Okay, I know I should be writing the 35th chapter of Entwined. I am! I swear! It's just that this story won't leave me alone so I kinda had to put it out here and continue writing chapter 35. You guys don't mind, right? Right? :D

So, I know I'm not the only one who read the books while they were in fanfic stage, Master of the Universe. I also know I'm not the only one who wished for more when the books were published. And don't get me started on the movie!

So, peeps, here you have it! My own distorted, dark and gloomy - and sometimes funny (I hope) - version of Fifty shades of Grey.

Hope you like it!

Chapter 1

One would think that living in Western France for ten years would make the rain at least tolerable. One would also think that another four years of living in London would convince me that I might as well get used to the damp and chilly climate. Alas, every cell in my body is programmed to hate this kind of weather and I've long given up the hope that I could train it differently.

I'm currently in the process of staring at my wardrobe, waiting for the outfit that I'm supposed to wear today to magically appear before me. It's not happening, though, and I'm sort of in a hurry so I huff and puff and start rummaging through the drawers, hangers and rows upon rows of clothing that are at my disposal. I select a few items and stare at them for a few more minutes. It's not even remotely close to the dress code I should be wearing for this interview!

Crap! Where's Elizabeth when I need her? I think sourly as I eye the clothes I've put on the bed. She would have dressed me up like a Barbie and I wouldn't have uttered a peep. But Elizabeth is not here so I put on my big girl pants, grab the outfit I chose as if it would give me the hives and start getting dressed.

To be honest, it's not the wrong outfit that scares me. I've never really cared about clothes or what people thought of me when I wore them. I've dealt with my fair share of fake and selfish people throughout my 22 years of existence and I've learned that you simply cannot please everyone so you might as well please yourself first. Anyone else is an added bonus. That's what I'm doing right now: pleasing other people. Namely, Kate.

What really scares me is the idea that I'm going to be interviewing a man, alone, in his office. A normal, sane, human being would just go with the flow and might actually be excited about the prospect of chatting with a self-made billionaire. It's not every day that one gets up close and personal with these kind of people. I should feel lucky that Kate's got the flu and I'm doing this fancy interview for her. But I'm not feeling lucky. As a matter of fact, I don't think I've felt this unlucky in a very long time.

Okay, maybe I'm being a tad over dramatic... I've had worse than this and I'm the one who volunteered when I saw how horrible she looked this morning and who could ever resist those puppy dog eyes? No one with a heart could say no to Kate when she put on that face and this morning, she put it on with a purpose. Double trouble!

I look at my reflection in the mirror and scowl. A smile would do wonders for my general appearance but I'm too wired up to smile. It would only come out as a grimace. My hair just won't behave today, no matter what I try to do with it. I sigh and start working on a small chignon at the base of my neck. Elegant and inconspicuous... with a few escaped tendrils and a messy fringe. When in doubt, hide it in a chignon. That's what Elizabeth always says and that's precisely what I'm doing. Fingers crossed that I'll pull it off!

Once I have my hair under control, I take a look at my outfit. I've chosen a pair of black skinny jeans, a blue button down shirt almost the same color as my eyes and a pair of black leather riding boots. With automatic movements, I adjust the black leather cuffs that cover both of my wrists and shrug on a black woolen coat that has a small tail on the back, effectively covering my behind.

I look at the girl in the mirror and start analyzing her. The make-up I've put on is minimal but nice. I'm too pale but that's nothing unusual in a gloomy place such as this one. My eyes are too big for my face and they sometimes show too much emotion... like right now. One could easily see how freaked out I am by the prospect of this meeting. But backing out of this is not an option. Kate has been talking non-stop about this interview and God help me if she doesn't get it.

See, I wouldn't be in this position if Kate hadn't chosen to succumb to the flu today of all days. I use the word chosen because if there's anything I'm sure about when it comes down to this girl is that nothing, and I mean nothing, happens to Kate Kavanagh without her permission, illness included. So, due to her sudden illness, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do with some mega-industrialist-tycoon I've yet to hear of, for the student newspaper.

Enter Anastasia Rose Steele!

Yes, I have volunteered. Out of sheer pity, mind you. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish and a phobia for being left alone in a room with an unknown man. In spite of this long list, today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. I call it a waste of time – a waste of my time – but who cares about my time when my name isn't linked with Stephen Clayton's? No one.

I find Kate huddled on the couch in her living room. She looks good for a sick person but, then again, she always looks good.

"Ana, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please!" Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny.

I have half of mind to make her go to this interview. Anastasia! That would be rude! My subconscious snaps at me and I glare back at her. It was only a thought... sheesh! I bite my tongue and smile politely at my friend.

"Of course I'll go, Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?" I ask instead, trying to get back from the selfish thoughts that took over me.

"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all." She hands me the piece of paper with the questions along with the ancient device she calls 'recorder'. Doesn't she use an app to record things? It's the twenty-first century, people!

I give her a funny look.

"I don't know how to use that ancient object, Kate. It looks fragile... I'll break it! But I have my phone with me and, trust me, it's more than enough. And speaking of phone, I'll try and Google the man before meeting him. I don't want to make a complete fool out of myself. You should have given me at least some basic information about him, Kate." I mildly scold her even though I know that in the state that she's in, the last thing she worries about is the impression I'm going to make on Christian Trevelyan-Grey. Not like you really care either, my subconscious taunts me with her sickly sweet voice. And she's right. The times when I gave a crap what people thought of me are long gone.

Kate's voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."

I throw my hands up, palms facing her, and laugh. Even when she's sick she's bossy.

"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this.

"I will. Good luck. And thanks Ana – as usual, you're my lifesaver."

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, and beautiful – and she's my dearest, dearest friend. Because you've left Sam in London! My subconscious sneers at me as if it wants to make sure I wouldn't be able to block it. Mission achieved! I think bitterly as I try to steer my mind away from errant thoughts. Thinking about the people I've left behind in my old life is definitely not doing wonders for my mood.

But there's another reason why I'm doing this: I care way too much about Kate to leave her stranded like this, especially when she's this excited about a damn interview. The last thing we both need is for her to cry about a lost interview. To waste a few hours getting to this interview or to waste a few days listening to Kate whining about her lost chance? It's a no-brainer, really.

The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA towards Portland and the I-5. It's early and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. I floor the pedal and hum to the soft notes of the song that's currently playing. My Audi R8 is a joy to drive and I wish the weather was nice enough to drive with the top off and enjoy the air blowing around me. It always gives me a sense of freedom.

As soon as I hit the highway, I look for articles about Christian Grey and put them on the LCD that stands proud as a peacock in the middle of the dashboard. The app begins to read various articles about Mr. Grey going as far as to the articles concerning his adoption by Dr. Grace Trevelyan – Grey and her husband, the highly esteemed attorney, Carrick Grey. As I continue to listen to the information pouring through my speakers, I find out that Christian Trevelyan-Grey is a billionaire and has no official girlfriend. Ah, the perpetual bachelor. Got to love his type! However, there are no photos of him with a date. The only two women who ever had the pleasure of being photographed with him are his mother and younger sister, Mia Grey. Does he keep them locked up in a dungeon? My erratic thought brings shivers down my spine. Now is not the time to be thinking about that, Anastasia! My subconscious chides me. Duly noted!

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Grey House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby. You can almost feel the chill of this building in your bones. I suppress a shiver.

Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. And, trust me, I've seen my fair share of suits and skirts and dresses. She looks immaculate while I look as if I'm going to attend an equity class. Great!

"I'm here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh." I say with a smile and try my best to keep my nerves under control.

"Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I may not be as immaculate as her but driving in an uncomfortable suit is definitely not on my bucket list. Sorry, madam. I'm not going to start making excuses for my lack of proper clothing… though my mother would probably agree with you. I think bitterly as I look around and try to get my mind away from thoughts concerning my dear mother.

"Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all.

Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits. I bet they even sleep in those suits!

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open and I'm in another large lobby – again all glass, steel and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me. Is this really happening? I'm one step away from pinching myself. This is strangely similar to a deja-vu.

"Miss Steele, could you wait here, please?" The blonde points to a seated area of white leather chairs.

I smile politely and take a seat. Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow!

I fish the questions from my satchel and go through them. They're all boring, nothing interesting except for the last one. Oh, Kate, this is so you. I have to give it to her, she's as tenacious as they get. She wanted to get a rise out of him, at least at the end of the interview. As a little pay-back for all the begging she had to do to land this interview, no doubt. Are you gay? Now that's what I call throwing in the goblet. But that's her battle, not mine. I mentally cross the question off the list with a smirk. Sorry, Kate.

Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. Someone should have asked me something up until now. This waiting game is not good, considering how worked up I already am.

"Miss Steele?" the latest blonde asks.

"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat awkwardly. "Yes." There, that sounds more confident. I don't sound like a scared little girl even though I am.

"Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your coat?"

"Please." I reply with a bit more confidence and shrug the coat off. My impassive mask is on. Now is not the time to second guess myself.

"Have you been offered any refreshment?"

"Um – no." I say with a neutral expression even though I know Blonde Number One should have offered refreshments.

Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.

"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" She asks, turning her attention back to me.

"A glass of water would be nice, thank you." I murmur.

"Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.

"My apologies, Miss Steele. Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes."

Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.

"Here you go, Miss Steele."

"Thank you."

Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down and they both continue their work.

Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes. Meh…

He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Grey."

I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat.

"Good afternoon ladies," he says. His dark eyes lose their spark for a fraction of a second as if he has recognized me and is trying to put a name to my face. I look away and focus my attention on the stormy clouds that cover the Seattle sky. Don't be silly, Anastasia. Your past is on a different continent. There's nothing to fear here. My subconscious' voice, however, does nothing to my nerves. The Internet is a place where everyone has access. All it takes is just one click. I hope to God Stephen made everything go away!

"Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Steele. Do go through." Blonde Number Two, Andrea, says.

I stand, abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.

"You don't need to knock – just go in." She smiles kindly.

I try to smile back at her but I think I've failed and push open the door to escape. I am met with the vision that is Christian Trevelyan - Grey and it only takes me a fraction of a second to detect something lurking behind his calm façade. The feeling sets me on edge immediately.

"Miss Kavanagh." He extends a long-fingered hand to me. "I'm Christian Grey. Would you like to sit?"

Christian Trevelyan-Grey is tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt and black tie with unruly dark copper colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice. The way he looks at me reminds me of Paul. I stop that line of thinking as soon as I say his name. Stop thinking about him, Anastasia! Get a bloody grip!

In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I shrug the feeling off and offer what I hope is a confident smile. His eyes glaze over. What the…?

"Actually, Ms. Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey."

"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite. See? You're safe. Am I? I feel like I'm a rabbit facing the fox. I bite back a loud gulp and smile timidly.

"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English Literature with Miss Kavanagh at Washington State." I introduce myself with a confident undertone to my voice as I straighten my back, an automatism engraved in my brain form a young age.

"I see," he says simply. "Would you like to sit?" He waves me towards a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.

His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white - ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.

"A local artist. Trouton," says Grey when he catches my gaze.

"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.

"I couldn't agree more, Miss Steele." He replies, his voice soft.

Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite of me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts and retrieve Kate's questions from my satchel. Next, I set up my phone to record the interview and check twice to make sure it's working before setting it on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope. When I look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile. What's so funny?

"Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?" I ask, hoping to get his attention once again.

"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."

Oh! This is news to me and I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand. Must keep it professional or Kate is going to have my bloody head on a platter!

I make my way through Kate's questions, adding some of my own to get a better feel on his general attitude and personality but each time it's like I'm facing a wall that's impossible to climb. I find myself mildly disappointed by his cocky attitude though I can't explain why. This man is nothing to me and the only reason I'm here is to help Kate. My opinions don't matter. It's not like you want them to matter, Anastasia. My subconscious points out as she takes a sip of her tea and resumes her reading. She is right.

I listen to him brag and preen like a peacock, quoting Harvey Firestone and Carnegie, talking about people as if he gives a shit about them. He doesn't. That much I can tell from his voice and posture. He is the master here and brings everyone to heel just because he can. And why should he act any different? My subconscious retorts with a frown. I find myself pondering that very same question. Why did I expect him to be different? He's the textbook definition of the ultimate consumer and the ultimate control freak and yet, there's something just lurking beneath the surface. I get the feeling he's talking more about himself than he lets on.

I can't help but think back to all the grooming Stephen made sure Paul had so that, one day, he could take over the Clayton Empire. I used to think Paul was so lucky for being Stephen's heir and having him watch over him. Under his father's guidance, Paul would have turned out to be the unofficial prince of the United Kingdom. And look how that turned out, Anastasia? Expectations aren't always met. You should know that better than anyone.

The more he talks, the more he sounds like a control freak that would fall to his knees without it. Typical. And I'm bored. Bored by the intricate façade that he is wearing, by the controlled tone of his voice, by his need to control everything – the interview and myself included. I try to slip through the cracks and get some genuine emotions but each attempt brings nothing but failure. Not even when I ask him about his adoption does his mask falter. I drop the subject without any further attempts. After all, family is also a sore subject for me. Wouldn't want to awake the demons lurking in the dark corners, Anastasia…

"Well, that sounds utterly boring." I voice my thoughts before I can put a stop to my verbal vomit. Too late to back out now.

"I beg your pardon?" His stormy gray eyes snap back at me with an icy glare. I hold his stare and tilt my head as I'm trying to decipher the thoughts present behind those captivating orbs. It's the first genuine emotion he's showing ever since I've sat on the sofa. Consider me intrigued, Mr. Grey. Why do you care what I think? Is he really that blind to think that if someone agrees verbally with him, they also agree mentally? He doesn't strike me as a naïve CEO but, then again, what do I know about him? Nothing.

"That sounds utterly boring." I repeat myself with a normal, unaffected voice when, in reality, his stare almost has me covering back in fear. However, I keep in mind everything I went through, once upon a time – and the fact that we are in an office with people standing just outside the door – and it makes me bold. I look back at him blankly. He can't hurt me, even though his glare tells me he would like to.

His gray eyes analyze me, probably waiting for a reaction he is never going to get. I am not a scared little mouse, watching the big bad cat as it mentally goes over its strategy to eat me. I am here as a favor and I will get Kate something more interesting than the answers to the dull questions she wrote down for me. And test my limits in the process.

"Why do you say that, Miss Steele?"

"Because that's my opinion." I reply dryly.

"And why do you have this opinion?" Grey presses on.

"Because it seems to me like you're taking the easy way out, Mr. Grey."

"The easy way out?"

I narrow my eyes. Surely he knows.

"Yes, the easy way out. Out of a million possibilities, you chose the one that requires the minimum amount of emotions and attachment and get in return the maximum amount of gratification. Don't get me wrong, on an economical level, it's perfection: you get the maximum amount of benefits out of a minimum amount of resources. But life isn't economics and emotions are endless supply of 'raw material', if you wish to call it that. Because of this tiny detail, life is messy, unpredictable and even scary, sometimes. That's exactly the part you're missing out on. And it's quite an interesting part, let me assure you." I say with a small smile. "You are an expert in mergers, are you not, Mr. Grey?" I ask and tilt my head to the side, examining him once again. There's something in that stare that makes me want to keep an eye on him and always have him in my visual field.

His eyes flash. Yes, Mr. Grey, I've done a bit of homework. To keep you on your toes.

"That's what I've been lead to believe, yes."

Of course he has. I'm willing to bet there's always a waiting line for people to kiss his ass on a daily basis.

"Okay. So, in order for you to be the best in this field, you have to be able to read people and situations like the back of your hand while, at the same time, you have to take all known and unknown factors into consideration. As you've already pointed out, you have to know what makes people tick and businesses collapse and play those weaknesses in your favor. That way, you know what to expect and how to react accordingly. Am I right so far, Mr. Grey?"

"Spot on, Miss Steele."

"So tell me this, Mr. Grey: do you always pick the easiest merger or the hardest?"

"The hardest." He answers a fraction of a second later.

Hook, line and sinker!

"Why?" I ask even though I know he's already in the mindset I wanted him to be.

"Because I like the challenge; the thrill of the chase. I like to be challenged and to win." He replies with a shrug.

"So it's not about the money." I press on.

"No, it's not about the money." He confirms with a short shake of his head.

"Then what is it about, Mr. Grey?" I ask even though I already know. Control.

"Power. Control. Respect. Status."

"In other words, things money can't buy."

"For the most part, yes." He confirms once again.

"So, basically, you could sum it all up to being the master of your Universe. The people that surround you bow down to you and cater to your every whim. You're the king and no one dares to contradict you, no matter how they might feel in a certain situation. Case in point, you don't have a board to answer to."

"I suppose you could say that."

The look in his eyes tells me I've made him curious. I bite back a smile and continue.

"And yet, for a man who craves the challenge, the thrill of the chase, all you do is try to eliminate that. You don't find that boring? You're eliminating the exact variable that makes the game interesting."

The silence is deafening. The whole room seems charged and ready to explode while Christian gray keeps silent. I decide to push him a little further out of his comfort zone and see what he's made of.

"Let me put it this way: if you could read people's thoughts, no exception whatsoever, would that please you?"

His pupils dilate as he hears my words, almost to the point of blocking out the gray or his irises. Is he aroused? What the…?

"Yes, I believe it would."

I snap out of my daze and continue my line of thinking. Or at least try to continue it.

"And yet, after some time would pass, wouldn't you get annoyed and, ultimately, bored with your ability? There's only so much our thoughts can vary, in spite of each individual being unique and unpredictable. We all have the same basic needs that we end up revolving around in our attempt to satisfy them. There's only so much one can continue to impress after you've heard all their thoughts and seen all the experiences that made them the people they are at the moment. What would you do then? What would you do when everyone around you becomes just another shade of gray?"

He keeps quiet, pondering my words, and makes no move to answer my question. Granted, it was a rhetorical one since I suspect he never asked himself these kinds of questions but I would have enjoyed a response, a glimpse inside his head. His silence is his wall of defense.

"I'll tell you what you would do, Mr. Grey. You would do exactly what the other seven billion people on this planet would do: you would look for color. There might be a chance for you to find what you're looking for not just once, but several times. And you will turn it to gray each and every time as you try to deconstruct and analyze each pigment that forms the final color. You will destroy things, time and time again, in your attempt to control them.

"But that's a necessary step, believe it or not. Because that's the only way you could learn that perfection is boring. Perfection takes away the beauty of the flaw that makes us who we are, that part of us that we need to learn to build around. It's the way that we react and learn to live with said flaw that makes us who we are, so different from the person next to us. Because, at the end of the day, we all have the same flaws – whether we want to admit it or not.

"Controlling something, someone, takes away the spontaneity, the color. We all have to learn that relinquishing control is not a bad thing. Or at least, that's what they say." I finish my speech with a small smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes. It is the practiced smile that I flaunt around to appease people, my step-father included.

I stand back in my seat and watch Christian Trevelyan – Grey as a myriad of emotions flash behind his eyes. For someone who seems so cold and detached, he seems to feel an awful lot. He is just better at keeping a poker face and shoving his emotions in a drawer that only he has the key to. The emotions he is displaying look foreign on this features, as if the muscles that cover his skull and jaw have never received the impulses that they are receiving at the moment. I've gotten under his skin and he needs to resume his delusion of holding all the control all the time. Stephen would be proud. Maybe I am fit to be a CEO. Huh…

"Are you happy, Mr. Grey?"

The question, like many others before it, is not on Kate's list but I can't help myself. I have to ask it. His face transforms right before my eyes, as if a bucket of ice cold water was suddenly dropped on his head.

"I think you have enough material for Miss Kavanagh's article, Miss Steele." He says with an arctic tone that would have chilled me to the bone if I didn't expect it.

But I was expecting that. We all raise our defensive walls when we feel under attack. We all jump on the defensive or jump at the other person's jugular. Psychology 101.

"Of course, Mr. Grey. Do you want a copy of this interview? It can be done right now." I ask him with a calm and even voice.

"Miss Kavanagh can send it once she's finished writing the article."

"As you wish. Thank you for your time, Mr. Grey."

We shake hands and the same electric current which seemed to zip around me in the office sweeps through my body and wakes every cell. That's odd! I shrug it off and smile politely at Blonde Number Two as she retrieves my coat.

I can feel his eyes, burning a hole in the back of my neck as I put on my coat and proceed to walk to the elevator. I push the button summoning the elevator and wait for it to make an appearance. The doors open faster than I expected and I hurry in, desperate to escape. Brave Anastasia has officially left the building. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. His burning gray eyes gaze at me.

"Anastasia," he says as a farewell.

Oh, we're on a first name basis now?

"Christian," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.

Thank God for small favors!

I slowly release the breath I've been holding ever since his hand last touched mine. My skin still tingles.

What an odd man...

The next update should be around next Wednesday... if you guys are liking this cocktail! Let me know ;)