One Hour

Chapter One

Only a few weeks away from my graduation from Colombia, in an early six, my day start slow, despite how it would change the rest of my life drastically. It's a cool early June morning, the sun is neither warm nor bright enough to chase away the lingering spring. I slowly straighten up, sliding my bare feet down on the tiles, letting the crisp morning air give me a momentary chill as I climb out of the bed. My eyes catch the calendar on my desk, which still has the day unceremionally unmarked.

A slow smile appears lazily on my lips; last night after I turned from the party, I hadn't time to cover the calendar, barely having enough time to sort through my questions that I'd prepared ages ago, and well, to decide what to wear.

I know, I'm terrible. Though, give me some slack, please. It's not an everyday a girl fixes herself—uh—"an hour" with a billionaire. For the interview she's been fighting for months.

My smile grows wider as I look at the mirror, and congratulate myself for yet another "mission-completed." The mission, however, isn't completed yet, of course, I mean, my phone just would squall at this moment, and a cool, detached female voice would inform me that she was sorry but Mr. Grey wasn't available at the moment, and we had to reschedule. Murphy's law and all, and shit happens.

But somehow in deep down I know nothing shitty would happen today. A gut feeling, or just my own naivety, you decide. I just know, after all the troubles I've gone through just to claim that one, single, little hour of his day, Fates wouldn't be that cold-hearted, and life certainly wouldn't be that unfair. Youthfulness, how I love thee naivety, Christian would certainly say.

It wasn't an easy job to fix an interview with him, let me tell you about that. First, he hates reporters, second, in his secretaries' words—he's very much engaged with other things. It took eight months, countless phone calls, even a direct call from Katherine's father to let me know that "I'm sorry, Ms. Steele, but Mr. Grey is very much engaged with other things." Like hostile takeovers, creating crisis within the Fragile Five just with a few words of his, buying little islands at some remote places, all while trying to cure the world's hunger— Christian T. Grey, the extraordinary billionaire, all in one day.

The man is phenomenal, that much I know, even before I met him. Coming from an average all-way-American family, the man managed to be the new Great Gatsby of the 21th Century, the new poster boy of the American Dream, with less smiles but tight lips. I can't even remember seeing him smiling in one picture, all the magazines, usually only Forbes and the Economist, and occasionally WSJ always have the same picture of him; impeccably dressed in Armani, arms tied across his chest, lips pressed tightly, eyes lighting. I'd thought it was just a cunning show of Photoshop, that blue glint in his eyes, but now I know better, much, much better.

So short story to long, I couldn't get an hour of him, then in a moment of between self-determination and absolute craziness, I decided that the situation demanded a more direct approach. So, naturally, I turned to Katherine's father again. Katherine is my classmate, who is about to finish her degree in Finance like me, only because her father wishes, whereas she only wants to be the next "Chiara Ferragni". Looking at us, no one would guess we're best friends; we're quite opposites, she is a rich energized socialite who has the same attention span as a butterfly while I have a more reserved personality with a more singlehanded mind, and of course, much less, much less money. But how have we become best friends, you ask? Simple. In our second term in Colombia, I sorta saved her from her a rape attempt. Aside from a part-time job I've managed to get this year at WSJ, I'm also working with the college newspaper, and during that term there were several occasions that the girls started to get date-raped. Being a curious person as I am, I got interested, then soon discovered —okay, discovered by sheer chance—our date-rapist wasn't anyone else but our classmate José Rodriguez, who happened to get a date with Katherine that night. When the police found José, Katherine was already unconscious, on bed, naked as the day she was born, but still untouched. At the end, the bastard got what he deserved, and Katherine and I became best friends. So as you can imagine, Katherine's father who also happens to be a business associate of Christian Grey is rather fond of me. So he didn't mind all that much asking me if he could reach out to Mr. Grey and ask an interview on my behalf, and if it had been anyone else it would have certainly worked too, but as I will learn later, Christian Grey is not anyone else.

But neither I am. My mother always used to say I'm too much stubborn for my own goodness.

So I decided the direct approach. Grey is a curator of the New York Public Library, which sponsored a special performance of Les Arts Florissants in Carniege Hall two days ago. Yesterday they also decided to throw a dinner party in the name of the music ensemble and I was quite certain as being a classical music enthusiast Grey would be there, and the opportunity would finally present itself. So I called Mr. Kavanagh and asked another favor, then put on my little-black-dress that I usually keep for this kinds of occasions, borrowed a little Chanel purse from Katherine, and left for the Library.

It turned out I was right.

Dressed to nine with another Armani, he was there, listening to another small performance of the ensemble, carefully holding a flute in his hand. By that time, I'd heard many things about him; the Wonder Boy of Wall Street, the Heartless Business Tycoon, the Philanthropist. At the moment, he seemed to be none of them, or perhaps all of them at once. Who would know? That was the part of the reason I was trying to get the interview that much; he was an enigma, who always wears a mask, and I wanted to get a peek and see what lies behind. Curiosity gets the cat, right?

Seeing him in the pictures was nothing like seeing him in person. Not only he was powerful, young, and compelling, he was also a very good-looking specimen. He had a broad chest and shoulders, not massive but well-definite, a flat abdomen that had that Armani suit suit him impeccably, strong arms with delicate hands. He wasn't a mass of hunk of muscles and testosterone, but rather repressed power and vigor that also have absolute power over his body. His whole body was emitting that repressed power, influential and let's be honest, quite intimidating. Standing a few feet away from him, I never felt myself that feeble and fragile like that night.

Later in the night, Mr. Kavanagh caught me looking at him, out of my depth, and possibly took pity on me. "Come on," he said, taking my arm at my elbow, "I'll introduce you to him."

I opened my mouth, and was about to protest—goddamnnit I'd not even prepared a witty opening line yet—but he was already dragging me toward him. When we stopped in front of him two seconds later, he let my arm go. "Grey," Mr. Kavanagh greeted him with a half of nod.

He turned his dark head aside toward us then I finally saw his face too, in real life. His was paler than I thought, almost ivory, and his eyes were a weird blue, almost electrical, cold and—like I said lighting, his hair thick and as dark as coal. Before he greeted Mr. Kavanagh with his half nod, his eyes for a split of second skipped over me, so quickly that I almost missed it, then turned back to Mr. Kavanagh. "Kavanagh," then he said, his attention now entirely focused on his business associate, "come," he continued, already walking away, "There is something we need to talk."

Mr. Kavanagh gave me a look, indicating that he was sorry, together with a hopeless shrug then followed him on the way to the balcony. Stuck at my place, I watched their retreating backs as they lost behind the balcony's floor-length-glass window. He did not just disregard me this easily, this effortlessly, this—pathetically. He could not! But he did. Quite efficiently. My self-confidence shattering, I quickly caught a glass of champagne from a passing by waiter and bottomed up the drink. The bubbly drink ran over my throat smoothly, leaving a sweet flicker where it passed. Taking another one, I bottomed it up, too. By the third one, I was convinced he was a rather son of a bitch.

But to be fair to me, I've always known that, haven't I?

So I shook my head, as if to clear the mist of champagnes then realized I needed some fresh air, like now. Hastily, I went to the balcony that they had left minutes ago, slid the tall glass window, and stepped outside. I walked to the railings, craned my neck up to watch the spectacular New York skyline, countless little fireflies glinting in the dark. Born and bred, I've always liked New York, loved its complexity, loved its turmoil, loved its pulsing energy. It's the city that never sleeps, and overlooking at it, feeling its beats, you could see why. This is a city anything can happen, every dream can come true, you only have to work for it, and never give up.

Turning back, my eyes searched for him, and I spotted him at the corner, listening to the music ensemble once again, an unreadable look over his face, something close to softness, his lips a bit less tightened. Never give up, I told myself, never. Before I changed my mind, I walked back inside then paraded toward him with long, powerful, and determined steps. I will get that one hour, you son of a bitch! Why, I hear you asking, why it is so important to you, Ana. Quite simple. The college finishing, my part-time job in Wall Street Journal would come to an end, and I'd rather prefer to keep it, and for that I need to prove to the chief of staff that I'm a profitable acquisition. If I get that one hour, and put it into my portfolio, then the world would be a lot much safer and easier place for me.

My arms tight against my sides, I stopped in front of him, and started with a adamant "Mr. Grey," but before I could say anything else, he turned to me, his flute still in his hands, and gave me an onceover that had the rest of my words die in my throat.

Then he shook his head. "Ms. Steele, I have to confess," said he, "You're very persistent."

My eyebrows raised as my eyes, I'm sure, grew to the size of a saucer. "You know me?" I asked, suddenly out of breath.

He gave me another look, heavy and almost disappointed, as if he suddenly became bored, "You've been nagging me for an interview for eight months, even using your net-work," his eyes shifting, he tossed at Mr. Kavanagh a disapproving look, then returned to me again, "Of course, I know you."

Getting out of my stupor, I smiled. "Good," I said, "So... what do you say?"

"I don't like interviews—" he countered.

"It'd only take an hour," I interfered, and he fixed at me a look, irritated. I snapped my mouth shut.

"On the other hand," he continued, "I believe tenacity would always be rewarded," he declared then told me stiffly before started walking away, "Come to my office at twelve tomorrow. You'll have your hour then."

Hello, thank you for reading the first chapter of my story. As you can understand, this is AU, in which Ana is the one who has been wanting to have the interview instead of Kate. This isn't beta-read. Only edited by me, and this close first pov is rather hard for me, so bear with me.

Reviews and thoughts are appreciated. See ya the next with the interview ;)