love that you are giggling and wet.
　　Laters, baby.
　　x
　　Christian Grey,
　　Completely & Utterly Smitten, Shocked and Spellbound CEO, Grey
　　Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　I put the Blackberry down and get on with my work.
　　At lunchtime, Jack asks me to go down to the deli for his
　　lunch. I call Christian as soon as I leave Jack’s office.
　　“Anastasia.” He answers immediately, his voice warm
　　and caressing. How is it that this man can make me melt
　　over the phone?
　　“Christian, Jack has asked me to get his lunch.”
　　“Lazy bastard,” Christian gripes.
　　I ignore him and continue. “So I’m going to get it. It
　　might be handy if you gave me Sawyer’s number, so I
　　don’t have to bother you.”
　　“It’s no bother, baby.”
　　“Are you on your own?”
　　“No. There are six people staring at me at the moment
　　wondering who the hell I’m talking to.”
　　Shit . . . “Really?” I gasp, panicked.
　　“Yes. Really. My girlfriend,” he announces away from
　　the phone.
　　Holy cow! “They probably all thought you were gay,
　　you know.”
　　He laughs. “Yeah, probably.” I hear his grin.
　　“Er—I’d better go.” I am sure he can tell how
　　embarrassed I am to be interrupting him.
　　“I’ll let Sawyer know.” He laughs again. “Have you
　　heard from your friend?”
　　“Not yet. You’ll be the first to know, Mr. Grey.”
　　“Good. Laters, baby.”
　　“Bye, Christian.” I grin. Every time he says that, it
　　makes me smile . . . so un-Fifty, but somehow so him, too.
　　When I exit moments later, Sawyer is waiting on the
　　doorstep of the building.
　　“Miss Steele,” he greets me formally.
　　“Sawyer.” I nod in response and together we head
　　down to the deli.
　　I don’t feel as comfortable with Sawyer as I do with
　　Taylor. He continually scans the street as we make our
　　way along the block. It actually makes me more nervous,
　　and I find myself mirroring his actions.
　　Is Leila out there? Or are we all infected by Christian’s
　　paranoia? Is this part of his fifty shades? What I’d give for
　　half an hour of candid discussion with Dr. Flynn, to find
　　out.
　　out.
　　There’s nothing amiss, just lunchtime Seattle—people
　　rushing for lunch, shopping, meeting friends. I watch two
　　young women hug as they meet up.
　　I miss Kate. It’s only been two weeks since she left for
　　her vacation, but it feels like the longest two weeks of my
　　life. So much has happened—she’ll never believe me when
　　I tell her. Well, tell her the edited NDA-compliant version.
　　I frown. I’ll have to talk to Christian about that. What
　　would Kate make of it? I blanch at the thought. Perhaps

　　she’ll be back with Ethan. I feel a rush of excitement at the
　　thought, but I think it’s unlikely. She’d stay on with Elliot
　　surely.
　　“Where do you stand when you’re waiting and
　　watching outside?” I ask Sawyer as we get in line for
　　lunch. Sawyer is in front of me, facing the door, continually
　　monitoring the street and anyone who comes in. It’s
　　unnerving.
　　“I sit in the coffee shop directly across the street, Miss
　　Steele.”
　　“Doesn’t it get very boring?”
　　“Not to me, ma’am. It’s what I do,” he says stiffly.
　　I flush. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . .” My voice
　　trails off at his kind, understanding expression.
　　“Please, Miss Steele. My job is to protect you. And
　　that’s what I’ll do.”
　　“So, no sign of Leila?”
　　“No, ma’am.”
　　I frown. “How do you know what she looks like?”
　　“I’ve seen her photograph.”
　　“I’ve seen her photograph.”
　　“Oh, do you have it on you?”
　　“No, ma’am.” He taps his skull. “Committed to
　　memory.”
　　Of course. I’d really like to examine a photograph of
　　Leila to see what she looked like before she became
　　Ghost Girl. I wonder if Christian would let me have a
　　copy? Yes, he probably would—for my safety. I hatch a
　　plan, and my subconscious gloats and nods approvingly.
　　The brochures arrive back at the office, and I have to say,
　　they look great. I take one into Jack’s office. His eyes light
　　up, and I don’t know if it’s at me or the brochure. I
　　choose to believe it’s the latter.
　　“These look great, Ana.” Idly, he flicks through it.
　　“Yeah, good job. Are you seeing your boyfriend this
　　evening?” His lip curls as he says boyfriend.
　　“Yes. We live together.” It’s sort of the truth. Well, we
　　do at the moment. And I have officially agreed to move in,
　　so it’s not much of a white lie. I hope that it’s enough to
　　throw him off the scent.
　　“Would he object to you coming out for a quick drink
　　tonight? To celebrate all your hard work?”
　　“I have a friend coming in from out of town tonight,
　　and we’re all going out for dinner.” And I’ll be busy every
　　night, Jack.
　　“I see.” He sighs, exasperated. “Maybe when I’m
　　back from New York, huh?” He raises his eyebrows in
　　expectation, and his gaze darkens suggestively.
　　expectation, and his gaze darkens suggestively.
　　Oh no. I smile, noncommittal, stifling a shudder.
　　“Would you like some coffee or tea?” I ask.
　　“Coffee, please.” His voice is low and husky as if he’s
　　asking for something else. Fuck. He’s not going to back
　　off. I can see that now. Oh . . . What to do?
　　I breathe a long sigh of relief when I am out of his
　　office. He makes me tense. Christian is right about him,
　　and part of me is pissed that Christian is right about him.
　　I sit down at my desk and my Blackberry rings—a
　　number I don’t recognize.
　　“Ana Steele.”
　　“Hi, Steele!” Ethan’s drawl catches me momentarily off
　　guard.
　　“Ethan! How are you?” I almost squeal with delight.
　　“Glad to be back. I am seriously fed up with sunshine
　　and rum punches, and my baby sister being hopelessly in
　　love with the big guy. It’s been hell, Ana.”
　　“Yeah! Sea, sand, sun, and rum punches sounds like
　　Dante’s Inferno.” I giggle. “Where are you?”
　　“I’m at Sea-Tac, waiting for my bag. What are you
　　doing?”
　　“I’m at work. Yes, I am gainfully employed,” I
　　respond to his gasp. “Do you want to come here and
　　collect the keys? I can meet you later at the apartment.”
　　“Sounds great. I’ll see you in about 45 minutes, an
　　hour maybe? What’s the address?”
　　I give him SIP’s address.
　　“See you soon, Ethan.”
　　“Laters,” he says and hangs up. What? Not Ethan,
　　“Laters,” he says and hangs up. What? Not Ethan,
　　too? And it dawns on me that he’s just spent a week with
　　Elliot. I quickly type an e-mail to Christian.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Visitors from Sunny Climes.
　　Date: June 14, 2011: 14:55
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Dearest Completely & Utterly SS&S
　　Ethan is back, and he’s coming here to collect keys to the
　　apartment.
　　I’d really like to make sure he’s settled in okay.
　　Why don’t you collect me after work? We can go to the apartment
　　then we can ALL go out for a meal maybe?
　　My treat?
　　Your
　　Ana x
　　Still SM&I
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Dinner Out
　　Date: June 14, 2011 15:05
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　I approve of your plan. Except the part about you paying!
　　My treat.
　　I’ll collect you at 6:00.
　　x
　　PS: Why aren’t you using your Blackberry!!!
　　Christian Grey
　　Completely and Utterly Annoyed, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings
　　Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Bossiness
　　Date: June 14, 2011: 15:11
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Oh, don’t be so crusty and cross.
　　It’s all in code.
　　I’ll see you at 6:00.
　　Ana x
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Maddening Woman
　　Date: June 14, 2011 15:18
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Crusty and cross!
　　I’ll give you crusty and cross.
　　And look forward to it.
　　Christian Grey
　　Completely and Utterly More Annoyed, but smiling for some
　　unknown reason, CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Promises. Promises.
　　Date: June 14, 2011: 15:23
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Bring it on, Mr. Grey
　　I look forward to it too. ;D
　　Ana x
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　He doesn’t reply, but then I don’t expect him to. I imagine
　　him moaning about mixed signals, and the thought makes
　　me smile. I daydream briefly about what he might do to me
　　but find myself shifting about in my chair. My subconscious
　　gazes at me disapprovingly over her half-moon specs—get
　　on with your work.
　　A little later, my phone buzzes. It’s Claire at reception.
　　“There’s a real cute guy in reception to see you. We
　　must go out for drinks sometime, Ana. You sure know
　　some hunky guys,” she hisses conspiratorially through the
　　phone.
　　Ethan! Grabbing my keys from my purse, I hurry out to
　　the foyer.
　　Holy shit—sun-bleached blond hair, a tan to die for,
　　and glowing hazel eyes gaze up at me from the green
　　leather couch. As soon as he sees me, his mouth drops
　　open, and he’s on his feet coming toward me.
　　“Wow, Ana.” He frowns at me as he bends to give me
　　hug.
　　“You look well.” I grin up at him.
　　“You look . . . wow—different. Worldly, more
　　sophisticated. What’s happened? You changed your hair?
　　Clothes? I don’t know, Steele, but you look hot!”
　　I blush furiously. “Oh, Ethan. I’m just in my work
　　clothes,” I scold as Claire looks on with an arched
　　eyebrow and a wry smile.
　　“How was Barbados?”
　　“How was Barbados?”
　　“Fun,” he says.
　　“When’s Kate back?”
　　“She and Elliot are flying back Friday. They’re pretty
　　damn serious about each other.” Ethan rolls his eyes.
　　“I’ve missed her.”
　　“Yeah? How have you been doing with Mr. Mogul?”
　　“Mr. Mogul?” I snicker. “Well, it’s been interesting.
　　He’s taking us out for dinner this evening.”
　　“Cool.” Ethan seems genuinely pleased. Phew!
　　“Here.” I hand him the keys. “You have the address?”
　　“Yeah. Laters.” He leans over and kisses my cheek.
　　“Elliot’s expression?”
　　“Yeah, kind of grows on you.”
　　“It does. Laters.” I smile at him as he collects his large
　　shoulder bag from beside the green couch and exits the
　　building.
　　When I turn, Jack is watching me from the far side of
　　the foyer, his expression unreadable. I smile brightly at him
　　and head back to my desk, feeling his eyes on me the
　　whole time. This is beginning to get on my nerves. What to
　　do? I have no idea. I’ll have to wait until Kate is back.
　　She’s bound to come up with a plan. The thought dispels
　　my bleak mood, and I pick up the next manuscript.
　　At five to six, my phone buzzes. It’s Christian.
　　“Crusty and Cross here,” he says and I grin. He’s still
　　playful Fifty. My inner goddess is clapping her hands with
　　glee like a small child.
　　glee like a small child.
　　“Well, this is Sex Mad and Insatiable. I take it you’re
　　outside?” I ask dryly.
　　“I am indeed, Miss Steele. Looking forward to seeing
　　you.” His voice is warm and seductive, and my heart
　　flutters wildly.
　　“Ditto, Mr. Grey. I’ll be right out.” I hang up.
　　I switch off my computer and gather up my purse and
　　cream cardigan.
　　“I’m off now, Jack,” I call through.
　　“Okay, Ana. Thanks for today, honey! Have a great
　　evening.”
　　“You, too.”
　　Why can’t he be like that all the time? I don’t
　　understand him.
　　The Audi is parked at the curb, and Christian climbs out as
　　I approach. He’s taken off his jacket, and he’s wearing his
　　gray pants, my favorite ones that hang from his hips—in
　　that way. How can this Greek god be meant for me? I find
　　myself grinning like a loon in answer to his own idiotic
　　grin.
　　He’s spent the whole day acting like a boyfriend in
　　love—in love with me. This adorable, complex, flawed
　　man is in love with me, and I with him. Joy bursts
　　unexpectedly inside me, and I savor the moment as I feel
　　briefly that I could conquer the world.
　　“Miss Steele, you look as captivating as you did this
　　morning.” Christian pulls me into his arms and kisses me
　　soundly.
　　“Mr. Grey, so do you.”
　　“Let’s go get your friend.” He smiles down at me and
　　opens the car door.
　　As Taylor heads to the apartment, Christian fills me in
　　on his day—a much better one than yesterday, it seems. I
　　gaze at him adoringly as he attempts to explain some
　　breakthrough the environmental science department at
　　WSU in Vancouver has made. His words mean very little
　　to me, but I’m captivated by his passion and interest in this
　　subject. Maybe this is what it will be like, good days and
　　bad days, and if the good days are like this, I won’t have
　　much to complain about. He hands me a sheet of paper.
　　“These are the times that Claude is free this week,” he
　　says.
　　Oh! The trainer.
　　As we pull up to my apartment building, he fishes his
　　Blackberry from his pocket.
　　“Grey,” he answers. “Ros, what is it?” He listens
　　intently, and I can tell it’s an involved conversation.
　　“I’ll go and get Ethan. I’ll be two minutes,” I mouth at
　　Christian and hold up two fingers.
　　He nods, obviously distracted by the call. Taylor opens
　　my door, smiling at me warmly. I grin at him, even Taylor’s
　　feeling it. I press the entry phone and shout happily into it.
　　“Hi, Ethan, it’s me. Let me in.”
　　The door buzzes, and I head upstairs to the apartment.
　　It occurs to me that I have not been here since Saturday
　　morning. That seems so long ago. Ethan has kindly left the
　　front door open. I step into the apartment, and I don’t
　　know why, but I freeze instinctively as soon as I step
　　inside. I take a moment to realize it’s because the pale,
　　wan figure standing by the kitchen island, holding a small
　　revolver is Leila, and she’s gazing impassively at me.
　　Holy fuck.
　　She’s here, gazing at me with an unnerving blank
　　expression, holding a gun. My subconscious swoons into a
　　dead faint, and I don’t think even smelling salts will bring
　　her back.
　　I blink repeatedly at Leila as my mind goes into
　　overdrive. How did she get in? Where’s Ethan? Holy shit!
　　Where is Ethan?
　　A creeping cold fear grips my heart, and my scalp
　　prickles as each and every follicle on my head tightens with

　　prickles as each and every follicle on my head tightens with
　　terror. What if she’s harmed him? I start breathing rapidly
　　as adrenaline and bone-numbing dread course through my
　　body. Keep calm, keep calm—I repeat the mantra over
　　and over in my head.
　　She tilts her head to one side, regarding me as if I’m an
　　exhibit in a freak show. Jeez, I’m not the freak here.
　　It feels like an eon has passed while I process all this,
　　though in reality it is only a split second. Leila’s expression
　　remains blank, and her appearance is as scruffy and illkempt
　　as ever. She’s still wearing that grubby trench coat,
　　and she looks desperately in need of a wash. Her hair is
　　greasy and lank, plastered against her head, and her eyes
　　are a dull brown, cloudy, and vaguely confused.
　　Despite the fact that my mouth has no moisture in it
　　whatsoever, I attempt to speak. “Hi. Leila, isn’t it?” I rasp.
　　She smiles, but it’s a disturbing curl of her lip rather than a
　　true smile.
　　“She speaks,” she whispers, and her voice is soft and
　　hoarse at the same time, an eerie sound.
　　hoarse at the same time, an eerie sound.
　　“Yes, I speak,” I say gently as if to a child. “Are you
　　here alone?” Where is Ethan? My heart pounds at the
　　thought that he might have come to some harm.
　　Her face falls, so much so that I think she’s about to
　　burst into tears—she looks so forlorn.
　　“Alone,” she whispers. “Alone.” And the depth of
　　sadness in that one word is heart wrenching. What does
　　she mean? I am alone? She’s alone? She’s alone because
　　she’s harmed Ethan? Oh . . . no . . . I have to fight the
　　choking fear clawing at my throat as tears threaten.
　　“What are you doing here? Can I help you?” My
　　words are a calm, gentle interrogation despite the
　　suffocating fear in my throat. Her brow furrows as if she’s
　　completely befuddled by my questions. But she makes no
　　violent move against me. Her hand is still relaxed around
　　her gun. I take a different tack, trying to ignore my
　　tightening scalp.
　　“Would you like some tea?” Why am I asking her if
　　she wants tea? It’s Ray’s answer to any emotional
　　situation, resurfacing inappropriately. Jeez, he’d have a fit
　　if he saw me right this minute. His army training would
　　have kicked in, and he’d have disarmed her by now. She’s
　　not actually pointing that gun at me. Perhaps I can move.
　　She shakes her head and tilts it from side to side as if
　　stretching her neck.
　　I take a deep precious lungful of air, trying to calm my
　　panicked breathing, and move toward the kitchen island.
　　She frowns as if she can’t quite understand what I am
　　doing and shifts a little so she is still facing me. I reach the
　　kettle and with a shaking hand fill it from the faucet. As I
　　move, my breathing eases. Yes, if she wanted me dead,
　　surely she would have shot me by now. She watches me
　　with an absent, bemused curiosity. As I switch on the
　　kettle, I’m plagued by the thought of Ethan. Is he hurt?
　　Tied up?
　　“Is there anyone else in the apartment?” I ask
　　tentatively.
　　She inclines her head the other way, and with her right
　　hand—the hand not holding the revolver—she grabs a
　　hand—the hand not holding the revolver—she grabs a
　　strand of her long greasy hair and starts twirling and
　　fiddling with it, pulling and twisting. It’s obviously a
　　nervous habit, and while I am distracted by this, I am
　　struck once again by how much she resembles me. I hold
　　my breath, waiting for her answer, the anxiety building to
　　an almost unbearable pitch.
　　“Alone. All alone,” she murmurs. I find this comforting.
　　Maybe Ethan isn’t here. The relief is empowering.
　　“Are you sure you don’t want tea or coffee?”
　　“Not thirsty,” she answers softly, and she takes a
　　cautious step toward me. My feeling of empowerment
　　evaporates. Fuck! I start panting with fear again, feeling it
　　surge thick and rough through my veins. In spite of this and
　　feeling beyond brave, I turn and fetch a couple of cups
　　from the cupboard.
　　“What do you have that I don’t?” she asks, her voice
　　assuming the singsong intonation of a child.
　　“What do you mean, Leila?” I ask as gently as I can.
　　“Master—Mr. Grey—he lets you call him by his given
　　“Master—Mr. Grey—he lets you call him by his given
　　name.”
　　“I’m not his submissive, Leila. Er . . . Master
　　understands that I am unable, inadequate to fulfill that
　　role.”
　　She tilts her head to the other side. It’s wholly
　　unnerving and unnatural as a gesture.
　　“In-ad-e-quate.” She tests the word, sounding it out,
　　seeing how it feels on her tongue. “But Master is happy. I
　　have seen him. He laughs and smiles. These reactions are
　　rare . . . very rare for him.”
　　Oh.
　　“You look like me.” Leila changes tack, surprising me,
　　her eyes seeming to focus on me properly for the first time.
　　“Master likes obedient ones who look like you and me.
　　The others, all the same . . . all the same . . . and yet you
　　sleep in his bed. I saw you.”
　　Shit! She was in the room. I didn’t imagine it.
　　“You saw me in his bed?” I whisper.
　　“I never slept in Master’s bed,” she murmurs. She’s
　　like a fallen ethereal wraith. Half a person. She looks so
　　slight, and in spite of the fact that she’s holding a gun, I
　　suddenly feel overwhelmed with sympathy for her. Her
　　hands flex around the weapon, and my eyes widen,
　　threatening to pop from my head.
　　“Why does Master like us like this? It makes me think
　　something . . . something . . . Master is dark . . . Master is
　　a dark man, but I love him.”
　　No, no, he’s not. I bristle internally. He’s not dark.
　　He’s a good man, and he’s not in the dark. He’s joined
　　me in the light. And now she’s here, trying to drag him
　　back with some warped idea that she loves him.
　　“Leila, do you want to give me the gun?” I ask softly.
　　Her hand grips it tightly, and she hugs it to her chest.
　　“This is mine. It’s all I have left.” She gently caresses
　　the gun. “So she can join her love.”
　　Holy shit! Which love—Christian? It’s like she’s
　　punched me in the stomach. I know he will be here
　　momentarily to find out what’s keeping me. Does she
　　mean to shoot him? The thought is so horrific, I feel my
　　mean to shoot him? The thought is so horrific, I feel my
　　throat swell and ache as a huge knot forms there, almost
　　choking me, matching the fear that’s balled tightly in my
　　stomach.
　　Right on cue the door bursts open, and Christian is
　　standing in the doorway, Taylor behind him.
　　Glancing at me briefly, Christian’s eyes sweep over me
　　from head to toe, and I notice the small spark of relief in
　　his look. But his relief is fleeting as his gaze darts to Leila
　　and stills, focusing on her, not wavering in the slightest. He
　　glares at her with an intensity I have not seen before, his
　　eyes wild, wide, angry, and scared.
　　Oh no . . . oh no.
　　Leila’s eyes widen, and for a moment, it seems her
　　reason returns. She blinks rapidly while her hand tightens
　　once more around the gun.
　　My breath catches in my throat, and my heart starts
　　thumping so loud that I hear the blood pounding in my
　　ears. No, no, no!
　　My world teeters precariously in the hands of this
　　My world teeters precariously in the hands of this
　　poor, fucked-up woman. Will she shoot? Both of us?
　　Christian? The thought is crippling.
　　But after an eternity, as time hangs suspended around
　　us, her head dips slightly and she gazes up at him, through
　　her long lashes, her expression contrite.
　　Christian holds up his hand, signaling to Taylor to stay
　　where he is. Taylor’s blanched face betrays his fury. I have
　　never seen him like this, but he stands stock-still as
　　Christian and Leila stare at each other.
　　I realize I’m holding my breath. What will she do?
　　What will he do? But they just continue to stare at each
　　other. Christian’s expression is raw, full of some unnamed
　　emotion. It could be pity, fear, affection . . . or is it love?
　　No, please, not love!
　　His eyes bore into her, and agonizingly slowly, the
　　atmosphere in the apartment changes. The tension is
　　building so that I can sense their connection, the charge
　　between them.
　　No! Suddenly I feel I’m the interloper, intruding on
　　them as they stand gazing at each other. I’m an outsider—
　　a voyeur, spying on a forbidden, intimate scene behind
　　closed curtains.
　　Christian’s intense gaze burns brighter, and his bearing
　　changes subtly. He looks taller, more angular somehow,
　　colder, and more distant. I recognize this stance. I’ve seen
　　him like this before—in his playroom.
　　My scalp prickles anew. This is Dominant Christian,
　　and how at ease he looks. Whether he was born to or
　　made for this role, I just don’t know, but with a sinking
　　heart and sickened stomach, I watch as Leila responds,
　　her lips parting, her breathing picking up as the first flush of
　　color stains her cheeks. No! It’s such an unwelcome
　　glimpse into his past, agonizing to witness.
　　Finally, he mouths a word at her. I can’t make out
　　what it is, but the effect on Leila is immediate. She drops
　　to the floor on her knees, her head bowed, and the gun
　　falls and skitters uselessly across the wooden floor. Holy
　　fuck.
　　Christian walks calmly over to where the gun has fallen
　　Christian walks calmly over to where the gun has fallen
　　and bends gracefully to pick it up. He regards it with illdisguised
　　disgust then slips it into his jacket pocket. He
　　gazes once more at Leila as she kneels compliantly beside
　　the kitchen island.
　　“Anastasia, go with Taylor,” he commands. Taylor
　　crosses the threshold and stares at me.
　　“Ethan,” I whisper.
　　“Downstairs.” He responds matter-of-factly, his eyes
　　never leaving Leila.
　　Downstairs. Not here. Ethan’s okay. Relief floods hard
　　and fast through my blood, and for a moment I think I’m
　　going to faint.
　　“Anastasia,” Christian’s tone is clipped in warning.
　　I blink at him, and I’m suddenly unable to move. I
　　don’t want to leave him—leave him with her. He moves to
　　stand beside Leila as she kneels at his feet. He’s hovering
　　over her, protectively. She’s so still, it’s unnatural. I can’t
　　take my eyes off the two of them—together . . .
　　“For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you’re
　　“For the love of God, Anastasia, will you do as you’re
　　told for once in your life and go!” Christian’s eyes lock
　　with mine as he glowers at me, his voice a blistering cold
　　shard of ice. The anger beneath the quiet, deliberate
　　delivery of his words is palpable.
　　Angry at me? Surely not. Please—No! I feel like he’s
　　slapped me hard. Why does he want to stay with her?
　　“Taylor. Take Miss Steele downstairs. Now.”
　　Taylor nods at him as I stare at Christian.
　　“Why?” I whisper.
　　“Go. Back to the apartment.” His eyes blaze frostily at
　　me. “I need to be alone with Leila.” He says it urgently.
　　I think he’s trying to convey some kind of message, but
　　I’m so thrown by all that’s happened that I’m not sure. I
　　glance down at Leila and notice a very small smile cross
　　her lips, but otherwise she remains truly impassive. A
　　complete submissive. Fuck! My heart chills.
　　This is what he needs. This is what he likes. No! I want
　　to wail.
　　“Miss Steele. Ana.” Taylor holds his hand out to me,
　　imploring me to come. I am immobilized by the horrific
　　spectacle before me. It confirms my worst fears and plays
　　on all my insecurities: Christian and Leila together—the
　　Dom and his sub.
　　“Taylor,” Christian urges, and Taylor leans down and
　　scoops me into his arms. The last thing I see as we leave is
　　Christian gently stroking Leila’s head as he murmurs
　　something softly to her.
　　No!
　　As Taylor carries me down the stairs, I lie limply in his
　　arms trying to grasp what’s happened in the last ten
　　minutes—was it longer? Or shorter? The concept of time

　　has deserted me.
　　Christian and Leila, Leila and Christian . . . together?
　　What is he doing with her now?
　　“Jesus, Ana! What the fuck is going on?”
　　I am relieved to see Ethan as he paces the small lobby,
　　still carrying his large shoulder bag. Oh, thank heavens
　　he’s okay! When Taylor sets me down, I practically throw
　　myself at Ethan, wrapping my arms around his neck.
　　myself at Ethan, wrapping my arms around his neck.
　　“Ethan. Oh, thank God!” I hug him, holding him close.
　　I was so worried, and for a brief moment, I enjoy some
　　respite from my rising panic at what is unfolding upstairs in
　　my apartment.
　　“What the fuck is going on, Ana? Who’s this guy?”
　　“Oh, sorry, Ethan, this is Taylor. He works with
　　Christian. Taylor, this is Ethan, my roommate’s brother.”
　　They nod at each other.
　　“Ana, upstairs, what’s going on? I was fishing for the
　　apartment keys when these guys jumped out of nowhere
　　and grabbed them. One of them was Christian . . .”
　　Ethan’s voice trails off.
　　“You were late . . . Thank God.”
　　“Yeah. I met a friend from Pullman—we had a quick
　　drink. Upstairs, what’s going on?”
　　“There’s a girl, an ex of Christian’s. In our apartment.
　　She’s gone postal, and Christian is . . .” My voice cracks,
　　and tears pool in my eyes.
　　“Hey,” Ethan whispers and pulls me close once more.
　　“Hey,” Ethan whispers and pulls me close once more.
　　“Has anyone called the cops?”
　　“No, it’s not like that.” I sob into his chest and now
　　I’ve started, I can’t stop crying, the tension of this latest
　　episode releasing through my tears. Ethan tightens his arms
　　around me, but I sense his bemusement.
　　“Hey, Ana, let’s go get a drink.” He pats my back
　　awkwardly. Abruptly, I feel awkward, too, and
　　embarrassed, and in all honesty, I want to be on my own.
　　But I nod, accepting his offer. I want to be away from
　　here, away from whatever’s going on upstairs.
　　I turn to Taylor.
　　“Was the apartment checked?” I ask him tearfully,
　　wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
　　“This afternoon.” Taylor shrugs apologetically as he
　　hands me a handkerchief. He looks devastated. “I’m
　　sorry, Ana,” he murmurs.
　　I frown. Jeez, he looks so guilty. I don’t want to make
　　him feel worse.
　　“She does seem to have an uncanny ability to evade
　　us,” he adds scowling again.
　　“Ethan and I will go for a quick drink then head back
　　to Escala.” I dry my eyes.
　　Taylor shuffles from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Mr.
　　Grey wanted you to go back to the apartment,” he says
　　quietly.
　　“Well, we know where Leila is now.” I can’t keep the
　　bitterness out of my voice. “So, no need for all the
　　security. Tell Christian we’ll see him later.”
　　Taylor opens his mouth to speak and then wisely
　　closes it again.
　　“Do you want to leave your bag with Taylor?” I ask
　　Ethan.
　　“No, I’ll keep it with me, thanks.”
　　Ethan nods at Taylor, then ushers me out of the front
　　door. Too late, I remember that I’ve left my purse in the
　　back of Audi. I have nothing.
　　“My purse—”
　　“Don’t worry,” Ethan murmurs, his face full of concern.
　　“It’s cool, it’s on me.”
　　“It’s cool, it’s on me.”
　　We choose a bar across the street, settling onto wooden
　　bar stools by the window. I want to see what’s going on—
　　who’s coming, and more importantly who’s going. Ethan
　　hands me a bottle of beer.
　　“Trouble with an ex?” he says gently.
　　“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I mutter,
　　abruptly guarded. I can’t talk about this—I have signed an
　　NDA. And for the first time, I really resent that fact and
　　that Christian’s said nothing about rescinding it.
　　“I’ve got time,” Ethan says kindly and takes a long slug
　　of his beer.
　　“She’s an ex, from years back. She left her husband
　　for some guy. Then a couple of weeks or so ago he was
　　killed in a car crash, and now she’s come after Christian.”
　　I shrug. There, that didn’t give too much away.
　　“Come after him?”
　　“She had a gun.”
　　“She had a gun.”
　　“What the fuck!”
　　“She didn’t actually threaten anyone with it. I think she
　　meant to harm herself. But that’s why I was so worried
　　about you. I didn’t know if you were in the apartment.”
　　“I see. She sounds unstable.”
　　“Yes, she is.”
　　“And what’s Christian doing with her now?”
　　The blood drains from my face and bile rises in my
　　throat. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
　　Ethan’s eyes widen—at last he’s got it.
　　This is the crux of my problem. What the fuck are they
　　doing? Talking, I hope. Just talking. Yet all I can see in my
　　mind’s eye is his hand, tenderly stroking her hair.
　　She’s disturbed and Christian cares about her ,
　　that’s all this is, I rationalize. But in the back of my mind,
　　my subconscious is shaking her head sadly.
　　It’s more than that. Leila was able to fulfill his needs in
　　a way I cannot. The thought is depressing.
　　I try to focus on all we’ve done in the last few days—
　　his declaration of love, his flirty humor, his playfulness. But
　　Elena’s words keep coming back to taunt me. It’s true
　　what they say about eavesdroppers.
　　Don’t you miss it . . . your playroom?
　　I finish my beer in record time, and Ethan lines up
　　another. I am not much of a companion, but to his credit
　　he stays with me, chatting, trying to lift my spirits, talking
　　about Barbados, and Kate and Elliot’s antics, which is
　　wonderfully distracting. But it’s just that—a distraction.
　　My mind, my heart, my soul are all still in that
　　apartment with my Fifty Shades and the woman who used
　　to be his submissive. A woman who thinks she still loves
　　him. A woman who looks like me.
　　During our third beer, a large cruiser with heavily-tinted
　　windows pulls up next to the Audi in front of the
　　apartment. I recognize Dr. Flynn as he climbs out,
　　accompanied by a woman dressed in what look like pale
　　blue scrubs. I glimpse Taylor as he lets them in through the
　　front door.
　　“Who’s that?” Ethan asks.
　　“Who’s that?” Ethan asks.
　　“His name’s Dr. Flynn. Christian knows him.”
　　“What kind of doctor?”
　　“A shrink.”
　　“Oh.”
　　We both watch, and a few minutes later they are back.
　　Christian is carrying Leila who is wrapped in a blanket.
　　What? I watch horrified as they all climb into the cruiser,
　　and it speeds away.
　　Ethan glances at me sympathetically, and I feel
　　desolate, completely desolate.
　　“Can I have something a bit stronger?” I ask Ethan, my
　　voice small.
　　“Sure. What would you like?”
　　“A brandy. Please.”
　　Ethan nods and retreats to the bar. I gaze through the
　　window at the front door. Moments later Taylor emerges,
　　climbs into the Audi, and heads off toward Escala . . . after
　　Christian? I don’t know.
　　Ethan places a large brandy in front of me.
　　Ethan places a large brandy in front of me.
　　“Come on, Steele. Let’s get drunk.”
　　Sounds like the best offer I’ve had in a while. We clink
　　glasses, and I take a gulp of the burning amber liquid, the
　　fiery heat a welcome distraction from the hideous
　　blossoming pain in my heart.
　　It’s late, and I feel fuzzy. Ethan and I are locked out of the
　　apartment. He insists on walking me back to Escala, but
　　he won’t stay. He’s called the friend he met earlier for a
　　drink and arranged to crash with him.
　　“So, this is where the Mogul lives.” Ethan whistles
　　through his teeth, impressed.
　　I nod.
　　“Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” he
　　asks.
　　“No, I need to face this—or just go to bed.”
　　“See you tomorrow?”
　　“Yes. Thanks, Ethan.” I hug him.
　　“Yes. Thanks, Ethan.” I hug him.
　　“You’ll work it out, Steele,” he murmurs against my
　　ear. He releases me and watches while I head into the
　　building.
　　“Laters,” he calls. I offer him a weak smile and a wave
　　then press the button to call the elevator.
　　The elevator doors open, and I step into Christian’s
　　apartment. Taylor is not waiting, which is unusual. Opening
　　the double doors, I head toward the great room. Christian
　　is on the phone, pacing the room near the piano.
　　“She’s here,” he snaps. He turns to glare at me as he
　　switches off his phone. “Where the fuck have you been?”
　　he growls but doesn’t make a move toward me.
　　Holy crap, he’s angry with me? He’s the one that just
　　spent God knows how long with his loony ex-girlfriend,
　　and he’s angry with me?
　　“Have you been drinking?” he asks, appalled.
　　“A bit.” I didn’t think it was that obvious.
　　He gasps and runs his hand through his hair. “I told you
　　to come back here.” His voice is menacingly quiet. “It’s
　　now fifteen after ten. I’ve been worried about you.”
　　“I went for a drink or three with Ethan while you
　　attended to your ex,” I hiss at him. “I didn’t know how
　　long you were going to be . . . with her.”
　　He narrows his eyes and takes a few paces toward me
　　but stops.
　　“Why do you say it that like that?”
　　I shrug and stare down at my fingers.
　　“Ana, what’s wrong?” And for the first time, I hear
　　something other than anger in his voice. What? Fear?
　　I swallow, trying to work out what I want to say.
　　“Where’s Leila?” I ask looking up at him.
　　“In a psychiatric hospital in Fremont,” he says, and his
　　face is scrutinizing mine. “Ana, what is it?” He moves
　　toward me until he’s standing right in front of me. “What’s
　　wrong?” he breathes.
　　I shake my head. “I’m no good for you.”
　　“What?” he breathes, his eyes widening in alarm. “Why
　　do you think that? How can you possibly think that?”
　　“I can’t be everything you need.”
　　“I can’t be everything you need.”
　　“You are everything I need.
　　“Just seeing you with her . . .” My voice trails off.
　　“Why do you do this to me? This is not about you,
　　Ana. It’s about her.” He takes a sharp breath, running his
　　hand through his hair again. “At the moment she’s a very
　　sick girl.”
　　“But I felt it . . . what you had together.”
　　“What? No.” He reaches for me, and I step back
　　instinctively. He drops his hand, blinking at me. He looks
　　as though he’s seized with panic.
　　“You’re running?” he whispers as his eyes widen with
　　fear.
　　I say nothing as I try to collect my scattered thoughts.
　　“You can’t,” he pleads.
　　“Christian . . . I—” I struggle to collect my thoughts.
　　What am I trying to say? I need time, time to process this.
　　Give me time.
　　“No. No!” he says.
　　“I . . .”
　　“I . . .”
　　He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For
　　divine intervention? I don’t know.
　　“You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”
　　“I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—”
　　“No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both
　　hands on his head.
　　“Christian . . .”
　　“No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and
　　suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head
　　bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He
　　takes a deep breath and doesn’t move.
　　What? “Christian, what are you doing?”
　　He continues to stare down, not looking at me.
　　“Christian! What are you doing?” My voice is highpitched.
　　He doesn’t move. “Christian, look at me!” I
　　command in panic.
　　His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards
　　me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost
　　serene . . . expectant.