Freed Page 10

  My dearest husband-to-be

  It’s not like you not to reply.

  The last time you didn’t reply—your helicopter went missing.

  Let me know you’re okay.

  Ana

  Worried of SIP

  Shit. A twinge of guilt flares in my stomach, especially as there is a distinct lack of kisses on her note.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I’m mad at you, Anastasia.

  But I don’t want her to worry. I type out a brief reply.

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Are you okay?

  Date: July 6 2011 14:32

  To: Anastasia Steele

  I’m fine.

  Busy.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  I press send and hope my response will alleviate her worries. Andrea eyes me warily when I exit the elevator into the outer office.

  “Yes?” I snap.

  “It’s nothing, Mr. Grey. I just wanted to know if you wanted any coffee?”

  “Where’s Sarah?”

  “She’s photocopying the reports you requested.”

  “Good. And no thanks to coffee,” I add in a softer tone. Why am I being an asshole to my staff? “Get me Welch on the line.”

  She nods and picks up the phone.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, and head into my office. I slouch into my chair and stare despondently out of the window. The day is bright, unlike my mood.

  My phone buzzes. “Grey.”

  “I have Anastasia Steele on the line for you.”

  Shit. Is she okay?

  “Put her through.”

  “Hi.” Her voice wavers, soft and breathy. She sounds uncertain and sad, and a chill grips my heart.

  “What is it? Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  My relief turns to irritation. My worry is misplaced. “I’m fine, but busy.”

  “Let’s talk when you get home.”

  “Okay,” I reply, knowing that I’m being abrupt.

  She doesn’t respond, but I hear her breathing on the other end of the line. She sounds, unsettled, and the chill I felt a moment earlier is replaced by a familiar homesickness.

  What is it, Ana? What do you want to say? Silence stretches between us, full of recrimination and unspoken truths.

  “Christian,” she says eventually.

  “Anastasia, I have things to do. I have to go.”

  “Tonight,” she whispers.

  “Tonight.” I hang up and scowl at the phone.

  It’s not too much to ask, Anastasia.

  “Home?” Taylor asks as he takes the wheel of the Audi.

  “Sure,” I murmur, distracted. Part of me doesn’t want to go home. I still don’t have a coherent argument to persuade Ana to change her mind. And I have work to do this evening. A reading project—two weighty reports from the Environmental Sciences Department at WSU—results from the test sites in Africa and Professor Gravett’s paper on the microbe responsible for nitrogen fixation in soils. Apparently, microbes are essential to soil regeneration and regeneration holds the key to carbon sequestration. Later this week, I’ll be reviewing my funding to her department.

  Perhaps I should take Ana out, and we can discuss her vows at dinner. Maybe I can sway her over a glass of wine. I’m reminded of our dinner to discuss the D/s contract.

  Hell. That didn’t go to plan.

  Feeling glum, I stare through the privacy glass at the jostling tourists and commuters, and a sense of righteous indignation settles over me. I’m not asking for much, for fuck’s sake. It’s the only thing that I want. She can have whatever she likes. Knowing that she’ll obey me will give me a sense of security. Does she not understand?

  On the sidewalk a young man in shades and loud, flowery shorts is arguing with a woman in an equally loud dress. Their fight is attracting disconcerted looks from passersby.

  That will be Ana and me tonight. I know it. And the thought depresses me even more.

  I’ll just have to tell her what it means to me. I need to keep her safe.

  Yes. She’ll see.

  The woman turns, and in a dramatic gesture raises her arms and storms off, leaving the man alone and bewildered on the sidewalk. I think he’s drunk.

  Asshole.

  Maybe I could fuck Ana into agreeing. That might work. The thought gives me a modicum of hope, and I settle back into my seat for the rest of the drive to Escala.

  “Good evening, Mr. Grey,” Mrs. Jones chimes as I enter the living room. From the enticing aroma I know there’s a pot of her delicious Bolognese sauce bubbling on the stove. My mouth waters.

  “Hello, Gail. Smells good. Where’s Ana?”

  “I believe she’s in the library, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Dinner in half an hour?”

  “Works for me. Thanks.” I’ll have time for a quick run on the treadmill, since I missed my workout this morning.

  I head to the bedroom to change, avoiding the library.

  The Boss blares in my ears as I push my body to its limits. I run three miles in twenty minutes, and I’m a panting hot mess when I come off the treadmill. Dragging air into my lungs and using the back of my hand to wipe the sweat that’s pouring off my brow, I bend over to catch my breath and stretch my hamstrings.

  It feels good.

  When I stand, Anastasia is leaning against the frame in the doorway, watching me, eyes wide and wary. She’s wearing a pale gray sleeveless shirt and a tight gray skirt. She looks every bit the publishing executive. But young. So young. And miserable.

  Shit.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I respond between breaths.

  “You didn’t say hello when you came in. Are you avoiding me?”

  Ana does not beat around the bush. And in that moment, I want to banish the look of misery on her face and her wariness. “I needed to exercise,” I pant. “I can say hello now.” I open my arms and step toward her, knowing full well I’m soaked with sweat.

  Ana laughs, grimacing, and raises her palms. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  I bound up to her and pull her into my arms before she can retreat. She shrieks, shrinking from me, but she’s laughing, too. And it’s like a weight has lifted from my soul.

  I love making her laugh.

  “Oh, baby. I missed you.” I kiss her, not caring that I’m not fit for human consumption, and to my delight, she kisses me back. Her fingers tighten around my shoulders, her fingernails digging deeper into my flesh as our tongues dance the dance they know so well.

  We’re both winded when we come up for air. I cradle her face and brush my thumb over her swollen lips, staring into her dazed, beautiful eyes. “Ana,” I whisper, imploring her. “Change your vows. Obey. Don’t argue with me. I hate it when we argue. Please.”

  My lips hover above hers, waiting for an answer, but she blinks several times as if she’s clearing a haze, then shrugs me off and steps out of my embrace. “No. Christian. Please,” she says, condensing her frustration into four syllables.

  I drop my hands to my sides as her words douse me with a cold splash of reality.

  “If this is a deal breaker for you, please tell me,” she continues, her voice rising steadily. “Because it is for me, and I can stop trying to organize our wedding and go back to my apartment and get drunk with Kate.”

  “You’d leave?” My voice is barely audible; her statement has knocked my world off-kilter.

  “Right now. Yes. You’re behaving like a spoiled teen.”

  “That’s not fair,” I retort. “I need this.”

  “No, you don’t. You just think you do. We’re supposed to be grown-ups, for heaven’s sake. We�
�ll talk things out. Like adults do.”

  We gaze at each other, over the gulf between us.

  She’s not budging.

  Fuck.

  “I need a shower,” I mutter, and she steps out of my way to let me pass.

  When I enter the living room Ana is seated at the kitchen counter, where there are two places laid for dinner. Gail hovers over the stove.

  “I’m not hungry,” I announce. “And I have work to do.”

  Ana frowns, and opens her mouth as if to say something but shuts it again as I walk past her. I don’t miss the look that passes between her and Mrs. Jones.

  Are they conspiring?

  The thought makes my blood boil, so I storm into my study and slam the door.

  Shit.

  The noise startles me and it’s an abrupt wake-up.

  I am behaving like a spoiled teen.

  Ana’s right. Hell.

  And I’m hungry.

  I hate being hungry.

  A dark, twisted memory of fear and hunger from before I was Christian Grey threatens to resurface, but I dampen it down.

  Don’t go there, Grey.

  The reports are on my desk where Taylor left them. I sit down, pick up the first one, and start to read.

  A gentle knock pulls my attention away from the multiple crop rotations we’re trying in Ghana, and my heart stutters.

  Ana.

  “Come in.”

  Gail opens the door.

  My disappointment is real, my momentary excitement now a sad, deflated balloon that’s lost its helium. On the plus side, she’s carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming pasta.

  She says nothing as she places it on my desk.

  “Thank you.”

  “Ana’s idea. She knows you love spaghetti Bolognese.” Her tone is clipped, and before I can reply, she turns and leaves, taking her disapproval with her. I scowl at her departing figure. Of course it was Ana’s idea. And once again I’m in awe of her thoughtfulness. Why isn’t that enough? She says she loves me. So why do I want or need her obedience?

  Feeling even more morose, I stare at the long shadows and golden pink hues painted across my study walls by the sun as it sinks into the horizon.

  Why does she defy me?

  I pick up my fork and dig into my meal, twirling the pasta into a big, solid bite of bliss. It’s delicious.

  Ana has left the lamp on for me again. She’s fast asleep, and as I slide into the bed beside her my body comes alive. I hunger for her.

  I contemplate my plan to fuck her into agreeing, but deep down I know she’s made up her mind. She might say no, and right now I don’t think I’d survive the rejection.

  I turn onto my side, away from her, and switch off my light. The room is plunged into darkness, reflecting my mood; I’m more miserable now than I was this morning.

  Damn. Why did I let this get so out of hand?

  I close my eyes.

  Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I brush her hair because she likes that. She doesn’t wake up. I shake her. Mommy! My tummy hurts. It’s hungry. He isn’t here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen, I pull a chair to the sink, and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy, wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie, and I cover Mommy, and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her. Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search for something to eat. In the icebox I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the freezer is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue is stuck to it. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars, and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold, and she won’t wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. He’s here. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked-up bitch. Shit. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me, and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie, and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy. The words are gone. I can’t say the words. Mommy can’t hear me. I have no words.

  “Christian! Christian!” Her voice is urgent, pulling me from the depths of my nightmare, and my despair. “I’m here. I’m here,” she cries.

  I wake and Ana’s leaning over me, grasping my shoulders, shaking me, her face taut with anguish, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

  “Ana.” My voice is a hoarse whisper, the taste of fear tarnishing my mouth. “You’re here.”

  “Of course I’m here.”

  “I had a dream.”

  “I know. I’m here, I’m here.”

  “Ana.” Her name is an incantation on my lips, a talisman against the dark, choking panic coursing through my body.

  “Hush, I’m here.” She curls around me, her limbs cocooning mine, her warmth seeping into my soul, forcing back the shadows, forcing back the fear. She is sunshine, she is light. She is mine.

  “Please, let’s not fight.” I wrap my arms around her.

  “Okay.”

  “The vows. No obeying. I can do that. We’ll find a way.” The words rush out of my mouth in a tumble of emotion and confusion and anxiety.

  “Yes. We will. We’ll always find a way,” Ana whispers, and her lips are on mine, silencing me, bringing me back to the now.

  Friday, July 8, 2011

  Dr. Flynn rubs his chin and I don’t know if he’s playing for time or genuinely intrigued. “She threatened to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you capitulated.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Christian, you always have a choice. Do you think Anastasia was being unreasonable?”

  I meet his gaze and want to shout yes, but deep down I know Ana isn’t an unreasonable person.

  That’s you, Grey.

  Unreasonable could be your middle name. Ana’s words haunt me. She said that, long ago.

  Christ, my negativity is a real prick sometimes.

  “How are you feeling now?” Flynn asks.

  “Wary,” I whisper, and my admission is a jab to the solar plexus, almost winding me.

  She could leave me.

  “Ah. Your feelings of insecurity and abandonment are coming to the fore again.”

  I remain mute, distracted by the sliver of afternoon light that brightens the cluster of mini orchids on his coffee table. What can I say? I don’t want to admit this out loud. It makes my fears real. I loathe feeling this weak. This exposed. Ana has the power to wound me and deliver a fatal blow.

  “Is it giving you second thoughts about the wedding?” John asks.

  No. Maybe.

  I’m afraid she’ll hurt me.

  Like she did before…when she left.

  “No,” I answer, because I don’t want to lose her.

  He nods, as if this is what he wants to hear. “You’ve relinquished a great deal for her.”

  “I have.” I stifle my indulgent smile. “She’s a good negotiator.”

  Flynn rubs his chin again. “Do you resent that?”

  “Yes. Partly. I’ve given so much and she won’t give me this.”

  “You sound like you’re mad at her.”

  “I am.”

  “Have you thought about telling her that?”

  “How mad I am? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m worried I’ll say something I’ll regret and she’ll leave. She left once before.”


  “But you hurt her then.”

  “I did.” The memory of her tearful face and her bitter rebuke are never far from my mind. You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.

  I shudder, but I hide it from Flynn. Whenever I think of that time, my shame almost swallows me whole. “I don’t want to hurt her again. Ever.”

  “That’s a good goal to work toward,” Flynn says. “But you need to find a healthy way to express and channel your anger. You’ve directed it inwardly for so long. Too long.” He pauses. “But you know my views on that. I am not going to rehash that now, Christian. You’re incredibly resilient and resourceful. You had the solution to this impasse all along; you capitulated. Problem solved. Life is not always going to go your way. The key is to recognize those moments. Sometimes it’s better to concede the battle to win the war. Communicate and compromise—that’s what marriage is all about.”

  I snort, remembering Ana’s e-mail from a lifetime ago.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head.

  “Have a little faith in yourself, and in her.”

  “Marriage is a huge leap of faith,” I mumble.

  “It is. For everyone. But you’re well equipped to cope. Focus on where you want to be. How you want to be. I think you have over the last few weeks. You’ve seemed happier.”

  I meet his gaze.

  “This is just a small setback,” he says.

  I hope so.

  “I’ll see you next week.”

  It’s dusk, and Elliot and I are standing on the terrace of the new house, admiring the view. “I can see why you bought the place.” Elliot whistles his appreciation through his teeth. We’re both quiet for a moment, absorbing the majesty of twilight over the Sound: the opal sky, the distant orange haze, the dark purple waters. The beauty. The calm.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?” I murmur.

  “Yep. This is a great spot for a beautiful home.”

  “Which you’re going to remodel.” I grin and Elliot play-punches my arm.

  “Glad I can help. It’s gonna take some hard work, and it ain’t gonna be cheap to make this place more sustainable. But, hey, you can afford it. I’ll talk to Gia next week and see what she has in mind, and if it’s possible.”

  “I’ll close on this sometime before the end of July. I think Ana, you, Gia, and I should meet here once that’s done.”