DISCLAIMER: I do not own any characters from the Fifty Shades or Grey's Anatomy realm. The only original character I own within this saga is Penn Hadley.
A/N: "Fifty Shades Darker" and "Darker" in Christian's POV are both my favorite books from the entire series. There's nothing better than a man accepting and revealing his true love to the woman he is in love with. I hope I do this rewrite justice and keep you all entertained.
Thanks for the support and welcome to the second saga of my story—Fifty Shades Forgiven~
Song of the Chapter – Photograph/Clean | Louisa Wendorff feat. Who is Fancy
Saturday, May 19, 2018
"Find her," Christian snapped at Welch, throwing the phone on the floor as he rushed to the dinging elevators. Is she going without saying good bye?
"Ana?!" The dominant stared at the open double doors, panic and alarm overwhelming his body as he stared at the hazel-eyed girl.
No, no, NO!
"Christian," she murmured her final good bye with a weak, tear-eyed smile on her face. The doors closed, sealing their fate forever and the end of their relationship.
I am such a fool.
He rushed to the door, repeatedly pushing the call button and hoping it would reopen, but it was too late. The elevator was bringing her down, bringing her away from him. He began breathing quickly and deeply, unsure of what to do as he looked around. His eyes immediately went to the phone and he picked it up from the ground dialing Taylor.
"Mr. Grey, Miss Steele has—"
Christian interrupted his sentence in shocked panic, "Convince her to come back to me. Bring her back up her, Taylor. Please."
"Sir," he stunned for a second, and hung up.
Minutes went by but his hopeful optimism vanished as he knew, deep down, Anastasia was never going to come back. Grey, what the hell have you done? He sank to the floor and placed his head in his hands. The dark void within him was consuming, aching and overwhelming his entire body.
So much time had passed as the gray-eyed man stared back up as he sat against the wall, catching a glimpse at the paintings in his foyer. The people in the paintings were smiling, and Christian smiled back mirthlessly, believing that they were all amused and enjoying his sorrow—his pain. Have your laugh. I deserve it.
However, he couldn't believe it or understand it completely. Anastasia was gone—really gone—and she was never coming back. She was the best thing that ever happened to him. Two nights ago, the young surgeon murmured that she would never leave him, and he remembered clearly that she promised him she would never leave. He closed his eyes, picturing the words escape from her lips. Okay, she said it in her sleep—and like the fool I am, I believed her. He knew internally that he was no good for her, and she was too good for him—too pure, too innocent. But it was exactly the reason why he was so drawn to her; Anastasia was like any other woman Christian had been with.
Why do I feel like shit? Even when I let her go? It was too painful for him.
The doors of the elevator rang at someone's arrival. Gray eyes blared open and shot for the elevator. She's back! With his heart in his mouth, his expectations were shot down as the reality of the moment hit him—Taylor stepped out of the platform and froze.
"Miss Steele is home, Mr. Grey," he announced. "She also wants to give you back her car, sir."
What the hell? She's returning her things? The gray-eyed man glared at Taylor before his face dropped, suddenly comprehending that the brunette wanted to forget him, to return her items meant ridding his existence in her life. Is she trying to wound me? I probably deserve it.
"Leave it with the other keys." Trying to convey disinterest, when he really wanted to know how she was doing, the dominant asked, "How is she?"
"Upset, sir," he replied, reflecting an emotionless expression.
Christian nodded, dismissing him, but he doesn't leave. "Can I get you anything, sir?" Taylor asked in a tone that was much too kind for his liking.
"No." I want to be alone. Go.
He decided on a shower, hoping the agony and pain would wash away and rinse him clean of the darkness consuming him. The temperature of the water was blistering, a few degrees below painful—just the way he liked it. He was hoping that the water would scorch the images of her out of his head, washing the scent of his body. She was going to leave, and he said so himself that there was no coming back after that.
Good riddance, he thought, scrubbing his hair. A couple seconds later, his conscience stopped him, No. Not good riddance.
After rinsing his body and hair, he thought angrily, Fuck this. He turned off the shower and avoided his gaze in the mirror after he drying his hair and body. The more she was gone, the more the idea sank in that each day would be darker and emptier without her—that meant no more superfluous, witty emails, no more smart comments from her smart mouth, and no more curiosity. He would no longer stare at the warm, gold eyes that melted his soul, eyes that were filled with shocked, or filled with lust, or filled with…love.
Christian finished drying what's left of his body and headed to his chest of drawers, grabbing a clean T-shirt and some underwear. Quickly getting dressed, his eyes locked onto a box on his bed. Disarmed by the object, he took a deep breath, knowing well that it was from the girl he wanted back. With a mood that shifted from anger to fear, he approached the item carefully. He dropped his clothes and sat down, picking up the box and examining it.
It was a little glider—a model-making kit for a Blanik L-23 with a scribbled note attached to the box. Picking it up, he read, "This reminded me of a happier time. Thank you for everything, Christian. –Ana"
It was the best gift he could ask for, a perfect gift from a perfect girl. Pain lanced through his cold heart, and he was struck with a void sucking him back into the abyss he was trying to escape. Why is this so fucking painful? Why?
Anastasia was the only woman that was a complete contrast to the others he had been in a relationship with, if he could even call it that. She was the only woman that he had ever chased, and the one woman who couldn't give him what he wanted. He didn't understand why, but he knew that he came alive since meeting her. The past month of getting to know the brunette had been the most exciting, the most eventful, and the most cherished time of his life. In a monochromatic world of black, white, and gray, the young surgeon was the only one that brought color into the dominant's life—and still, he forced himself to believe that she couldn't be what he needed.
My sweet Anastasia. Christian's fingers traced the edges of the boxed gift, knowing that she held the box. He placed the box to the side and put his hands in his head. He knew that she would never like his dark interests, but he convinced himself that he could work up to the more extreme side of his relationship. She's better off without me.
But she bought me a thoughtful gift; nobody did that for me other than my family. The gray-eyed man began opening the box, removing the plastic parts of the craft that were wrapped in cellophane. Memories of her laughter and squealing from their soaring session echoed in his brain and haunted him in his state of consciousness as he unwrapped his gift. Lord, that was so much fun. It was as much fun for him as pulling on her pigtails while in the playroom—then, images of her in pigtails came to mind. Those taunting memories only led him to the thought of never seeing her again, and the dark abyss opened wider to swallow him whole.
No. Not again.
The next day … Sunday, May 20, 2018
Christian woke up with a jolt as the early-morning sunshine filled the room. He had been dreaming of Anastasia—dreaming of her kissing him, her tongue in his mouth, and his fingers in her hair. The dream felt personal; in his subconscious, the dominant felt her smile against his lips, pressing her delectable, petite body onto his with her hands tethered above his head.
Where is she? For a one forgetful second, the gray-eyed man had forgotten all of what had transpired yesterday, but the nightmare became a reality as it flooded back into him—her tears, her vanishing act, and the modeling kit he found. She's gone. Fuck.
The evidence of his desire pressed into the mattress as he thought about her, but the erection went away as he recalled the brunette's eyes and expression of hurt and humiliation as she left.
His phone suddenly started buzzing with vibration on his bedside table. He picked it up immediately as his heart rate spiked but then fell as soon as he recognized it being Elena.
"Hello." The dominant didn't bother disguising his utter disappointment.
"I was going to leave a voice mail but—Christian? What gives? Tell me what's going on," his former mistress asked with a tone shifting from concern to brusque and aggravation.
Temper heating up, he muttered, "She left me."
"Oh." Elena sounded surprised. "Want me to come over?"
"No." I don't want you here. I want Ana.
Taking a deep breath, she sighed with consolation and understanding, "This life isn't for everyone."
"I know."
"Hell, Christian, you sound like shit. Do you want to go out to dinner tonight? Breakfast? Lunch?"
"No." Not unless you're bringing Ana, which I doubt the likes of that ever happening in the lifespan I have left.
"I'm coming over," the ex-mistress decided.
"No, Elena," Christian objected, "I'm not good company, and it's too early for this. I'm tired and I want to be alone. I'll call you during the week."
"Christian," Elena paused, "it's for the best."
"I know. Good bye." He hung up, and lied back down in bed. His gaze turned back to the ceiling and then to the window.
What was life for him without his girl? Move on, Grey. Move on. Time to start another bullshit-y day.
A morning run wasn't enough to take his mind off Anastasia; in fact, a nightmare scenario was performed in his head as he stared in wonder at the closed window outside her apartment. A terrible thought came to his mind: she went out at night, got drunk, met someone…
That fucking doctor. No. Bile had risen to his throat as he imagined her body being in the plastic surgeon's hands—picturing the pretty-boy basking in the warmth of her body and smile, making her giggle, making her laugh, and making her close to climax.
It took all the self-control in him he didn't think he had to not go barging through the door to check that she was alone. You brought this on yourself, Grey. Forget her. She's not for you.
Jealousy burned bright in his body, raw and angry as his day went on, filling the dark, gaping hole in his body. The dominant went on with the rest of his Sunday—trying to forget that day, forget the pain, and forget Anastasia Steele.
When it became dusk over Seattle, Christian stood up and stretched his body from his desk after a long, productive day of work and in his study. Ros had worked hard with him, too, and she prepared and sent a first draft business plan and letter of intent from Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital.
At least I'll be able to keep an eye on, Ana. The thought was painful and appealing at the same time, like watching through a one-sided glass but being unable to touch or feel for what was his. But Minnesota—What if she was already at the Mayo Clinic? No. Christian kept going over the contracts and paperwork of his takeover of the hospital, but while lost in the details of becoming a new board member of the hospital, Anastasia was not out of mind.
The glider he took all day to make was on his desk, caging his mind and attention to the beautiful brunette. The model he built taunted and reminded him of the happier times she had written on her note. The dominant pictured her standing by the doorway of his steady, wearing one of his shirts—all legs and warn, gold eyes like the day she had jumped and seduced him before. It was another first.
I miss her, his thoughts admitted.
Playing the piano wasn't enough to calm down the pain anymore without picturing the young surgeon beside him. She calmed the darkness with her warmth, her light. He remembered her fingers running down the piano, remembering her voice as she answered her finished piece, I think it's called…Improvisation number…15…by Francis Poulenc—that's all I can remember.
Christian covered his face with his hands as his elbows propped against his piano keys. Fuck, I really miss her.
Four days later… Thursday, May 24, 2018
"Mr. Grey?"
The gray-eyed man snapped out of his daydream of Anastasia, turning to an opened car door with his bodyguard looking concerned. "Sorry, what is it?" He blinked in confusion.
Taylor responded, "We're here, sir." His hand gestured to his company building.
Shit, how long have we been here? "Thanks," Christian answered quietly, shaking himself of his thoughts, "I'll let you know what time this evening."
Focus, Grey. Striding towards his building, footsteps were following behind. "Mr. Grey!" Ros greeted with exclamation out of breath.
His lawyer was the person he was looking for. He stopped to her voice and turned to her, "Great work on the Grey-Sloan material, but the business plan needs some revision. Let's offer."
"Christian, this is fast," she shook her head with eyes of shock.
"I want to move quickly. I've already emailed you my thoughts on the offering price. Let's go up and speak in my office."
"If you're sure," the lawyer hesitated.
"I'm sure."
…
With Ros by his side, Andrea and Oliva both looked up as they stared at them coming out the elevator. Olivia batted her lashes at him and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear by his entrance, making him roll his eyes. He was done with her flirtatious behavior and wanted her moved to another department.
"Coffee, please, Olivia—and get me croissant," he ordered, making her leap to her feet.
Christian then turned to his blonde assistant, "Andrea—get me Welch, Barney, then Flynn, and then Claude Bastille on the phone." He walked towards his office and continued, "I don't want to be disturbed at all by anyone, including my mother." He paused, "Unless…unless Anastasia Steele calls. Okay?"
"Yes, sir. Do you want to go through your schedule now?"
"Later." Christian scowled at Olivia as she went at her own leisurely pace, "I need coffee and something to eat first."
"Yes, Mr. Grey," Andrea answered as he entered his office with Ros.
As Ros discussed her suggestions and plans with the proposal at Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital, he opened up his briefcase and held his most newly precious possession—the glider he built that the surgeon got him. He placed it on his desk, a mind drifting to Dr. Steele as he continued mindlessly listening to his lawyer.
Anastasia would now be a cardiothoracic attending—this meant she wouldn't be as free as much as the dominant liked, and her social life would decline as well, secluding herself around doctors and men like Dr. Jackson Avery—the pretty-boy surgeon that got on the dominant's brain and picked at his jealousy. Her new busy life as her an attending would mean meeting new people, new men. The thought depressed him, knowing she would forget him.
No. She won't forget me. He believed that women always remembered the first man they were intimately involved with, but his doubts persuaded him to rethink otherwise. Christian would always hold a place in her memory just by that scenario alone; however, he didn't want to be a memory, something that could be repressed like the foster father that abused her. He wanted to stay in her mind. I need to stay in her mind. What can I do?
There was a knock at the door, and Andrea appeared, interrupting Ros's discussion, "Coffee and croissants for you and Ros, Mr. Grey."
"Come in."
The assistant scurried over to his desk, eyes darting curiously at the glider but wisely holding her inquisitive tongue. She placed the food and drinks on his desk. He took a sip of the coffee, appreciating that it was black as his lawyer grabbed at a croissant. "Thank you," he said to the blonde.
"I've left messages for Welch, Barney, and Bastille. Flynn will be calling back in five."
"Good," Christian nodded, "I want you to cancel any social engagements I have this week—no lunches, nothing in the evening. Get Barney on the phone and find me the number of a good florist."
Ros lifted and eyebrow to her amusement as she chewed slowly to her pastry, but the dominant ignored her. Andrea scribbled furiously on her notepad, "Sir, we use Arcadia's Roses. Would you like me to send flowers for you?"
"Yes, but send them here—to my office." I need to see Anastasia. I want to see her again. If this were really good bye, I have to hold her one last time. Her quick, disappearing act cannot be our final farewell. Secretly, the dominant hoped something would spring out of both of them when he met with her. "I want two-dozen white roses."
Andrea finished writing and nodded to his command, leaving promptly to do as she was instructed, almost as if she couldn't wait to get out of his office. Before his lawyer could say anything, he went to his phone and dialed for Barney, "Hey, I need you to make me a stand for a model glider…"
…
"Hey, man, what's eating you?" Claude got up from the floor from where the dominant had just knocked him flat on his rear end. "You're on fire this afternoon, Grey," he commented. He slowly rose with the grace of a prancing cat, reassessing its prey—or was it two wolves fighting for dominance? They were sparring together alone in the basement gym at Grey House.
Speaking through clenched teeth, Christian hissed, "I'm pissed off."
His trainer's expression cooled as they circled one another. "Not a good idea to enter the ring if your thoughts are elsewhere," Claude smiled secretly to himself, amused and remaining eye contact with his student.
"I'm finding it helps," the gray-eyed man muttered.
"Move on your left. Protect your right. Hands up, Grey." He was quick, swift with his throwing attack. Claude swung and hit him in the shoulder, almost knocking him off balance. "Concentrate, Grey—none of your boardroom bullshit in here."
He smiled mischievously, "Or is it a girl?" He sneered, goading his student as the topic grabbed his attention, "Some fine piece of ass finally cramping your cool." He chuckled playfully, causing Christian to middle-kick him to his side and drop-punch once, then twice. His trainer staggered back with dreadlocks flying from the force.
"Mind your own fucking business, Bastille," he growled, nose flared.
"Whoa!" Claude crowed in triumph, encouraged to continue toying with his anger, "We have found the source of the pain." He tried swinging at the dominant in surprise, but Christian anticipated his action and blocked him, thrusting up with a punch and swift kick. His trainer jumped back up with an impressed expression. "Whatever shit's happening in your privileged little world, Grey, it's working. Bring it on," he smiled challengingly.
Have it your way, the dominant smirked in thought, lunging towards him.
…
Christian stood against the wall, brooding and staring down through the slatted, wooden blinds at Taylor, who was parked outside Dr. Flynn's office. It's late afternoon, and Ana was consistently invading his thoughts.
"Christian, I'm more than happy to take your money and watch you stare out the window, but I don't think the view is the reason you're here," his therapist said.
When the gray-eyed man turned to face him, a light aura of anticipation filled the room as Dr. Flynn regarded him. He sighed and made his way to the couch, confessing his issues to the doctor as if he were a priest, "The nightmares are back—like never before."
Dr. Flynn lifted his brow, concern etched into his expression, "The same ones?"
"Yes."
"Well, what has changed in your life?" The therapist cocked his head to one side and awaited his response. When Christian gave nothing away and remained mute, he added, "Christian, you look as miserable, and it shows—as miserable as sin. Something must have happened while I was away."
The dominant didn't want to share his truth because if he did, it meant that everything in the nightmare he was living in was true. It meant that everything he felt and what he had been through was real—however, it wasn't a nightmare; it was a horrible reality, which (most importantly) meant she truly was gone.
Reluctant at first, he admitted the truth, "I met a girl."
"And?" Dr. Flynn waited, crossing his legs.
"She left me."
He looked surprised. "Women have left you before. What would make this any different?"
Christian stared at him with furrowing brows, as if he shocked to even hear such a question and having to explain. Because Ana was different. The dominant's thoughts blurred together in the memory of her. She wasn't a submissive from the start, and they didn't have a contract. She was sexually inexperienced and was the first woman he wanted more from than just sex. More. Nevertheless, although there was many firsts for the brunette, there was just as many for Christian: the first girl he had slept beside, the first virgin, the first to meet his family, the first he took soaring.
Yeah…very different.
Dr. Flynn interrupted his thoughts, persisting his inquiry, "It's a simple question, Christian."
"I miss her," Christian blurted.
The doctor's face remained kind and concerned, but he paused in thought, giving nothing away. He continued, "You've never missed any of the women you were involved with previously?"
"No." None of them.
"So there was something different about her," Dr. Flynn prompted, unveiling and uncovering one of his secret thoughts.
The gray-eyed man shrugged, but the doctor went on, "Did you have a contractual relationship with her? Was she a submissive?"
"I'd hoped she would be," Christian said quietly, "but it wasn't for her."
The doctor frowned with a shaking head, "I don't understand."
"I broke one of my rules. I chased this girl, thinking she would be interested, and in the end it wasn't for her. It was never for her."
"Tell me what happened."
It took a lot of time, but the floodgates to Christian's life opened up to the doctor, recounting the past month's events—from the moment her beguiling, concerned eyes helped him out of his car accident to the moment of her leaving that Saturday morning.
"I see… You've certainly packed a lot in since we last spoke," the doctor commented, rubbing his chin as he studied and examined his patient's behavior and expression throughout the telling of his story. "There are many issues here, Christian. But right now, the one I want to focus on is how you felt when she told you she loved you."
Christian inhaled sharply and shakily, his gut wrenched and tightened with panic and fear. "Horrified," he whispered.
"Of course you did," he said with a shaking head and an amused smirk. "You're not the monster you deem yourself to be. You're more than worthy of affection, Christian. I've told you this enough times, and it's only in your mind that you not."
With a leveled gaze, he ignored the doctor's platitude advice. Dr. Flynn went on and asked, "Well? Tell me how you feel now."
Anastasia's warm laughter haunted his thoughts. He could still feel her comforting arms holding onto him, and the memory of her sweet scent still lingered, even when he craved every part of her. Those feelings vanished once he found himself back in the reality of his therapist's office, empty and void of feeling but pain.
Lost. I feel lost.
It was hard for him as he owned up to his feelings—the dark sins of needing and wanting her, he couldn't help himself—she was an addicting drug. "I miss her. I want to see her," he breathed shakily.
"So in spite of the fact that—as you perceive it—she couldn't fulfill your needs, you miss her?"
"Yes," Christian replied. "It's not just my perception, John. She can't be what I want her to be, and I can't be what she wants me to be."
"Are you sure?" Dr. Flynn tested him.
"She walked out," he insisted.
The doctor shook his head, "She walked out because you belted her. If she doesn't share your tastes, can you blame her?"
"No." Obviously, I know that. That's why we are incompatible.
"Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?" He suggested.
What? Christian stared at him in shock, caught off guard by his words. Dr. Flynn repeated his question to his patient's reaction, "She tried it your way and when it came down to it, it wasn't for her. So, have you tried it her way?"
Try? Try…for more… The patient remained silent, blinking at the ground in thought. He had never thought of trying it that way—trying in the way the doctor suggested and what Anastasia wanted. Anastasia.
He continued, "Did you find sexual relations with her satisfying?"
"Yes, of course," the dominant snapped in irritation.
Dr. Flynn ignored his tone, "Did you find beating her satisfying?"
"Very."
"Would you like to do it again?"
Do that to her again? Belt her? Just to watch her walk out—again?
"No. Never," Christian said immediately.
"Why's that?"
"Because it's not her scene, I…I hurt her." He was pained by recounting the memory of her face and emotions in the moment after her beating. "Really hurt her…and she can't…she won't…" Struggling on his words, the gray-eyed man paused, shutting his eyes and opening them again, "She doesn't enjoy it. She was really angry and so…lost and sad…" The expression on the brunette's face, the wounded hurt in her golden eyes—they were things that would haunt Christian for a long time, and he swore to never be the cause of that look again.
"Are you surprised?" John asked.
He shook his head, "She was mad." He whispered quietly, admitting another truth, "I'd never seen her that mad…or even cry…"
"How did that make you feel?"
"Helpless." Shitty. Lost. Broken just as I broke her. Damn it…
"And that is a familiar feeling," the doctor mentioned.
Knitting his brows in confusion, Christian asked, "What do you mean?"
"Don't you recognize yourself at all? Your past?" The therapist's question took him off guard.
Fuck, not this again. We've been over and over this. He rolled his eyes, "No, I don't. It's different. The relationship I had with Mrs. Lincoln was completely different."
"I wasn't referring to Mrs. Lincoln," Dr. Flynn corrected.
"Whom were you referring to?" The dominant asked quietly, seeing clearly where the doctor was going with the situation.
"You know."
Christian took in a deep breath, gulping for air as he was overwhelmed by the impotence and rage of a defenselessly vulnerable child—heart, fiery-blazing rage, the deep and potent, infuriating mixture of anger and rage. The darkness within his body swirled and spiraled inside. He hissed through his teeth, trying to rein in his temper, "It's not the same."
"No, it's not," the doctor conceded, lightly raising both hands in surrender.
The image of the beautiful, young surgeon's anger and sorrow came back unwelcomely into his mind. Th-This is how you want me? Y-You want me like this?... Beaten?... Broken?... Even in pain or crying, she was breathtakingly beautiful, but the sadness in her—the tears she shed that he first witnessed, it dampened his anger.
"I know what you're trying to do here, Doctor, but it's an unfair comparison. She asked me to show her—she's a consenting adult, for fuck's sake. She could have safe-worded. She could have told me to stop. She didn't," he said defensively.
"I know. I know." He held his hand up. "I'm just callously illustrating a point, Christian. You are an angry man, and you have every reason to be. I'm not going to rehash all that right now—you're obviously suffering, and the whole point of these sessions is to move you to a place where you are more accepting and comfortable with yourself."
He paused, "This girl…"
"Anastasia," Christian muttered petulantly—a word that brought slight relief as it left his lips.
"Anastasia. It's clear that this girl had a profound effect on you. Her leaving has triggered your abandonment issues and your PTSD. She clearly means much more to you than you're willing to admit to yourself," the doctor stated from his observations.
With an eye-opening mindset, the dominant took in a deep breath. Was this the reason why everything hurts? Why everything is so painful? Because she means more, so much more?
"You need to focus on where you want to be," Dr. Flynn continued, "And it sounds to me like you want to be with this girl. You miss her, as you've stated. Do you still want to be with her?"
Be with Ana? "Yes," the gray-eyed man whispered immediately, eyes filled with desperation.
"Then you have to focus on that goal. This goes back to what I've been talking about for our last few sessions—the SFBT. If she's in love with you, as she confessed, she must be suffering, too. So, I repeat my question: have you considered a more conventional relationship with Anastasia?"
"No, I haven't."
"Why not?"
"Because it never occurred to me that I could." Could I?
"Well, if she's not prepared to be your submissive, you can't play the role of dominant," Dr. Flynn explained.
Christian glared at him. It's not a role—It's who I am. From out of nowhere, one of his emails to her occurred to him, What I think you fail to realize is that in Dom/sub relationships it is the sub that has all the power. That's you. I'll repeat this to really implement it in your mind—you are the one with all the power. Not I. If Anastasia couldn't follow through with their relationship, he believed he couldn't either.
The possibility of a normal relationship with his girl suddenly invoked hope within him. Could I have a vanilla relationship with Anastasia? He shivered and panicked with fear from the idea. Fuck… But if I could…would she want me back?
Interrupting his thoughts, the therapist went on, "Christian, you have demonstrated that you are an extraordinarily capable person, in spite of your problems. You're a rare individual. Once you focus on a goal, you drive ahead and achieve it—usually surpassing all your own expectations. Listening to you today, it's clear you were focused on getting Anastasia to where you wanted her to be, but you didn't take into account her inexperience or her feelings. It seems to me that you've been focused on reaching your goal that you missed the journey that you were taking together."
Christian's entire month flashed before him: pulling him out of the side-impact incident, her shock when he met her at the hospital for the CT scan, her witty, snarky emails, her smart mouth…her giggle…her silent defiance, her courage, her independence and intelligence—it finally occurred to him that she was the calming in his dark sea. She was the warmth, the light, and the sun he needed in the darkness of his abyss. Every infuriating, distracting, humorous, sensual, carnal second with her and of her—he knew that it was because of nothing but Anastasia. We've been on an extraordinary journey, both of us—well, I certainly have.
The dominant's thoughts spiraled down back down in darkness and took a turn. The young surgeon was still unaware of how dark he was—she had only scratched the surface of who he was, barely catching a real look at the darkness within his soul, which he believed to be the monster behind the beautiful façade of his face.
Maybe I should leave her alone; I've done too much damage to her. I'm not worthy of her, and she can't love me. Contrary to his self-deprecating thoughts, Christian knew that he couldn't stay away from her, especially with the chance if she would have him back.
Catching his attention again, Dr. Flynn cleared his throat and spoke, "Christian, think about this. Our time is up now, but I want to see you in a few days and talk through some of the other issues you mentioned. I'll have Janet call Andrea and arrange an appointment." The therapist stood, knowing that it was a dismissal for the dominant to leave.
"You've given me a lot to think about," Christian murmured, as the girl with warm, golden eyes lingered in his mind.
"I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't. Just a few days, Christian. We have so much more to talk about." Dr. Flynn reached in and shook the dominant's hand, sharing a reassuring smile.
The gray-eyed man left his office and entered his car with a small surge of warming hope sparked within him. As Taylor began taking the drive home, he thought to himself, Could I win her back? The thought terrified him, but he was processing the possibilities and the chance of being back with her. Would she want him back? Could he be what she wanted him to be? I won't let go of my hope. I need to find a way to get her back.
I need her.
The traffic was light as his bodyguard drove him home, but the dominant stopped him. "Taylor, can we make a detour?"
He stared in the rear-view mirror, slowing down to the oncoming stop light, "Where to, sir?"
Staring at a bouquet of white roses beside him, Christian answered impulsively, "To Miss Steele's apartment."
"Yes, sir."
The aching pain within him was ever-present everywhere he went, no matter how much he distracted himself or occupied his day. Dr. Anastasia Steele didn't fix him; she infected him with herself: everything she had from her scent, to her hair, to the way she spoke, to the way she laughed, and the way she moaned. The memory of her existed deep within his thoughts and suppressing it was more difficult to do than breathing without her. It was heartbreak, but he was hoping to mend his broken, beating heart once the door opened to the face he missed. He knocked gently.
With the white roses in his hand, Christian waited for her to come at the door. A nerve-wrecking minute passed and he knocked again, calling her name, "Anastasia?"
More minutes passed and he repeated the same actions, moving the roses to his other side of his arm, "Anastasia? It's me—Christian."
Is she at work?
One of the nearby neighbors opened the door to their apartment; it was an old woman with a purple shawl. She curiously inquired, "Excuse me, do you need help with anything, sir?"
Christian's gaze turned to the old woman, and he shook his head smiling politely to hide his anxiety and fear, "No, ma'am. I'm just waiting for a friend of mine. Do you happen to know if she's home or out?"
The old woman stared at him questioningly in confusion, long enough to make Christian uncomfortable. Her eyes brightened and exclaimed, "Oh, the sweet girl! The doctor?"
His gray eyes brightened from the woman's recognition, "Yes."
She opened her mouth and then closed it with a frown, "Oh, honey. She's gone. She moved out of her apartment—on Tuesday, I believe."
His cold, heart shattered into a million pieces of ice. No.
"Ana?" His voice immediately filled to the brim in panic and fear as he reached for the doorknob. The door was unlocked as he twisted it, and he was surprised to see that the apartment was empty. Every remnant of his memory of her had disappeared, just as she left him that Saturday morning. The apartment was dark, dimmed by the curtains blowing against the open window. He searched the place and found that her furniture was gone as well—everything was gone. She was gone.
The white roses fell to the ground as Christian dropped them and rushed back down the stairs, heading to the receptionist at the front desk. I lost her. I lost her. I can't believe I lost her. His nose flared with a heart beating furiously with anticipation and eagerness to know her whereabouts. He asked loudly, "Where is she? The woman in 202?"
The curly-haired woman blinked at him and blushed. Fucking god, answer the fucking question. "W-Who?" She stuttered, trying to tame her kinky ringlets.
"The woman in 202," the dominant growled through his teeth, repeating with increasing feared anger. "She moved two days ago. Where is the woman from 202—Anastasia Steele?"
The receptionist shook her head and shrugged immediately, "I-I don't know. The surgeon? She just paid her bills and left with everything. I don't know where she is."
She…She didn't say good bye… She didn't let me say good bye.
The darkness was sneaking behind him, pulling him back down into the black hole. The disappearing act of Anastasia Steele continued, and she was gone—only this time he really did let her slip from his fingers.
The next day … Friday, May 25, 2018
Christian hadn't slept that night; he couldn't, not without knowing where the young surgeon was. His eyes were bloodshot with heavy bags of exhaustion underneath, tousled hair more unruly than usual, an unshaved face, and an unbuttoned, untucked shirt without a tie. He was pacing around the office maniacally, shouting at Welch on the phone, "You are sure that she isn't gone!"
"Yes, sir." He explained nervously by his outrage. Welch continued, "I checked the hospital's database and she is still working there."
A deep sigh of relief exhaled from the dominant's lips. He couldn't handle the distance from her any longer. His breathing shuddered while on the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the weight of his biggest problem lifted off his shoulders.
"She just clocked into work, today," he reassured him even more.
"You tracked her cellphone?" Christian asked, relaxing in his leather seat.
"No, sir…" Welch responded quietly.
The dominant snapped, sitting up straight from the answer, "Why not?"
"Sir, she must have gotten a new phone or her device must be off. Her cellphone hasn't been able to be easily tracked."
Fuck, Anastasia. What are you doing?
"Find. Her." Christian hung up with a low voice, slamming his phone on his desk. First Leila, now Anastasia? Could this week get any fucking worse? He needed to go home—a shower, sleep, and food would do him well. He wasn't aware of what day it was anymore, let alone knowing the time. He was just lost in a peril world without his favorite girl. It was as if the brunette was purposely making her whereabouts nonexistent, hiding from him. The thought of that diminished him, making him feel worse.
Christian only needed a chance to make it right, a chance to explain, but it was impossible without meeting up with her in person. He exited his office and announced to Andrea that he was leaving for the day, "Push my meetings until tomorrow. I need to take a sick day."
"Yes, sir," the blonde assistant nodded. Before he could leave she stated, "Mr. Grey, I also canceled all your social events this week and next week like you requested, aside from the one next Saturday. I don't know what the occasion is for—your calendar says New York, that's it."
Ana!
The dominant's head whipped around and his expression evolved within the blink of an eye as he beamed happily at her. Her eyes shoot up in surprise from the mood-changing reaction, "Thanks, Andrea. I need to get home now, push my meetings up a little; I think I'm feeling well enough to work from home."
"Yes, Mr. Grey," Andrea blinked and smiled.
This is it. This is my way back in—The Catherine Fox Awards. Now… what to do?
…
Freshly showered, shaved, and fed, Christian stared blankly at his computer in his study, an email waiting to be typed. How was he going to begin?
"Dear Ana,"he typed. No.
He began again, "Dear Anastasia." No.
Starting up again, he wrote, "Dear Miss Steele." No. Shit!
A half an hour went by and the gray-eyed man continued staring at a blank computer screen. He had no clue how to begin. Come back…please?
Forgive me—no.
I miss you—no.
Let's try it your way—no.
The dominant placed his head in his hands. Why is this so fucking difficult? Keep it simple, Grey. Just cut the crap. Taking a deep breath, he began typing out an email, letting his fingers do the work.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: The Night of Your Awards
Date: May 25, 2018 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia,
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that everything is going well.
I note that next Saturday is the night of your awards, and I'm not sure if you had time to buy your plane ticket yet. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.
Christian Grey,
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holding Inc.
Christian watched his inbox, waiting and waiting as anxiety grew with each passing second that ticked by. He got up and pretended casually to not feign interest, but he realized that it took him away from his computer monitor, so he returned to his desk and checked his email again.
Nothing.
He decided to go over the business plan of Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital, but it wasn't enough to keep his girl out of his mind. Come on Anastasia, answer me. He was used to her prompt replies and was in desperate need for her reply. He checked his watch and four minutes had gone by.
Still nothing.
He got up and began pacing around his study again, studying his watch every three seconds that passed by. By 2:20 p.m., Christian was slowly getting sucked back into his dark despair. He believed that she hated him and was never going to reply. Who could blame her? Suddenly, he heard a ping of an email. With a heart leapt into his throat, he frowned from the message by Ros. Fuck!
But above her message was a magical line that sent him flying as he read: From: Anastasia Steele.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: The Night of Your Awards
Date: May 25, 2018 14:25
To: Christian Grey
Hello Mr. Grey,
This is an intern (Parker) typing out this email to you currently.
Dr. Steele is currently in surgery and cannot get to the phone right now, however, she wanted me to tell you that she does not need a plane ticket and will meet you there. An invitation to the event will be mailed to you soon.
Thank you.
Anastasia R. Steele, Ph.D., M.D., F.A.C.S.
Attending Cardiothoracic Surgeon, Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital
I don't want to talk to you. I want to talk to Ana. The dominant's nose flared to the reply.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Whenever You're Free
Date: May 25, 2018 14:26
To: Anastasia Steele
Please have Dr. Steele message me whenever she is free.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Whenever You're Free
Date: May 25, 2018 14:27
To: Christian Grey
Parker again.
She said you don't need to worry about the invitation and that she'll reply when she gets the chance.
Anastasia R. Steele, Ph.D., M.D., F.A.C.S.
Attending Cardiothoracic Surgeon, Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital
She's in surgery. Just wait, at least she's talking to you. But it was through some fucker…
A week later … Saturday June 2, 2018
The beautiful, young surgeon never found the time to respond back, but he did receive the invite.
It had been two weeks since the CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. had seen his cardiothoracic surgeon, but everything was going to change the night of the events at The Catherine Fox Awards. Mr. Grey couldn't believe that he still received an invitation until it arrived in the mail. Everyone that attended was extravagant and well dressed, celebrating doctors' and surgeons' medical discoveries. Gotham Hall was well-decorated and served with food and drinks for their guests, but those distractions didn't matter to him—he had one goal.
Where are you, Ana?
Christian's eyes scanned for the crowd, ignoring the stares of women gawking at him. Two weeks had been too long for him to be away, and he tried his best resisting the temptation of seeing her, but he couldn't get past a week. In fact, he went to her place with a bouquet of roses—an awkward, exchanging thank-you present for the model kit she had bought him so unexpectedly—but her apartment was vacant and empty. Thinking about it now, the memory of her note still wounded the gray-eyed man's cold heart, but what got him the most was realizing that she moved—he had never felt so lost and abandoned in that moment. He also tried contacting her through phone calls and text messages but she neither replied nor got back to him, whether it was a broken cellphone or a new phone, which he knew nothing of. Their one email conversation was all that there was, and even then, it wasn't her that was talking to him. It was like she disappeared forever once his elevator doors closed, as if they never happened—a good dream that came to an unfortunate ended.
His nose flared to the memory of her being gone—he lost the best thing that had ever happened to him, and tonight, he was going to find her and win her back. He wished that she still kept the red Audi, secretly paired with a tracking advice, but Taylor returned it back to him before the dominant could refuse.
Challenging, stubborn girl.
A blonde waitress came over to the beautiful man, blushing in his presence. It's just a face, sweetie. "Mr. Grey?" She asked politely, "I could show you to your seat if you would like."
"Thank you," he said with a polite smile, continuing to look around and search for Anastasia.
I hope I don't see Mom or Dad here, he thought as he followed the blonde waitress. He knew he'd find them there since his mother was invited, but he didn't feel like going onto the specifics of why he was there.
"Mr. Grey?" A voice called out.
The dominant turned around and spotted the director of Anastasia's surgical program. "Dr. Richard Webber," he said with a nod and a shaking hand.
Richard smiled and made a face, "What are you doing here?"
I'm here to win my girl back. "I just came to support one of our surgeon's at this event," Christian answered honestly.
"That's kind of you to do," he noted before asking with a face of inquiry. "Will you be sitting at this table?"
"I will."
"I'd almost forgotten that you knew, Dr. Steele!" Dr. Webber exclaimed. "You chose the right time to invest into our hospital; she's a promising surgeon, and on the rise of becoming something great."
She's already great. She's more than great.
The entrepreneur mogul had bought half the shares of Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital in hopes of keeping Anastasia safe the week she took her exams, but he couldn't do that if she no longer worked there. It was a two-hundred million dollar buyout for only getting half of the shares of the hospital, and even then, he wouldn't get complete control of it. Fucking expensive hospital with stubborn surgeons. It was a good reason that it was and they are—the hospital had state-of-the-art technology, as well as advanced medicine with innovative doctors such as Dr. Steele. It was no wonder she picked the hospital to relocate to. He was hoping to ease the news of his takeover within the next month after clearing massive loads of paper work.
"She's quite incredible. It's astonishes me how far she has come in the days I've known her—and at such a young age, too," Christian nodded to his compliment at his girl.
"Yes, I agree," he sighed happily. "Excuse me, Mr. Grey," Richard said as he turned to a loud, small companion of his.
Within a few minutes, Dr. Webber turned back and asked, "Mr. Grey, have you met Dr. Miranda Bailey? She's the chief at our hospital."
"Oh, we met," Dr. Bailey answered for him, eyeing him up and down. "Mr. Fancy-Moneybags coming in and giving us all that money for the new equipment in the hospital—he even funded some of the researches going on in the hospital for ortho and peds." Her eyes suddenly glistened shaking his hand and excitedly exclaiming, "It's so good to see you, again!"
It is one way or the other with this woman. An interview with the boss of the hospital required a lot of persuasion, but there was always a price for everyone, and Christian successfully earned and gained her credence and incentive with his support for bettering lives and wanting to help a hand in doing so, but his secret agenda was for only one woman.
"It's nice to see you again as well, Dr. Bailey," Christian smiled, briefly standing and shaking her hand before sitting back down. Enough of this fucking chit-chat. Stick to why you're here, Grey. He asked suddenly, "By chance, have any of you seen Dr. Steele? I wanted to see her in person and congratulate her myself."
Richard frowned, speculating the audience and scanning the room, "I haven't seen her yet, but I'm sure she's here. She wouldn't miss out on something like this. I saw her earlier today before coming her with my wife."
You saw her? "How is she?" The CEO asked immediately.
"She's alright," the director said dismissively. He rethought his answer and added, "Actually, I think she's recovering from being sick not too long ago."
What? "Sick?" Christian asked as concern for her reached out, heart stricken with pain.
"Oh yeah," Dr. Webber frowned, "There was a day when she came in with puffy-eyes and pale skin—well, paler skin than usual. I thought she had the flu or was anemic, and it doesn't help that the girl is really small, too—you'd think she hadn't been eating. She convinced me she was fine, but she didn't look like it." He added, "Kept saying it was allergies."
The CEO swallowed, "Did you diagnose her?"
"I did," he chuckled at the thought, thinking it was a joke. "She was right—it must've been allergies because her vitals and heart rate were fine. She made me believe and joked that it was 'just her face.'" He finished his statement, air-quoting the young surgeon's words.
Richard turned to Dr. Bailey, "Did you know that Dr. Steele saved our newest board member, Miranda?"
"What? When was this?" She widened her eyes and turned to the CEO.
"Coincidentally it was on the day she landed in Seattle," Christian answered to the chief, "I don't know what I would've done if she hadn't saved me from that car crash."
Dr. Bailey opened her mouth and smiled, "Well, what are the odds of that happening! That's the same day she and I met as well! It's good to hear and see that the blood of being a surgeon still existed in her even then. I didn't believe her when she came into my office, I had to test her."
"What do you mean tested her?" Richard lifted his brow; he seemed offended by the action.
Suddenly, the room began applauding as a woman in a red gown walked onto stage with another younger man. It was Catherine Fox—she was also in the meeting with Dr. Bailey. People continued clapping as she smiled happily at everyone. Holding the award was her son, Jackson Avery.
That fucker is here, too? His nose flared to the familiar face as slight jealousy filled his body.
"I'll tell you later," Bailey whispered, clapping excitedly. "Your wife is on."
"Isn't she beautiful?" Dr. Webber muttered in surprise, joining in on the applause. "I wonder where Anastasia is, though?" The director's head spun around the room, searching for the young surgeon.
Yes. Where are you, Miss Steele? His thoughts hissed in desperation, searching with the director before their gazes turned back to the head of her foundation. Maybe she's backstage.
"Thank you so much, and good evening ladies and gentlemen!" Dr. Fox grinned as the applause died down.
"Surgery," she began, "is the boldest and most fearless of the healing arts. The Catherine Fox Award—dreadfully known as The Harper Avery—awards those who have destroyed the obstacles, altered the directions, and invented the future of how we are to live, heal, and thrive. The surgeons in this room are redefining medicine for generations to come."
The red-gowned woman on stage had such a commanding presence that captured many audience members' attention, including Christian's. The words she spoke gave him more appreciation and admiration to the woman he fell for.
"It is my distinct honor and privilege to present this award for surgical innovation. This award was renamed and became ever so more meaningful to me—not because it was named after me—but because of what it represents. My love—a surgeon's love— for medical innovation is so pure, and that describes this year's winner."
Dr. Webber and Dr. Bailey held hands in honor for the young nominee that represented their hospital, faces eager and excited to hear the winner's name to come out.
Dr. Fox exclaimed, "Without further ado, the Catherine Fox for surgical innovation goes to…Dr. Anastasia Steele!" The two surgeons beside Christian jumped from their seats and hugged each other in excitement, clapping afterwards and shaking Christian's hand. The room erupted into a cheer, whistling and clapping at the name, stunning the dominant in his seat as he looked around. He was amazed, marveling at everyone's appreciation for the young doctor.
But where are you, baby?
"Here to accept this award on her behalf," the presenter continued, "Dr. Jackson Avery!"
What. The. FUCK. She's not here?
…
"Phew," the Head of General Surgery exclaimed, "thanks for the assist, Dr. Steele."
Anastasia rubbed her face, yawning in her mouth, "It's no problem, Dr. Grey. It was an honor being able to work with you." The young surgeon turned on the sink with her elbow and began scrubbing her arms with soap. Side by side, both female surgeons began lathering their arms with suds before rinsing.
Meredith Grey smiled gently, walking out with the brunette and asking, "So, why'd you skip out on your own night?"
The young attending stared at Meredith, blinking at her and opening her mouth. Jackson was so insistent, earlier that day, for her to join him on the plane. She shook her head of her thoughts and answered simply with a gentle smile, "Because there was a patient that needed me."
The general surgeon knitted her brows and sighed, giving in, "Alright. If that's the way you want to put it, I won't judge you."
"What do you mean?" The brunette stared warily.
Dr. Grey chuckled, "Well, starting off, nobody skips out on a big night without a good reason." She explained, "I skipped out on my Catherine Fox award because my trauma patients looked like old friends of mine."
She opened her mouth, "You didn't go to your award-winning night?"
"I didn't, but it's okay because my family stayed back with me, and we watched it on television," The general surgeon said, walking down to The Pit with the brunette. She pressed, "So, what's your reason?"
"Well…" Anastasia began with a tone of voice drifting as she contemplated what to say.
"Well, what? Afraid of flying?"
"No. Well, not anymore," the young attending chuckled.
"Your family? Parents?"
The brunette raised her eyebrows and giggled, "No. They're dead."
The Head of General Surgery widened her eyes before smirking, "You're preaching to the choir." Silence filled between them and she finally found the right answer, "Is it a guy?"
Anastasia opened her mouth and then closed it, flushing to her correct guess.
Meredith blinked in response before turning her direction back forward as they walked, smiling to herself, "Ahh…so, it's a boy." Reddening by her realization, the general surgeon explained, "Don't worry. You don't have to tell me anything else."
Good because it'd be too hard to explain, and I signed a NDA…
"Can I give you some advice?" The blonde surgeon asked as they stopped at the receptionist by the trauma center. The brunette nodded and Meredith continued, "I'm going to tell you something my…person…said to me. Don't let what he wants eclipse what you need. The guy you like may be very dreamy, but he's not the sun. You are."
Don't let what Christian wants eclipse what I need… Her thoughts pondered the idea. Anastasia blinked and looked up at Dr. Grey with a smile, "That's pretty. Who said that to you?"
Walking away, Meredith hummed at her answer, "Christina Yang…"
The young attending gasped by the name—the female surgeon she idolized. She grinned to herself as she sat on an empty bed in The Pit. There weren't any incoming patients, and it was a quiet night. An email rang from her phone and she picked it up, reading.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: You ditched me
Date: June 2, 2018 21:30 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
I came to New York only to find out that you weren't here, Miss Steele. I am a bit upset considering I traveled all this way for you—Is everything alright?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: I'm so sorry
Date: May 25, 2018 18:32 PST
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey,
Words cannot describe how sorry I am for not being there. I got caught up with a patient that needed my help and time got the best of me.
I'll pay you back for your ticket, please send me the receipt so I may pay you back.
Anastasia R. Steele, Ph.D., M.D., F.A.C.S.
Attending Cardiothoracic Surgeon, Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital
Damn it—I completely forgot. I should've gone. The young attending rubbed her head, sighing as Dr. Deluca came by and sat beside her, silently consoling her by patting her back. No, Meredith said she needed my help and she was thankful for my assist. This is my life now, and you aren't a part of it anymore, Christian.
"Hey, could you turn that up?" Andrew suddenly called to the receptionist. The volume on the television turned on louder, and the young surgeon recognized and heard a woman's familiar voice.
With the volume loud enough to grab everyone's attention, people turned their gaze to the television monitor as Dr. Fox was on screen. It wasn't live; it was a recording that someone must've documented, luckily. "It is my distinct honor and privilege to present this award for surgical innovation. This award was renamed and became ever so more meaningful to me—not because it was named after me—but because of what it represents. My love—a surgeon's love— for medical innovation is so pure, and that describes this year's winner."
Staff members, nurses, residents, and other attendings gathered in closer to listen, and the brunette stood up, peeking and making her way through. "Without further ado, the Catherine Fox for surgical innovation goes to…Dr. Anastasia Steele!" Catherine exclaimed from the television.
Anastasia jumped and gasped, freezing in her place as time slowed down from the call of her name. Everyone jumped from their seats and positions, turning to the young surgeon. The entire floor whooped with joy, and even injured patients joined along with the festivities by carefully clapping. Dr. Deluca was rubbing and patting her back, grinning pridefully with a shaking fist in the air.
I…I won? Her breathing hitched. She couldn't believe that it actually happened as her hand covered her mouth. Everyone's attention was scattered, but the youngest winner of the Catherine Fox award was focused on the television. "Here to accept this award on her behalf," Catherine continued, "Dr. Jackson Avery!"
"Thank you," Jackson smiled, looking down at the audience. "Wow. Incredible," he smiled in his dashing way possible, pink lips and pearly whites. "Knowing very well that she might win tonight, Dr. Steele opted to stay in Seattle. A trauma came in and she knew that she was the right doctor for the job. That is one of the many reasons that I'm so very, very proud to call her my colleague and my friend."
"She told me she didn't think she was going to win tonight. She thought that because she was the youngest surgeon of our nominees, her arrogance would rub people the wrong way—modesty certainly becomes her. She said she wasn't going to allow herself or anyone, for that matter, to imagine the possibility of winning because she wanted it too much," Dr. Avery said.
"Anastasia," he stared into the camera, and it felt as though he were looking right after. She blinked at the television, giggling as she looked back. He grinned, "I know you're watching. I just wanted to say that I hope you're genuinely shocked." The crowd on the television laughed and he chuckled at his comment. "I want you all to know something, though; Anastasia was absolutely right. She didn't win this award. She earned this award, and this Catherine Fox represents more than the pureness of her heart but also the hard work and sacrifice she put into her method."
The brunette smiled as her eyes glazed from the heart-warming introduction, placing a hand at her chest. Dr. Avery went on, "Now Dr. Steele has experienced more loss in her life than I think most of us would deem fair. She first lost her father, who I know would've loved to be here tonight with us. She also lost her mother and her stepfather. I'm sure each one knew with great certainty that this night would happen if they experienced her medical journey with us."
The young surgeon blinked at the screen as a tear fell down her face at the mention of her dead loved ones, wiping it immediately as she rubbed her neck and smiled weakly at the screen. The speech didn't stop there, and the voice from the television continued, "The most amazing thing about Anastasia, though, is that she takes all that pain and all that loss she suffered and she turns it into drive—a drive to save lives, to make things better. And despite all that she's lost; she continues to find joy in her work—as a surgeon, as a teacher, as a friend—she manages to find joy through her spirit of discovery, and of possibility, and of hope, right in the face of darkness."
"I am profoundly grateful…for the lessons that I have learned from Anastasia Steele, and it is my distinct honor to accept this award on her behalf—Congrats, Ana!" Jackson smiled, lifting the trophy up as people clapped and cheered again.
The hospital floor cheered again, and Anastasia was caught in the frenzy of congratulatory hugs, handshakes, and kind words. The entire moment was blurred as she put up a fake, grinning face. A part of her was happy—she won the biggest award any surgeon could receive, and she was proud. But there was another lingering part of her that just wanted to rush to Christian and be in his arms.
Dr. Anastasia Steele was an award-winner that night, but somehow she still didn't feel like she won anything at all. With a plastered smile, she continued putting up her positive façade, concerned about the gray-eyed man as she imagined him sitting there alone amongst all the joy chaotically happening around him.
About one month later … Thursday, June 28, 2018
…
The doctor held up her hands. "I'm not going to hurt you. I need to check your tummy. Here."
She gave me a cold, round sucky thingy and lets me play with it. "You put it on your tummy, and I won't touch you and I can hear your tummy."
This doctor was good…the doctor was Mommy.
My new mommy was pretty. She's like an angel. A doctor angel. She stroked my hair, and I liked it when she stroked my hair. She let me eat ice cream and cake. She doesn't shout when she found the bread and apple hidden in my shoes. Or under my bed. Or under my pillow.
"Darling, the food is in the kitchen. Just find me or Daddy when you're hungry. Point with your finger. Can you do that?"
There was another boy. Lelliot. He was mean. So, I punched him. But my new mommy didn't like the fighting. There was a piano. I liked the noise. I stood at the piano and pressed the black and the white. The noise from the black was strange. Miss Kathie sat at the piano with me. She taught the black and the white notes. She had long brown hair and she looked like someone I know. She smelled of flowers and apple pie baking. She smelled good. She made the piano sound pretty. She was kind to me. She smiled and I played. She played and I smiled. We both smiled and we are happy. She smiled and she's Ana. Beautiful Ana, sitting with me as I play a fugue, a prelude, an adagio, a sonata.
She sighed, resting her head on my shoulder, and she smiled. "I love listening to you play, Christian…I love you, Christian…"
Ana…
Stay with me.
You're mine.
I love you, too.
…
Christian woke up with a start. It had been officially six weeks since he had last seen Anastasia—forty-two days without contact, forty-two days to plan the perfect moment, forty-two days to process and think and want and need.
June 29th marked the end of their cold, empty break—no more hiding and no more running Dr. Anastasia Steele was coming home.
Today, I win her back.
Today, she will be mine again.
I love you, too, Ana. I love you, too.
I know, I know. It's such a slow burn. You might be thinking, "What the hell. I thought they were going to meet and reunite!" Haha, I'm so sorry for that—to realize that by the end of it that they weren't going to meet. Not yet anyways.
What I wanted from this chapter was to capture Christian's darkness. Even though Ana was suffering from her own personal dilemmas of her breakup, so was Christian. The entire difference between Christian and Anastasia is that—although they both are successful and they both work, she is able to separate her personal life from her work life extremely well. Distancing herself from Christian was meant for her to regain her independence again—it's sort of a symbolic way of saying, "I don't need a man to make me truly happy." But at the same time, she desperately wanted him back. She needed him back.
Plus, I can't help but be happy knowing that the guy is suffering a little more internally than the girl. Haha. Most importantly, the two characters—to me—are at two opposite sides of the spectrum. While Christian's life seemed like it ended, Anastasia's life was just beginning—and their breakup was a strengthening moment for her. She took the dark energy she felt and channeled it in a way to continue saving lives. By the way, this is the only time I think I'll be writing in Christian's POV; I just wanted to set the tone and start the beginning of Fifty Shades Forgiven.
I promise you all that they'll meet in the second one. Trust me haha. Think of this more of as a prologue. Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading! Much love~