Chapter Ten
　　My heart is pounding and blood thrums loudly in my eardrums; the alcohol
　　flowing through my system, amplifying the sound.
　　“Is he—” I gasp, unable to finish the sentence and gazing wideeyed and
　　terrified at Ryan. I can’t even look at the prone figure on the floor.
　　“No, ma’am. Just knocked out cold.”
　　Relief floods through me. Oh thank God.
　　“And you?” I ask, gazing at Ryan. I realize I don’t know his first name. He’s
　　panting as if he’s run a marathon. He wipes the corner of his mouth,
　　removing the trace of blood, and a faint bruise is forming on his cheek.
　　“He put up one hell of a fight, but I’m okay, Mrs. Grey.” He smiles
　　reassuringly. If I knew him better, I’d say he looked a little smug.
　　“And Gail? Mrs. Jones?” Oh no . . . is she okay? Has she been harmed?
　　“I’m here, Ana.” Glancing behind me, she’s in a nightdress and robe, her hair
　　loose, her face ashen and her eyes wide—like mine, I imagine.
　　“Ryan woke me. Insisted I come in here.” She points behind her into Taylor’s
　　office. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
　　I nod briskly and realize she’s probably just come out of the panic room built
　　adjoining Taylor’s office. Who knew we’d need it so soon?
　　Christian had insisted on its installation shortly after our engagement—
　　and I had rolled my eyes. Now, seeing Gail standing in the doorway, I’m
　　grateful for his foresight.
　　A creak from the door to the foyer distracts me. It’s hanging off its hinges.
　　What the hell happened to that?
　　“Was he alone?” I ask Ryan.
　　“Yes, ma’am. You wouldn’t be standing here if he wasn’t, I can assure you.”
　　Ryan sounds vaguely affronted.
　　“How did he get in?” I ask, ignoring his tone.
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　　“Through the service elevator. He’s got quite a pair, ma’am.”
　　I stare down at Jack’s slumped figure. He’s wearing a uniform of sorts—
　　coveralls, I think.
　　“When?”
　　“About ten minutes ago. I caught him on the security monitor. He was
　　wearing gloves . . . kinda strange in August. I recognized him and decided to
　　give him access. That way I knew we’d have him. You weren’t here and Gail
　　was safe, so I figured it was now or never.” Ryan looks very pleased with
　　himself once more, and Sawyer scowls at him in disapproval.
　　Gloves? The thought distracts me, and I glance once more at Jack. Yes, he’s
　　wearing brown leather gloves. Creepy.
　　“What now?” I try to dismiss the ramifications from my mind.
　　“We need to secure him,” Ryan replies.
　　“Secure him?”
　　“In case he wakes.” Ryan glances at Sawyer.
　　“What do you need?” asks Mrs. Jones, stepping forward. She’s recovered
　　her composure.
　　“Something to restrain him—cord or rope,” Ryan replies. Cable ties. I flush
　　as memories of the previous night invade my mind. Reflexively, I rub my
　　wrists and glance quickly down at them. No, no bruising. Good.
　　“I have something. Cable ties. Will they do?”
　　All eyes turn to me.
　　“Yes, ma’am. Perfect,” Sawyer says, serious and straight-faced. I want the
　　floor to swallow me up, but I turn and head for our bedroom. Sometimes you
　　just have to brazen things out. Perhaps it’s the combination of fear and
　　alcohol making me audacious. When I return, Mrs. Jones is surveying the
　　mess in the foyer and Miss Prescott has joined the security team. I hand the
　　ties to Sawyer, who slowly, and with frankly unnecessary care, ties Hyde’s
　　hands behind his back. Mrs. Jones disappears into the kitchen and returns
　　with a first aid kit. She takes Ryan’s arm, leads him into the doorway of the
　　great room and starts tending to the cut above his eye. He flinches as she
　　dabs it with an antiseptic wipe. Then I notice the Glock on the floor with a
　　silencer attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat and I
　　fight it down.
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　　“Don’t touch, Mrs. Grey,” says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer
　　emerges from Taylor’s office wearing latex gloves.
　　“I’ll take care of that, Mrs. Grey,” he says.
　　“It’s his?” I ask.
　　“Yes ma’am,” says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones’s
　　ministrations. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at
　　the thought. Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock.
　　“Should you be doing that?” I ask.
　　“Mr. Grey would expect it ma’am.” Sawyer slides the gun into a zip-lock bag
　　then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape
　　from the man’s pocket. Sawyer blanches, and pushes the tape back into
　　Hyde’s pocket.
　　Why duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with
　　fascination and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I
　　realize the implications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don’t go
　　there, Ana!
　　“Should we call the police?” I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out of
　　my home, sooner rather than later.
　　Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other.
　　“I think we should call the police,” I say rather more forcefully, wondering
　　what’s going on between Ryan and Sawyer.
　　“I’ve just tried Taylor and he’s not answering his cell. Maybe he’s asleep.”
　　Sawyer checks his watch. “It’s one forty-five in the morning on the East
　　Coast.”
　　Oh no.
　　“Have you called Christian?” I whisper.
　　“No, ma’am.”
　　“Were you calling Taylor for instructions?”
　　Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. “Yes, ma’am.”
　　Part of me bristles. This man—I glance down at Hyde again—has invaded
　　my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four
　　of them, into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something so I
　　decide to call Christian. My scalp prickles. I know he’s mad at me—really,
　　really mad at me—and I falter at the thought of what he’ll say. And how he’ll
　　stress because he’s not here and can’t be here until tomorrow evening. I
　　know I’ve worried him enough this evening. Perhaps I shouldn’t call him. And
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　　me. Shit . What if I’d been here? I pale at the thought. Thank heavens I was
　　out. Maybe I won’t be in so much trouble after all.
　　“Is he okay?” I ask, pointing at Jack.
　　“He’ll have an aching skull when he wakes,” Ryan says, gazing down at Jack
　　with contempt. “But we need paramedics here to make sure.”
　　I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too
　　much thought to the extent of Christian’s anger, I dial his number. It goes
　　straight to voice mail. He must have switched it off because he’s so mad. I
　　cannot think what to say. Turning away, I walk down the hallway a little, away
　　from everyone.
　　“Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an incident at the apartment.
　　But it’s under control, so don’t worry. No one is hurt. Call me.” I hang up.
　　“Call the police.” I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the call.
　　Officer Skinner is deep in conversation with Ryan at the dining room table.
　　Officer Walker is with Sawyer in Taylor’s office. I don’t know where Prescott
　　is, perhaps in Taylor’s office. Detective Clark is barking questions at me as
　　we sit on the couch in the great room. He’s tall, dark and would be good
　　looking if it wasn’t for his permanent scowl. I suspect he’s been woken and
　　dragged from his warm bed because the home of one of Seattle’s most
　　influential and wealthy businessmen has been breached.
　　“He used to be your boss?” Clark asks tersely.
　　“Yes.”
　　I am tired—beyond tired—and I want to go to bed. I still haven’t heard from
　　Christian. On the plus side, Hyde has been removed by the paramedics.
　　Mrs. Jones hands me and Detective Clark each a cup of tea.
　　“Thanks,” grunts Clark and turns back to me. “And where is Mr. Grey?”
　　“New York. On business. He’ll be back tomorrow evening, I mean this
　　evening.” It’s after midnight.
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　　“Hyde is known to us,” Detective Clark murmurs. “I’ll need you to come down
　　to the station to make a statement. But that can wait. It’s late and there are a
　　couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Do you mind if I look
　　around?”
　　“Of course not,” I offer, relieved his questioning is finished. I shudder at the
　　thought of the photographers outside. Well, they won’t be a problem until
　　tomorrow. I remind myself to call my mom and Ray just in case they hear
　　anything and worry.
　　“Mrs. Grey, may I suggest you go to bed?” Mrs. Jones says, her voice warm
　　and full of concern.
　　Looking into her warm, kind eyes I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to
　　cry. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder.
　　“We’re safe now,” she murmurs. “This will all look better in the morning once
　　you’ve had some sleep. And Mr. Grey will be back tomorrow evening.”
　　I glance nervously up at her, keeping my tears at bay. Christian is going to be
　　so mad.
　　“Can I get you anything before you go to bed?” she asks. What? And in that
　　moment, I realize how hungry I am. “I’d love something to eat.”
　　She smiles broadly. “Sandwich and some milk?”
　　I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer
　　Skinner. In the foyer Detective Clark is examining the mess outside the
　　elevator. He looks thoughtful, in spite of his scowl. And suddenly I feel
　　homesick—homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish
　　fervently that he were here. He’d know what to do. What an evening. I want to
　　crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even
　　though I don’t do as I’m told—but that won’t be possible until this evening.
　　Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn’t he tell me about the increased security

　　for everyone? What exactly is on Jack’s computer? He’s so frustrating but
　　right now, I just don’t care. I want my husband. I miss him.
　　“Here you are, Ana dear.” Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I
　　glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes
　　twinkling. I haven’t had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.
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　　When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian’s side, dressed in his Tshirt.
　　Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently
　　wish him safe passage home . . . and a good mood.
　　I wake with a start. It’s light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples.
　　Oh no. I hope I don’t have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes, and as
　　they flutter open I notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is
　　seated in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of
　　the breast pocket. I wonder if I’m dreaming. His left arm is draped over the
　　chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy?
　　Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is crossed at the ankle over his knee.
　　He’s wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm
　　of the chair, his hand at his chin, and he’s slowly running his index finger
　　rhythmically back and forth over his lower lip. In the early morning light, his
　　eyes burn with grave intensity but his general expression is completely
　　unreadable.
　　My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must have left
　　New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?
　　“Hi,” I whisper.
　　He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves
　　his long fingers away from his mouth, tosses the remainder of his drink down
　　his throat, reaches over and places the glass on the bedside table. I half
　　expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He sits back, continuing to regard me,
　　his expression impassive.
　　“Hello,” he says finally, his voice hushed. And I know he’s still mad. Really
　　mad.
　　“You’re back.”
　　“It would appear so.”
　　Slowly I pull myself up into a sitting position, not taking my eyes off him. My
　　mouth is dry. “How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”
　　“Long enough.”
　　“You’re still mad.” I can hardly speak the words.
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　　He gazes at me, as if considering his response. “Mad,” he says as if testing
　　the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning. “No, Ana. I am far, far
　　beyond mad.”
　　Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it’s hard with a dry mouth.
　　“Far beyond mad . . . that doesn’t sound good.” Shit!
　　He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn’t respond. A stark silence
　　stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of no-longerquite-so-sparkling
　　water and take a welcome sip, trying to bring my erratic heart rate under
　　control.
　　“Ryan caught Jack.” I try a different tack, and I place my glass beside his on
　　the bedside table.
　　“I know,” he says icily.
　　Of course he knows. “Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?”
　　His eyebrows move fractionally registering his surprise as if he hadn’t
　　expected this question. “Yes,” he says finally. Oh . . . okay. What to do?
　　Defense—the best form of attack. “I’m sorry I stayed out.”
　　“Are you?”
　　“No,” I mutter after a pause, because it’s true.
　　“Why say it then?”
　　“Because I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
　　He sighs heavily as if he’s been holding this tension for a thousand hours and
　　runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink
　　him in—Christian’s back—angry, but in one piece.
　　“I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you.”
　　“I’m sure he does.”
　　“Christian, please . . .”
　　“Please what?”
　　“Don’t be so cold.”
　　His eyebrows rise in surprise once more. “Anastasia, cold is not what I’m
　　feeling at the moment. I’m burning. Burning with rage. I don’t know how to
　　deal with these”—he waves his hand searching for the word—“feelings.” His
　　tone is bitter.
　　Oh shit. His honesty disarms me. All I want to do is crawl into his lap. It’s all
　　I’ve wanted to do since I came home last night. But right now, I don’t think it’s
　　a good idea. Is it? To hell with this. I move, taking him by surprise and
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　　curl up. He doesn’t push me away, which is what I’d feared. After a beat, he
　　folds his arms around me and buries his nose in my hair. He smells of
　　whiskey. Jeez, how much did he drink? He smells of bodywash, too . . . he
　　smells of Christian. I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle his throat,
　　and he sighs once more, deeply this time.
　　“Oh, Mrs. Grey. What am I going to do with you?” He kisses the top of my
　　head. I close my eyes, relishing the contact with him.
　　“How much have you had to drink?”
　　He stills. “Why?”
　　“You don’t normally drink hard liquor.”
　　“This is my second glass. I’ve had a trying night, Anastasia. Give a man a
　　break.”
　　I smile. “If you insist, Mr. Grey,” I breathe into his neck. “You smell heavenly. I
　　slept on your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you.”
　　He nuzzles my hair. “Did you now? I wondered why you were on this side. I’m
　　still mad at you.”
　　“I know.”
　　His hand rhythmically strokes my back.
　　“And I’m mad at you,” I whisper.
　　He pauses. “And what, pray, have I done to deserve your ire?”
　　“I’ll tell you later when you’re no longer burning with rage.” I kiss his throat. He
　　closes his eyes and leans into my kiss but makes no move to kiss me back.
　　His arms tighten around me, squeezing me.
　　“When I think of what might have happened . . .” His voice is barely a
　　whisper. Broken, raw.
　　“I’m okay.”
　　“Oh, Ana.” It’s almost a sob.
　　“I’m okay. We’re all okay. A bit shaken. But Gail is fine. Ryan is fine. And
　　Jack is gone.”
　　He shakes his head. “No thanks to you,” he mutters. What? I lean back, and
　　glare at him. “What do you mean?”
　　“I don’t want to argue about it right now, Ana.”
　　I blink. Well, maybe I do, but I decide against it. At least he’s talking to me. I
　　nestle into him once more. His fingers move to my hair and start playing with
　　it.
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　　“I want to punish you,” he whispers. “Really beat the shit out of you,” he adds.
　　My heart leaps into my mouth. Fuck. “I know,” I whisper as my scalp prickles.
　　“Maybe I will.”
　　“I hope not.”
　　He hugs me tighter. “Ana, Ana, Ana. You’d try the patience of a saint.”
　　“I could accuse you of many things, Mr. Grey, but being a saint isn’t one of
　　them.”
　　Finally I am blessed with his reluctant chuckle. “Fair point well made as ever,
　　Mrs. Grey.” He kisses my forehead and shifts.
　　“Back to bed. You had a late night, too.” He moves quickly, picking me up
　　and depositing me back on the bed.
　　“Lie down with me?”
　　“No. I have things to do.” He reaches down and collects the glass.
　　“Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
　　“Are you still mad at me?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“I’ll go back to sleep, then.”
　　“Good.” He pulls the duvet over me and kisses my forehead once more.
　　“Sleep.”
　　And because I’m so groggy from the night before, relieved that he’s back,
　　and emotionally fatigued by our early-morning encounter, I do exactly as I’m
　　told. As I drift off I’m curious though grateful, given the nasty taste in my
　　mouth, to know why he hasn’t deployed his usual coping mechanism and
　　leapt on me to have his wicked way.
　　“There’s some orange juice for you here,” Christian says, and my eyes flutter
　　open again. I have had the most restful two hours of sleep I can remember,
　　and I wake refreshed, my head no longer throbbing. The orange juice is a
　　welcome sight—as is my husband. He’s in his sweats. And I’m momentarily
　　zapped back to the Heathman Hotel and the first time I ever woke up with
　　him. His gray tank top is damp with his sweat. Either he’s been working out
　　in the basement gym or he’s been for a run, but he shouldn’t look this good
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　　“I’m going to take a shower,” he murmurs and disappears to the bathroom. I
　　frown. He’s still distant. He’s either distracted by all that’s happened, or still
　　mad, or . . . what? I sit up and reach for the orange juice, drinking it down too
　　quickly. It’s delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place. I
　　clamber out of bed, anxious to close the distance—real and metaphysical—
　　between my husband and me. I glance quickly at the alarm. It’s eight o’clock.
　　I strip off Christian’s Tshirt and follow him into the bathroom. He’s in the
　　shower, washing his hair, and I don’t hesitate. I slip in behind him and he
　　stiffens the moment I wrap my arms around him—my front to his wet,
　　muscular back. I ignore his reaction, holding him tightly, and press my cheek
　　flat against him, closing my eyes. After a moment, he shifts so we are both
　　under the cascade of hot water and carries on washing his hair. I let the
　　water wash over me as I cradle the man I love. I think of all the times he’s
　　fucked me and all the times he’s made love to me in here. I frown. He’s never
　　been this quiet. Turning my head, I start to trail kisses across his back. His
　　body stiffens again.
　　“Ana,” he warns.
　　“Hmm.”
　　My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places
　　both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his

　　head.
　　“Don’t,” he warns.
　　Oh. I release him, immediately. He’s saying no? My mind goes into free fall
　　—has this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her
　　lips pursed. She glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her
　　you’ve-really-fucked-up-this-time look. I feel like I’ve been slapped, hard.
　　Rejected. And a lifetime of insecurity spawns the ugly thought he doesn’t
　　want me anymore. I gasp as the pain sears through me. Christian turns, and
　　I’m relieved to see he’s not completely oblivious to my charms. Grasping my
　　chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself gazing into his wary, beautiful
　　eyes.
　　“I’m still fucking mad at you,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit!
　　Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach
　　up and caress his face.
　　“Don’t be mad at me, please. I think you’re overreacting,” I whisper.
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　　He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.
　　“Overreacting?” he snarls. “Some fucking lunatic gets into my apartment to
　　kidnap my wife, and you think I’m overreacting!” The restrained menace in
　　his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me like I’m the
　　fucking lunatic.
　　“No . . . um, that’s not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me
　　staying out.”
　　He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.
　　“Christian, I wasn’t here.” I try to appease and reassure him.
　　“I know,” he whispers opening his eyes. “And all because you can’t follow a
　　simple, fucking request.” His tone is bitter and it’s my turn to blanch. “I don’t
　　want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still fucking mad at you,
　　Anastasia. You’re making me question my judgment.” He turns and promptly
　　leaves the shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the
　　bathroom, leaving me bereft and chilled under the hot water.
　　Crap. Crap. Crap.
　　Then the significance of what he’s just said dawns on me. Kidnap?
　　Fuck. Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to
　　think too deeply about why Jack had that. Does Christian have more
　　information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want
　　to know. I need to know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about
　　this.
　　Christian’s not in the bedroom when I come out. Jeez, he dresses quickly. I
　　do the same, throwing on my favorite plum dress and black sandals, and I’m
　　conscious that I’ve chosen this outfit because Christian likes it. I vigorously
　　towel-dry my hair, then braid it and wind it into a bun. Fitting diamond studs
　　into my ears, I dash to the bathroom to apply a little mascara. Glancing at
　　myself in the mirror— I’m pale. Jeez, I’m always pale— I take a deep
　　steadying breath. I need to face the consequences of my rash decision to
　　actually enjoy myself with my friend. I sigh, knowing that Christian won’t see it
　　that way. Christian is nowhere to be seen in the great room. Mrs. Jones is
　　busying herself in the kitchen.
　　“Good morning, Ana,” she says sweetly.
　　“Morning,” I smile broadly at her. I am Ana again!
　　“Tea?”
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　　“Please.”
　　“Anything to eat?”
　　“Please. I’d like an omelet this morning.”
　　“With mushrooms and spinach?”
　　“And cheese.”
　　“Coming up.”
　　“Where’s Christian?”
　　“Mr. Grey’s in his study.”
　　“Has he had breakfast?” I glance at the two places set on the breakfast bar.
　　“No, ma’am.”
　　“Thanks.”
　　Christian is on the phone, dressed in a white shirt with no tie, looking like
　　every part the relaxed CEO. How deceptive appearances can be. Perhaps
　　he’s not going into the office after all. He glances up when I appear in the
　　doorway but shakes his head at me, indicating that I am not welcome. Shit . .
　　. I turn and wander dejectedly back to the breakfast bar. Taylor appears,
　　snappily dressed in a somber suit, looking like he’s had eight hours of
　　uninterrupted sleep.
　　“Morning, Taylor,” I murmur, trying to gauge his mood and see if he’ll offer me
　　any visual cues about what has been going on.
　　“Good morning, Mrs. Grey,” he replies, and I hear the sympathy in those four
　　words. I smile compassionately back at him, knowing he had to endure an
　　angry, frustrated Christian returning to Seattle way ahead of schedule.
　　“How was the flight?” I dare to ask.
　　“Long, Mrs. Grey.” His brevity speaks volumes. “May I ask how you are?” he
　　adds, his tone softening.
　　“I’m good.”
　　He nods. “If you’ll excuse me.” He heads toward Christian’s study. Hmm.
　　Taylor’s allowed in, but not me.
　　“Here you go.” Mrs. Jones places my breakfast in front of me. My appetite
　　has vanished, but I eat anyway, not wishing to offend her. By the time I’ve
　　finished what I can of my breakfast, Christian has still not emerged from his
　　study. Is he avoiding me?
　　“Thanks, Mrs. Jones,” I murmur, sliding off the bar stool and making my way
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　　I’m reminded of Christian’s sulk over the wedding vows. He holed up in his
　　study then, too. Is that what this is? Him sulking? I shudder as I recall his
　　subsequent nightmare. Will that happen again? We really need to talk. I need
　　to know about Jack, and about the increased security for the Greys—all the
　　details that have been kept from me, but not from Kate. Obviously Elliot talks
　　to her.
　　I glance at my watch. It’s eight fifty—I’m late for work. I finish brushing my
　　teeth, apply a little lip gloss, grab my lightweight black jacket and head back
　　to the great room. I am relieved to see Christian there, eating his breakfast.
　　“You’re going?” he says when he sees me.
　　“To work? Yes, of course.” Bravely, I walk toward him and rest my hands on
　　the edge of the breakfast bar. He gazes at me blankly.
　　“Christian, we’ve hardly been back a week. I have to go to work.”
　　“But—” He stops, and rakes his hand through his hair. Mrs. Jones walks
　　quietly out of the room. Discreet, Gail, discreet.
　　“I know we have a great deal to talk about. Perhaps if you’ve calmed down,
　　we can do it this evening.”
　　His mouth pops open with dismay. “Calmed down?” His voice is eerily soft.
　　I flush. “You know what I mean.”
　　“No, Anastasia, I don’t know what you mean.”
　　“I don’t want a fight. I was coming to ask you if I could take my car.”
　　“No. You can’t,” he snaps.
　　“Okay.” I acquiesce immediately.
　　He blinks. He was obviously expecting a fight. “Prescott will accompany you.”
　　His tone is slightly less belligerent. Dammit, not Prescott. I want to pout and
　　protest but decide against it. Surely now Jack has been caught we can cut
　　back on our security. I remember my mom’s “words of wisdom” talk the day
　　before my wedding. Ana, honey, you really have to choose your battles. It’ll
　　be the same with your kids when you have them. Well, at least he’s letting
　　me go to work.
　　“Okay,” I mutter. And because I don’t want to leave him like this with so much
　　unresolved and so much tension between us, I step tentatively toward him.
　　He stiffens, his eyes widening, and for a 207 | P a g e
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　　moment he looks so vulnerable it pulls at some deep, dark place in my heart.
　　Oh, Christian, I’m so sorry. I kiss him chastely on the side of his mouth. He
　　closes his eyes as if relishing my touch.
　　“Don’t hate me,” I whisper.
　　He grabs my hand. “I don’t hate you.”.
　　“You haven’t kissed me,” I whisper.
　　He eyes me suspiciously. “I know,” he mutters.
　　I’m desperate to ask him why, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
　　Abruptly he stands and grabs my face between his hands, and in a flash his
　　lips are hard on mine. I gasp with surprise, inadvertently granting his tongue
　　access. He takes full advantage, invading my mouth, claiming me . . . and
　　just as I’m beginning to respond he releases me, his breathing quickening.
　　“Taylor will take you and Prescott to SIP,” he says, his eyes flaring with need.
　　“Taylor!” he calls. I flush, trying to recover some composure.
　　“Sir.” Taylor is standing in the doorway.
　　“Tell Prescott Mrs. Grey is going to work. Can you drive them, please?”
　　“Certainly.” Turning on his heel, Taylor disappears.
　　“If you could try to stay out of trouble today, I would appreciate it,”
　　Christian mutters.
　　“I’ll see what I can do.” I smile sweetly. A reluctant half smile tugs at
　　Christian’s lips, but he doesn’t give in to it.
　　“I’ll see you later, then,” he says coolly.
　　“Laters,” I whisper.
　　Prescott and I take the service elevator down to the basement garage in
　　order to avoid the media outside. Jack’s arrest, and the fact he was
　　apprehended in our apartment, is now public knowledge. As I settle into the
　　Audi, I wonder if there will be more paparazzi waiting at SIP
　　like the day our engagement was announced.
　　We drive a while in silence until I remember to call first Ray and then my mom
　　to reassure them Christian and I are safe. Mercifully, both calls are short and I
　　hang up just as we arrive outside SIP. As I feared, there’s a small crowd of
　　reporters and photographers lying in wait. They turn as one, looking
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　　“Are you sure you want to do this, Mrs. Grey?” Taylor asks. Part of me just
　　wants to go home, but that means spending the day with Mr. Burning Rage.
　　Hopefully with a little time he will gain some perspective. Jack is in police
　　custody, so Fifty should be happy, but he’s not. Part of me understands why;
　　too much of this is out of his control including me, but I don’t have time to
　　think about this now.

　　“Take me around to the delivery entrance, please, Taylor.”
　　“Yes, ma’am.”
　　It’s one o’clock and I’ve managed to immerse myself in work all morning.
　　There’s a knock and Elizabeth pops her head around the door.
　　“Can I have a moment?” she asks brightly.
　　“Sure,” I mutter, surprised at her unscheduled visit. She enters and sits down,
　　tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. “I just wanted to check you’re
　　okay. Roach asked me to pay you a visit,” she adds hurriedly as her face
　　reddens. “I mean with all that went on last night.”
　　Jack Hyde’s arrest is all over the newspapers, but no one seems to have
　　made the connection yet with the fire at GEH.
　　“I’m fine,” I answer, trying not to think too deeply about how I feel. Jack
　　wanted to harm me. Well, that’s not news. He’s tried before. It’s Christian I’m
　　more concerned about.
　　I glance quickly at my e-mail. There’s still nothing from him. I don’t know if I
　　were to send him an e-mail, whether I’d just be provoking Mr. Burning Rage
　　further.
　　“Good,” Elizabeth answers, and her smile actually touches her eyes for a
　　change. “If there’s anything I can do—anything you need—let me know.”
　　“Will do.”
　　Elizabeth stands. “I know how busy you are, Ana. I’ll let you get back to it”
　　“Um . . . thanks.”
　　That has to have been the briefest most pointless meeting in the Western
　　Hemisphere today. Perhaps Roach sent her in here. Perhaps he’s worried,
　　given I’m his boss’s wife. I shake off the dark thoughts 209 | P a g e
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　　and reach for my BlackBerry in the hope that there might be a message from
　　Christian. As I do, my work e-mail pings.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Statement
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:04
　　To: Anastasia Grey
　　Anastasia
　　Detective Clark will be visiting your office today at 3 pm to take your
　　statement.
　　I have insisted that he should come to you, as I don’t want you going to the
　　police station.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　I gaze at his e-mail for a full five minutes, trying to think of a light and witty
　　response to lift his mood. I draw a complete blank, and opt for brevity
　　instead.
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: Statement
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:12
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Okay.
　　A x
　　Anastasia Grey
　　Commissioning Editor, SIP
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　　I stare at the screen for another five minutes, anxious for his response but
　　there’s nothing. Christian is not in the mood to play today. I sit back. Can I
　　blame him? My poor Fifty was probably frantic, back in the early hours of this
　　morning. Then a thought occurs to me. He was in his tux when I woke this
　　morning. What time did he decide to come back from New York? He
　　normally leaves functions between ten and eleven. Last night at that hour I
　　was still at large with Kate. Did Christian come home because I was out or
　　because of the Jack incident? If he left because I was out having a good
　　time, he would have had no idea about Jack, about the police, nothing—until
　　he landed in Seattle. It’s suddenly very important to me to find out. If Christian
　　came back merely because I was out, then he was overreacting. My
　　subconscious sucks her teeth, wearing her harpy face. Okay, I’m glad he’s
　　back, so maybe it’s irrelevant. But still—Christian must have had one hell of a
　　shock when he landed. No wonder he’s so confused today. His earlier words
　　come back to me. “I am still fucking mad at you, Anastasia. You’re making
　　me question my judgment.”
　　I have to know—did he come back because of Cocktailgate or because of
　　the fucking lunatic?
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: Your Flight
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:24
　　To: Christian Grey
　　What time did you decide to come back to Seattle yesterday?
　　Anastasia Grey
　　Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Your flight
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:26
　　To: Anastasia Grey
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　　Fifty Shades Freed
　　Why?
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: Your Flight
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:29
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Call it curiosity.
　　Anastasia Grey
　　Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Your flight
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:32
　　To: Anastasia Grey
　　Curiosity killed the cat.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: Huh?
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:35
　　To: Christian Grey
　　What is that oblique reference to? Another threat?
　　You know where I am going with this, don’t you?
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　　E L JAMES
　　Did you decide to return because I went out for a drink with my friend after
　　you asked me not to, or did you return because a madman was in your
　　apartment?
　　Anastasia Grey
　　Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　I stare at my screen. There’s no response. I glance at the clock on my
　　computer. One forty-five and still no response.
　　From: Anastasia Grey
　　Subject: Here’s the thing . . .
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:56
　　To: Christian Grey
　　I will take your silence as an admission that you did indeed return to Seattle
　　because I CHANGED MY MIND. I am an adult female and went for a drink
　　with my friend. I did not understand the security ramifications of CHANGING
　　MY MIND because YOU NEVER TELL ME ANYTHING. I found out from Kate
　　that security has, in fact, been stepped up for all the Greys, not just us. I think
　　you generally overreact where my safety is concerned, and I understand why,
　　but you’re like the boy crying wolf. I never have a clue about what is a real
　　concern or merely something that is perceived as a concern by you. I had two
　　of the security detail with me. I thought both Kate and I would be safe. Fact is,
　　we were safer in that bar than at the apartment. Had I been FULLY
　　INFORMED of the situation, I would have taken a different course of action.
　　I understand your concerns are something to do with material that was on
　　Jack’s computer here—or so Kate believes. Do you know how annoying it is
　　to find out my best friend knows more about what’s going on with you than I
　　do? And I am your WIFE. So are you going to tell me? Or will you continue to
　　treat me like a child, guaranteeing that I continue to behave like one?
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　　You are not the only one who is fucking pissed. Okay?
　　Ana
　　Anastasia Grey
　　Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　I hit send. There—stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Grey. I take a deep
　　breath. I have worked myself up into quite a rage. Here was I feeling sorry
　　and guilty for behaving badly. Well, no longer.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Here’s the thing . . .
　　Date: August 26, 2011 13:59
　　To: Anastasia Grey
　　As ever, Mrs. Grey, you are forthright and challenging in e-mail. Perhaps we
　　can discuss this when you get home to OUR
　　apartment.
　　You should watch your language. I am still fucking pissed, too. Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　Watch my language! I scowl at my computer, realizing this is getting me
　　nowhere. I don’t respond, but pick up a manuscript recently received from a
　　promising new author and begin to read.
　　My meeting with Detective Clark is uneventful. He is less growly than the
　　night before, maybe because he’s managed some sleep. Or maybe he just
　　prefers working during the day.
　　“Thank you for your statement, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“You’re welcome, detective. Is Hyde in police custody yet?”
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　　“Yes ma’am. He was released from hospital earlier this morning. With what
　　he’s charged with, he should be with us for a while.” He smiles, his dark eyes
　　crinkling in the corner.
　　“Good. This has been an anxious time for my husband and me.”
　　“I spoke at length with Mr. Grey this morning. He’s very relieved. Interesting
　　man, your husband.”
　　You have no idea.
　　“Yes, I think so.” I offer him a polite smile, and he knows he’s being
　　dismissed.
　　“If you think of anything, you can call me. Here’s my card.”
　　He wrestles a card out of his wallet and hands it to me.
　　“Thank you, detective. I’ll do that.”
　　“Good day to you, Mrs. Grey.”
　　“Good day.”
　　As he leaves I wonder exactly what Hyde has been charged with. No doubt
　　Christian won’t tell me. I purse my lips.
　　We ride in silence to Escala. Sawyer is driving this time, Prescott at his side,
　　and my heart grows heavier and heavier as we head back. I know Christian
　　and I are going to have an almighty fight, and I don’t know if I have the energy.
　　As I ride in the elevator from the garage with Prescott beside me, I try to
　　marshal my thoughts. What do I want to say? I think I said it all in my e-mail.
　　Perhaps he’ll give me some answers. I hope so. I can’t help my nerves. My
　　heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I don’t want to
　　fight. But sometimes he’s so difficult, and I need to stand my ground.
　　The elevator doors slide open, revealing the foyer, and it’s once more neat
　　and tidy. The table is upright and a new vase is in place with a gorgeous
　　array of pale pink and white peonies. I quickly check the paintings as we
　　wander through—the Madonnas all look to be intact. The broken foyer door
　　is fixed and operational once more, and Prescott kindly opens it for me.
　　She’s been so quiet today. I think I prefer her this way.
　　I drop my briefcase in the hall and head into the great room. I stop. Holy fuck.
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　　“Good evening, Mrs. Grey,” Christian says softly. He’s standing by the piano,
　　dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans . . . those jeans—
　　the ones he wore in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale blue
　　denim, snug, ripped at the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet
　　bare, the top button of the jeans undone, his smoldering eyes never leaving
　　mine.
　　“Good to have you home. I’ve been waiting for you.”
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