"What do you mean you're going to work?" Christian snaps.
We've had this argument nearly every morning since Little Blip had been discovered, and I, quite frankly, am sick of it… but I know he is, too.
"Oh, Christian…" I sigh, fighting to stay cool, calm, and collected. It's nearly impossible when my stomach is doing flips. This man never fails to keep my on my toes. "I'm perfectly capable of going to the office and sitting at my desk all day. It puts no more strain on me than sitting right here does. The only difference is that here I have you berating every breath I take."
...Oops. Too far?
He lets out a breath of exasperation and fists a hand in his hair, a very Christian thing to do.
Uh oh.
Before he can get a word in edgewise, I continue on, figuring that I might as well get my words out now while I have the nerve. "I've been jumping on every demand you throw my way. You tell me to eat, I eat. You tell me to sit for a few minutes, I find the nearest chair. You want me to get an extra hour of sleep? Fine. I can make that sacrifice, but now you want me to give up the one thing that's making me sane right now? The one thing that allows me to do my own thing, maintain some form of control? That's not okay in my book."
My inner goddess takes a deep breath, preparing to unleash herself fully on this frustrating man before me. "I just want to go to the office, do some paperwork, skim over a couple manuscripts, and drink some tea. Now is that just too much to ask?" As much as I try to keep the tears out of my raising voice, I fail miserably. Thankfully, I manage to sound more rageful than tearful, though.
He nearly gapes at me. Good. "What has gotten into you, Ana? It's not like you to overreact." And though I know that he's not purposely provoking me, it still brings about the same emotion: fury. With my already heightened emotions, my burning hot tears spill over and down my cheeks.
"I hate this!" I all but shriek at him, my voice shrill. If my words don't get through to him, maybe my tone will. "This is enough. You can't just hold me prisoner here!"
"When it comes to your well being, yes I can, Ana," Christian retorts, his voice much calmer than mine, but I can still see how irate he is. "It's not just you."
"It's not just you," I say in a scornful, mocking tone. "That's all you ever say anymore!"
This makes him seethe. "Because it's true, Anastasia," he hisses, and I flinch at the harshness of his voice. "You're so thoughtless when you're like this. It's like you don't even care about this baby."
My dams break—no, they crumble, shatter… fragmentize—and sobs break free from deep within my chest. He realizes the meaning of his words a second too late, and reaches a hand out, no doubt to wrap me into an apologetic hug.
Somewhere within me, I want to curl up against his chest and just let it out. It would be a cathartic release, him stroking my hair, me fisting my hands in his crisp, white dress shirt. He'd relent to me, allowing me to get ready and go to the office without fuss, Taylor driving me there and Sawyer in the passenger seat beside him.
I'd be safe, and I'd feel safer yet because I was in his arms.
Regrettably though, my mind realizes that this is Christian we're talking about—my stubborn, unyielding husband, and before I even become conscious of my own thoughts, I lose it.
Lashing out at him, I slap him—hard—surprising myself even, then quickly back away. I stand cradling my stomach, scared that he'll hurt either of us. He blinks at me, and I suddenly hear this awful, animalistic weeping, and it's such a horrible noise that I glance around the room to find who's responsible for such a sound.
Until I realize that it's me making these noises.
Christian stares at me, and I continue to back away, toward the door to our bedroom, and once close enough, I flee out of the room. I find myself colliding with a solid figure, and their hands reach up to steady me as I waver on my feet. Looking up, I see that it's Taylor. In absolute mortification, I stare up at him. This is almost worse than the time he caught me in my state of… nearly undressed.
After a few seconds of intense staring and confusion, he clears his throat. "Mrs. Grey, are you not well?"
Reminding myself of an animal who feels threatened, I steal a glance to my left, then to my right before looking back at him and nodding a couple of times. Normally I'd offer him some kind of verbal reassurance, but… nothing comes to mind. Nothing I say will be right. Even my inner self gawks up at this man. As close as I'd gotten to Taylor, Gail, and Sawyer… I still don't feel comfortable laying my feelings out in front of them.
Letting me go, he takes a step back. He watches me carefully for a few more seconds before again clearing his throat and nodding. "Will you be ready at the normal time today for work, Mrs. Grey?" His usual sense of formality has returned and he's obviously uncomfortable and beyond confused, but I barely notice, nor do I really care.
In response, I offer a single shake of the head before walking down the hallway with shaking hands, wanting to put as much distance between Christian and I as possible.
Once I've reached the kitchen and see Mrs. Jones setting two mugs on the breakfast bar, I briefly wonder where I thought I was running to—I didn't get very far, did I?
Offering a soft smile as per usual, Mrs. Jones pours boiling hot water into my mug, setting a single tea bag next to it. "Why, good morning, Mrs. Grey. Can I interest you in the usual, or is there something else you'd like this morning?"
Almost like a deer caught in headlights, I stare at her, for some reason not knowing how to react to her kindness.
She knows in an instant that something is wrong—of course—and wipes her hands on a towel before approaching me. "Mrs. Grey?" she asks questioningly.
I reach up to scrub the tears from my eyes, surprised to find that they have halted for the time being. I look back in the direction of the bedroom, as if expecting Christian to be standing there. He's not, but instead I hear the muffled tones of a conversation from within the room—undoubtedly Taylor quizzing my husband on what my malfunction is.
"Mrs. Grey," Gail murmurs again, stepping closer. At her kind, gentle voice, my walls collapse again—hormones?—and I feel tears streaming down my surely rosy and swollen cheeks. Placing a hand on my arm, she watches me with eyes full of concern. "Ana, dear, why don't you take a seat?" she suggests, but my mind processes it as an order, and I find myself sitting shakily on the nearest stool, with the help of her guiding hands.
Without saying anything further, she picks up the tea bag she'd set out, dips it into the water, then disposes of it before pushing the mug toward me. "There you go, dear."
I can tell she wants to say more, but she bites her tongue. I gaze down at the mug and simple wrap my cold hands around it before laying my head down on my arms and silently sobbing, my shoulders trembling hard.
Uncharacteristically, Gail closes a drawer a little harder than necessary, breaking her constant calm and causing me to flinch. She storms out into the direction of the bedroom, and I watch her, not lifting my head from my arm, shocked at this unfamiliar side of her.
Honestly, my other emotions outweigh my curiosity about the spectacle occurring in the other room. I squeeze my eyes shut and let my sobs go of their own volition. I weep and weep to no end, not knowing when it'll ever stop.
Suddenly I get the urge to make sure that Little Blip is okay, and I caress my stomach without ceasing my lament.