I find myself descending into the weirdest, almost catatonic, state of serenity.

Leila, is a crazy person. Just like Andrea is a crazy person. And they share the same thread of insanity, the Christian Grey thread. In a way, I think I understand. I really do. I mean, if I were one of them, and I'd had just a teeny tiny bite of the forbidden fruit that is my husband, before being unceremoniously tossed from the orchard, I think I'd be crazy too. But, empathetic comprehension aside, there's a gun in my face and survival is the only consideration in play.

He needs me.

My voice is steadily calm as I go toe-to-toe with Miss Williams.

Round two is upon us.

"Evening, Leila," I say softly, "It's been a long time. How are you?"

Her eyes are weirdly orb-like. She radiates a lost, almost urchin-like sadness.

"What is it about you?" she whispers, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise to dance in the wind of her terrifying monotone. "Why does he love you so? How can he love you so? We look the same, we all look the same, but you're different to all the rest. So many things to tear you apart… so many obstacles to stumble over… and still, here you are, with a ring on your finger. Why, Anastasia, why? Please… please… I have to know… I have to understand…"

A thin, emaciated hand, ghastly pale in color, reaches up to clench the lank hair.

She speaks to herself.

Whispers, to herself.

"Why wasn't I enough?"

My heart is beginning to quicken as I assess the deranged despair she languishes in. I walk a mile in her tattered, torn tennis shoes. I have everything she has ever dreamed of, I have everything she covets, longs for. And on the outside, we are mirror image, we stand on an even playing field. How can I explain to this broken, empty woman that I can't answer the only question that plagues her in the night?

There is no way to translate into mere words the love Christian and I share.

There was no choice in the matter, in our love story.

He was mine as I was his, from the moment we laid eyes on each other.

Call it fate, call it destiny, call it whatever the hell you want.

It is what it is.

Irrevocable.

Ray's voice, his self-defense plan, echoes like a long-lost memory in my mind.

If they want to talk Annie, let em' talk… keep em' talking…

"Leila, listen to me. You were very special to him. Christian cared for you in the best way he knew how back then. You want to know why me and not you? You want to know how we can look so alike and be fated so unalike? Those aren't the questions you should be asking yourself, Leila. There is no comparison between you and me. Sure, we're similar on the outside, but we're nothing alike on the inside. You were everything he wanted back then, everything he wanted and more. You were a fantastic submissive, and his favorite, by a long shot. When you were with him, that was all he wanted, from anyone. Their submission. But people change, Leila, people change and as time went on… after we met… Christian changed… he wanted more."

Her dry, cracked lips move wordlessly for a moment.

A stab of bizarre sympathy slices my heart.

She looks like a confused, grief-addled child.

Just looking for an open pair of arms.

"I wanted more," she whispers. "When Master and I were together, I… started to fall in love with him. I'd never felt for any Dominant the way I felt for him. He thought he was so dark, a bad, bad man. But I saw the light in him, I saw the good in his eyes… Master is a beautiful man. We could have been beautiful together. I was careful, I took it slow… I didn't spring it on him… but he said no, he didn't try and stop me from leaving, from ending the contract. I was… nothing to him, nothing… and he was everything to me… is everything to me…."

So she saw the purity in my stubborn, self-deprecating husband.

I lick my lips and subtly glance at the door beside me, feeling my heart sink.

No physical locks.

Of course not.

"You weren't nothing to him, Leila. When you were missing, back in Seattle, he moved heaven and Earth to find you, to help you. And it wasn't just because of me and how you felt about me, he was concerned about you, about all that had happened to you… you weren't nothing to him, if you believe anything, believe that. Think about it, really think about it. You know the kind of strings he could pull, what he has the capacity to do, but when he found you in my apartment, with a gun in your hand… what did he do?"

The present-day gun, slips and lowers a little in her clammy, grubby grasp.

She stares at me as if I've asked her to reinvent the wheel.

Her sweaty brow furrows in concentration, in suspicious confusion.

"He… he sent you away… and gave me a bath…"

A reminiscent glow floods into her eyes and I suddenly see the gun in her hands as a useful object.

Breathe, I chide myself.

She's batshit crazy.

Breathe.

"Right," I croak, "And if you were nothing to him, and were always nothing to him, why would he have done that? Why would he have stayed with you, and sent me away? Why would he have made sure you got the best help possible, paid for you to get the best help possible, if you were nothing but a contract to him? I promise, Leila, you were never nothing, you were always more than something. You came into his life at a time where he didn't know he was capable of more, capable of wanting something bigger. That's the only difference between us, Leila, time. And luck, I guess. Time and luck."

Her eyes narrow and her chest convulses with a halted, haggard breath.

"Master fell in love with you… and not me… because of timing? Do you expect me to believe that? I might not be good enough to be Mrs Leila Grey, but I'm not stupid, Anastasia. There's more to this story than you're telling. You have some sort of trick, some sort of play, some sort of hold over him. Master doesn't do hearts and flowers, he doesn't do rings and honeymoons. You've… you've ensnared him, beguiled him and I want to know how… I have to know how… so then I can do it, too. Don't you see? Then I can do it too and you… you can be the one out in the cold, wandering the streets, looking and looking but never, ever finding anyone like him, ever again…"

A vacant smile plays about her tight lips.

She murmurs under her breath in a sing-song voice of true insanity.

"Ever, ever again…."

Instinct tells me time is running out, that she won't be stalled any further. My mouth runs dry as my fight or flight reflex kicks into high gear. My eyes dart around the horrendously sturdy car and they spy no vulnerability, no clear path to safety. Her hold on the gun isn't slack, but it isn't secure either. A swift and unexpected swipe could dislodge it, but the chance of discharge and probable ricochet is too high. And it's just as the panic rises up inside me that clarity hits. My purse, the fight, the never-ending fight. I hate mace, Christian however, loves mace and insists I have a can in my bag, just in case.

I will never, ever sneer at him about security again.

That's what's gotten me into this freaking mess.

Stay cool, stay cool…

Bluff.

"Ok, fine," I sigh, "You're right. I didn't just change Christian or win him over in the blink of an eye. I had help, I had… unconventional help. It's complicated, I never thought I'd have to explain it to anyone… but if you're sure you have to know, I guess I can try."

My eyes drift to my bag.

"Or I could show you? I could show you what he sees when he looks at me?"

She's not even breathing now. Her eyes are fixated upon my bag and she's flooding with desire. She truly is unhinged, completely and utterly without sense or sanity. She's deliberating, analyzing. The possibility of trickery is paling in comparison to the possibility of answers, of hope. I hold my hands up innocently, and raise a brow. Her sunken gaze flits between me and my mirage-like purse, her mind spinning like a carnival ride.

Before finally, after a split-second eternity, she nods.

The mundane minutiae of wallets, perfume and make-up exasperate me as I root through the bag in search of the slim cannister that may well be the only thing standing between me and a bullet to the brain. My fingers slowly encase it as I concentrate on the ruse, on the provision of coveted answers. I can hear her breath quicken and her fingers twitch. Taking a deep breath and gripping the can firmly, I brace myself and hope for the best.

It's now or never.

I wrench the mace from my bag…

And everything goes to hell.

Shouting. There's so much shouting. Lights. There are so many lights. A cold wind whips into the car as the doors are suddenly ripped open and guns are trained on a cowering and petrified Leila. Sawyer swoops in like a militarised bat and disarms her with an ease that astonishes me, before dragging her bodily from the car, ignoring her spine-tingling screeches. Taylor's arms gently encase me, and I'm cradled in his grasp, breathing in the crisp air like I've never once done before. He extricates me from the scene, barking orders to Sawyer over his shoulder and carries me to a nearby SUV.

His voice is soothing, but carries an astonishingly unusual bark of reprimand.

"Mrs Grey, I say this out of sheer relief and unbending respect, but the next time I call you and call you… you better pick up or… or so help me god, I will sing like a canary to Mr Grey."

As the adrenaline leaves me body and weariness plagues me, I nod.

"Taylor?"

Still holding me tight, he glances down with a gentle smile

"Mrs Grey?"

I muster up every ounce of energy that remains to me.

Only one thing matters now.

Matters always.

"Take me to my husband."

…..