I feel bothered.

My view doesn't seem as spectacular, my coffee doesn't make my pupils dilate the same and I'm not one hundred percent sure, but my Italian silk boxers aren't caressing my scrotum like they usually do. Sighing, I stare out at the bustling Seattle streets that splay out below me like an intricate spiders web, with the flys stuck, stuck, stuck in their rut. It's the fifteenth of December and the Christmas spirit that has enveloped the city has now taken on a feverish tinge. People scuttle, with their heads bowed pointlessly against the cruel wind, along the tinsel strewn streets in search of some fucking bath set that was crafted from the assholes of the angles for their special sweetheart.

It makes me physically sick.

And we're still ten days away from facing the demon head on and surviving it. Irritation dogs me as my staff prance up and down my hallways like reindeers with sparklers in their rectums, stupid smiles on their faces, secret Santa operations detracting from the work day as they bolt up and down with gift bags and bows to beat the band. I've already had it out with Ros but with little success. Apparently, if I appear to squash the mindless gift giving and gossiping that is being executed on my time, I'm a grinch.

What the fuck is a grinch?

Some kind of STI?

Anyway, I'm pissed off. Especially after the stomach turning experience of this morning. To add insult to injury, my fucking name was put in the pot for this nonsensical secret Santa business. It was drawn by some little mousy haired intern that I've never seen in my life. She knocked on my office door, looking like she was a minute away from shitting her spleen out on my carpet, with a small green box in her hands. I was in the middle of next months forecasts and when she didn't respond to my raised brow, merely flushing furiously and spluttering like some kind of strung out alcoholic, I had to ask what she wanted. She nearly lost what was left of her life, then, and placed the little box on my desk before bolting from the room, mumbling garbled speech over her shoulder.

"You were my secret Santa, Mr Grey, I hope you like it."

I didn't get so much as a chance to ask her who the hell she was and she was gone, leaving me alone, with what could potentially be an improvised IUD. A fucking bomb, if you please. I stared it down for a while, the jaunty bow staring back at me with a smirk, daring me to open it and have my ass permanently splattered across my own wall. Curiosity eventually overtook me and I opened the damn thing to reveal a tiny little, beautifully crafted, replica of my Audi A8 with an accompanying and elegantly written note:

Dear Mr Grey,

I know how much you love your car. I hope you like this and thank you so much for giving me this amazing opportunity to work with you!

Merry Christmas,

Poppy.

I mean to fucking say, what is a man meant to do with that? It made me feel entirely unusual in my skin. My stomach felt unsettled, like I'd eaten an unsatisfactory piece of venison. I shrieked at Ros about it and she had some sort of a brain fart and told me it was because I felt guilty at my treatment of the girl and pleasantly flattered by the thoughtfulness of the gift. She's for the high jump is Ros. Between this secret Santa operation and the shit she pulled with that whole hospital debacle, I'm beginning to think she was planted here by a rival enterprise with the sole mission to drive me as fucking mad as possible.

Guilty?

I ask you.

Such bullshit. Such bullshittery.

But anyway, back to my bothered feeling. It's plaguing me. I should really go and see the doctor. I could be coming down with something. Or, it's the infection I picked up at the hospital that's spreading into my spinal chord, waiting to finish me off altogether. I watch the festivities hundreds of feet below me and roll me eyes, returning to my desk, to work. To all that matters. That might sort out the uneasy feeling in my gut, and mercifully, it does. It's an hour later and with a much more settled constitution when the knock comes, irritatingly interrupting a bitchy email I was drafting for Taylor.

He had my shoes polished at the wrong shop.

Thundering ape.

Andrea pokes her head around the door and masterfully ignores my snarl. Andrea, like Ros, just does not entertain my shit. She's actually in my inner circle, too, I would find it very hard to replace her. Her gaze briefly brushes off the little Audi replica that's on my desk and a small, satisfied smile crosses her face.

She's out of the circle.

I do not need her kind my circle.

She's not even in my octagon.

"Can I help you, Andrea?" I snap, "Or are you infected with the same contagion that everyone else seems to have contracted around here and are content to simply stand and stare?"

Anyone else would have recoiled at my diatribe, but she has zero fucks to give.

She's back in my circle.

"Mr Grey, there is an Anastasia Steele in reception. She says she has been calling you on your direct line without response for a couple of days now. She says it is absolutely urgent that she speak with you. She appears rather... upset, I'm afraid. Would you like me to tell her that you are unavailable?"

Oh, fuck me pink and blow me with a feather.

Yes, ok, yes. I have been avoiding the woman's calls. When someone gives someone else their phone number, and it's clear that in that moment, that person wasn't in their right mind... it's just impolite to actually call. What does she want from me? I gave the woman unlimited cash, which according to my financial records, she has accepted to the tune of one hundred and twenty five thousand dollars. Which to me, is a blip on a blip on the radar, but to her it's probably life changing or some other sentimental tomfoolery. So, what more does she want?

If she wants to be best friends forever, she's picking the wrong guy.

I hate people.

They're the worst.

I open my mouth to tell Andrea to do as she suggests and send Ms Steele away but the face of one Dr Grace Trevellyan-Grey floods my brain and I cringe. She'd have a fucking coronary if she saw me send away a heartbroken mother dealing with a deadly ill child. Of course, she'd never know, but... she'd know. She has an irritating habit of reading my mind and this memory would likely get me shivved with a turkey fork over the Christmas table if it came to light.

A wise man knows when he's beat.

"Oh, send her in to fuck," I snarl, "But come back in here within five minutes with some emergency or other. I don't care if you have to burn something down to do it, just do it."

That smirk is back and I think how nice it would be to have a fully robotic staff.

Artificial intelligence may indeed be the answer to all my problems.

The door opens again before I can so much as scratch myself and the consummate professional that is Andrea has already put a nervous looking Anastasia at somewhat of an ease. I rise from behind my desk and gesture to the chair in front of it as Andrea backs back out the door. Ana sits silently down, her face even paler than it was the first time I met her, the hollows under her eyes even more painfully pronounced.

I feel bothered again.

"Ms Steele, how can I help you?"

I realize too late that I've been abrupt and feel even more bothered. This is just painful. I take a deep breath and try again.

"How is Masie doing?"

Wrong. Fucking. Question.

There are many tears and they are very sudden. My ability to read people tells me that Ana is not a person who cry's easily, that she's strong. My stomach turns upside down again. I don't know what to do and I'm the guy who always knows what to do. But these are emotions and I just don't do emotions. Don't have em', don't do em'. That's my life motto. I should have answered the woman's calls, though, that was a dick move.

My body is failing me, it's behaving very peculiarly.

"Masie is doing amazingly," she eventually says softly, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "She is being prepped for surgery which, all going well, will take place the day after tomorrow. She's on a new strain of medication and she seems more alert, less tired. She even stayed awake long enough for a story yesterday."

I get the feeling it's been a very long time since Masie was able to stay awake that long.

A pang twangs in my gut.

This world is a fucked up place.

"That's good," I murmur weakly, "I'm glad to hear she's doing a little better. I hope the operation will be a success and that she'll be ready for her donor when the time comes..."

She looks up at me and takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Mr Grey, I cannot explain or express to you how grateful I am for your amazing generosity. Your money is the only reason Masie has a shot. Without you, we'd be already looking at funeral plans. I will never, ever be able to repay you... I owe you an unspeakable debt."

Tears threaten once more and she blinks them furiously away.

"I am so ashamed to be here right now. Even more so when you didn't return my calls, because of course you're an incredibly busy man and I hate that I'm taking up even more of your time... I... well, I..."

She's getting tied up in knots, a morose smog drowning her where she sits.

The strange, strange thing that happened to me in the hospital is happening again. This woman's anguish is palpable and it is so intense that it can touch even my cold, dead heart. She seems so strong, yet so vulnerable. So paradoxical. She's embarrassed, there's a deep red flush creeping across her cheeks and she's fidgeting furiously with her hands. I feel myself stand as if someone shoved their hand up my keister and decided to adopt me as their life sized Christian Grey puppet.

She looks at me with wide eyes as I lean against my desk, looking directly down at her.

Closer than I was before.

I fold my arms defensively without meaning to.

"Ms Steele, please, as I told you at the hospital I can more than afford to fund the surgery for Masie. You do not owe me any such debt and whatever you're here to say, please do not feel ashamed or anything of the kind. What can I do for you?"

She looks up at me and hurts my main blood-pumping organ.

"The surgery alone cost the money that I already cashed in your check for," she whispers, "the hospital told me today that the costs of aftercare and post-operative treatments will also be in the thousands, not as much, not nearly as much, but still a lot... and... and they wont perform the operation if they cannot guarantee that post-operative care will be available for her. If I can't come up with the money, they're going to cancel Masie's slot and give it to someone else. I begged them for more time, I was going to put my house on the market, but they said they couldn't wait. That slots were so hard to come by, they had to be guaranteed..."

My brows shoot up.

All this embarrassment over money?

She's practically crimson with shame.

I seethe inwardly at the commercialization of medical care. It's one of my major pet peeves. It's why I invest and donate quietly, silently on the sidelines. Ros wanted to go public with my med-care initiative for gentrified areas, but she quickly dropped it after I threw a fit. I do not want a reputation for being a soft touch. My desk check book is beside me and I tear out another check, leaving it once again blank, and sign it, date it, and hand it over.

She accepts it with shaking hands.

"No... no, I can't... not another blank one, please, I can get you exact figures. I can get you invoices. I can get you-"

"Just get yourself and your child into a better place, Ana," I interrupt quietly, my body shuddering under an onslaught of unfamiliar feelings. "And before you say it because I can see you're about to, this isn't a loan. This isn't a debt to be repaid. This isn't something that you have to do anything for. Please, just take the check and give it to the hospital and if you need any more, than you come straight back here and I will see to it. I only ask that you never, ever speak of this to anyone. You and your brother both."

She gapes.

I cannot express how much I hate gaping.

"Mr Grey, I can't possibly-"

"Ms Steele, I will not entertain any further discussion regarding repayment or any other such nonsense. Trust me when I tell you that I have the means to do this kind of thing when and where I choose. Please, be with your daughter and brother, this surgery will be difficult to get through. That's all you need to be concerned with, not me."

She looks at me with that crazed look in her eyes again.

I cross my legs.

I feel exposed.

"Harry had to go back to his own family, his wife is expecting their second child today," she says softly, rising from her seat. "It'll just be Masie and I." She folds the check so carefully it's almost surgical and places it in her purse, turning to me once more. "You are an incredibly good man, Mr Grey," she whispers. "You're saving my daughters life... mine too. I will never forget this. I'll never forget what you're doing for us, when you don't have to."

She looks like she hasn't slept in months and months.

It's not fair.

I'm so engrossed in her that I don't even notice Andrea hasn't come back as instructed.

"Harry is gone back home?" I blurt out, despite myself. "So, who's going to be with you when Masie is in surgery? Your mom or dad, a friend?"

She smiles wanly.

"My mom and dad are dead, Mr Grey and I don't really have any friends... what with everything, I don't have much time..."

My chest is actually constricting.

I may be terminally infected after all.

"So you're going to be alone?"

She slings her purse over her shoulder and nods quietly.

"I'll be fine. All that matters is that Masie is getting the shot she deserves, thanks to you. That's all I care about. It's all I've ever cared about."

I try and imagine Grace being all alone if it were twenty years ago and it was me, or Elliott, or Mia in little Masie's situation. I can't. She would have been surrounded by an army of family and friends. She wouldn't have had to take a single step on her own, Carrick would have tended to her every need, and she his. But here was Anastasia, all on her own, with a terrifyingly sick child and far from being taken care of, she had to come here and swallow her pride to ask a man she doesn't even know for money to save the kid's life. Had to leave her kid alone, in a state hospital, to do it.

All because I was too much of a douche to answer her damned calls.

Maybe Ros was right.

Maybe I am physically capable of feeling this phantom guilt.

She smiles at me one last time as she turns to leave, a fervent and stunned thank you still spilling from her lips. I watch her go, small and alone, until she reaches the door and it's then that the guy or gal with their hand up my rectum squeezes down hard, tickling my vocal chords in the process. Her hand is on the door handle before I can get the words out.

The look on her face is something I've never seen before as she digests my question.

"Ms Steele... Anastasia, would you like me to come and be with you during Masie's operation?"

...