Suspicions – noun – act of suspecting; the state of mind or feeling of one who suspects; an instance of suspecting something or someone; state of being suspected; imagination of anything to be the case or to be likely – a vague notion of something; a slight trace, hint, or suggestion.

"Gentlemen, I'll have the papers drawn up and sent to you within the week."

"Nice doing business with you Mr Grey."

I nod, shaking the limp fucker's hand. I've just made you a fuck load of money so I can fix your fucking business so I can make more. Nice doing business with you, dick head. I smile to myself. Fuck, I am good.

"If you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have another meeting I must be getting too." I don't; I just want to get the hell out of here.

I walk out of the restaurant to the car out front where Taylor is already waiting for me.

"Grey's House, sir?"

I nod, not looking up from my blackberry. I've got emails to catch up on now that little fucker Peterson is satisfied after another wine and dine. If I had to do that one more time, I was going to tell that fucker he and his crap business could go to hell and he'd be bankrupt within a year at the rate he was managing it.

We ride in silence as I finish up my emails and I come to one that I've read and re-read over the last day, purposely leaving the attachments un-opened.

Sir,

As discussed, please find attached the extra information I found regarding Miss Anastasia Rose Steele that was not provided with the initial routine background check.

Firstly, yes, your suspicions are correct. Miss Steele has undergone surgery. Several in fact, to the point where she was in a medical induced coma for 3 weeks. However, the reasons for said surgeries may take a little longer as it seems as there was a settlement and confidentiality clauses signed. Also, the initial police reports have also been sealed. I've been able to get my hands on the relevant medical records, but am having a little more difficulty with the court and police documents. It seems that someone or someone's with connections and/or money, a lot of money, has kept this quiet.

Secondly, the 3 months hiatus noticed in Miss Steele's financial records from the period of September 2011 - December 2011 can be traced to a 90 day residential inpatient program at a small, relatively unknown and expensive rehabilitation centre. Deducing, from bank statements (see attached) of Miss Steele and of her deceased parents, said rehab facility was paid with remaining money received from the events of 2005.

I'll keep you apprised of any further details that come to light.

Regards,

Ian Welch

Head of Security

Grey Enterprise Holdings Inc.

Attachments:

* Original Executive summary

* Seattle Grace Mercy West partial medical records 2005/2006 (includes 3 photos) of Miss Anastasia Rose Steele

* 'The Peace Within Me' Rehabilitation centre's medical and psychological reports of Miss Anastasia Rose Steele

* Current bank statements of Miss Anastasia Rose Steele

* Bank Statements of Mr Raymond Steele and Mrs Carla May Wilks Adams (formerly Steele) financial year 05/06

My finger hovers above delete, a motion that I've been doing every time I read it. Should I read the attachments? Should I look at those photos? These are the questions that are continuously running circles in my mind.

What happened to you, Miss Steele?

Every time I read it, a strange feeling floods me. Betrayal? Guilt? Would I be breaking her trust if I read what's contained here?

Holy fuck! What the hell is wrong with me? This woman has affected me in ways that I could never imagine. Every time I close my eyes I see her face.

Her beautiful face.

Even contorted with pain she's beautiful. The last two days my mind has been consumed by her. Immersing myself in work gets me through the day, but the nights - the nights are a different story.

I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't function.

I'm Christian Fucking Grey. Master of my universe, king of pain; I'm fucked up and for someone so beautiful, who's obviously been through so much deserves to be left alone by someone like me. She's not sub material; she doesn't deserve to be treated like some piece of meat. Dare I say it, but she's the type of girl who deserves to be loved.

I can't do that.

I have no fucking idea how to do that.

I'm not capable of that.

Am I?

According to Flynn I am, but what the fuck would that psycho-babbling brit know. It's taking all my self-control to stay away, but I'm a selfish man and my control feels as though it's slipping away.

Her scars.

That's what gets me. I never noticed them before until she seized. That's because last time you got that close you were more concerned about fucking her brains out than worshiping her body. True. But that's what I think I'd like to do - worship her.

Taylor took charge at the park whilst I sat there like a fuckin' stunned mullet. Her body shaking before me. It was surreal. Her tank top riding up as her body writhed. And that's when I saw them. A six inch scar across her beautiful creamy white skin. Another just poking out across her collarbone. After we got in the car, making our way to the hospital, I sat there staring at them. She seemed so peaceful lying in my lap and I couldn't help but run my fingers along them.

Her scars.

White-ish pink and raised that have faded slightly over time but are still there all the same. Her skin so soft and flawless except for the permanent marks. Marks that tell a story.

What is your story, Miss Steele?

Mine changed me. Have they changed you?

Scars like that would change a person.

I couldn't help but run my fingers along any exposed flesh that I could see. For all I knew, that may have been my only chance.

What happened to you Miss Steele? Is this why - as you put it - you are 'fifty shades of fucked-up'?

We may have more in common than I ever thought.

Who would want to hurt her? Why go to the trouble of confidentiality agreements and sealing of records? With one click of my fingers I could have some of those answers, but for some reason I feel like I'd be betraying her; invading her privacy. I've run background checks on hundreds of people to gain insight, to gain an upper hand and never felt anything.

It's business.

But Anastasia - she brings something out in me that I've never felt before, and to be frank; it scares me shitless. For some irrational reason I think I want to ... protect her? I don't know. But what I do know is evils of this world has touched her.

I'd already poured over the executive summary for what feels like a thousand times to gain some sort of insight to the mysterious Miss Steele, which resulted in me going for a run to try and get her out of my god-damned-head. But no, alas I run into her… again. Fuck, she was sexy in that little running get-up. I saw her from across the park and she took my breath away.

Fuck Grey! Do you hear yourself! What the Fuck!

Shit!

I send Welch another email. After Miss Steele was seizing and fucking problems at Grey's House dragging me away from her bedside I've totally forgot to find out who this fucking Jose bastard is. If I ever get my hands on that little prick he'll fucking regret it. What kind of psycho just comes up to an innocent, lovely woman like Anastasia Steele and fucking purposely barges into them? That was no accident. I saw that with my own eyes. He barrelled into her. He saw her and made a fucking beeline for her.

Taylor's phone rings and my ears prick up from his tone. "... send a pic to Grey for identification ... I'm driving ... minute out ... detouring now." He taps his Bluetooth ear piece, and nods to me in the review mirror, turning away from Grey's house and into the direction of Escala.

"Another potential, Sir. This time a female brunette. Currently onsite. Welch is sending through a photo now from the security tapes."

"Ahhh fuck. It's Courtney, isn't it? Fucking crazy bitch." Probably off her fucking meds again. Where the fuck does Elena find some of these women is beyond me, but I think she purposely did it this time to fuck me off. This will teach me a lesson not to tell fucking Elena anything.

Taylor nods, "After Monday's event that is who I suspect, Sir."

My phone beeps signalling the new email from welch and I straight away open the attachment. I see a female, long haired brunette, dressed a figure hugging navy blue dress, insinuating every delectable curve of her body. Her face is turned away so I can't be sure as to who it is. The woman looks familiar but not Courtney. Too short to be her. My phone beeps again; another email, another photo.

Holy shit.

"Turn the fucking car around, Taylor!"

"What the hell's going on here?" A loud booming voice appears from behind us. Dark Suit's grip tightens again as he turns towards the voice, but pales, suddenly letting go of my arm.

Oh thank god.

My arm has already started to discolour and I know I'm going to have a mighty big bruise on my upper arm. I'm about to give dark suit another mouth full of my rath as I inspect the damage, but soft, strong hands beat me too it.

The touch instantly soothes me, the anger that had built dissipates as quickly as it arose, the hands surrounding my tiny limb; a balm to my rath.

"Anastasia, you're starting to bruise already," he whispers, his thumbs softly rubbing my arm in small, slow circles. I stand dazed at such a loving act, watching muscular steady hands; feeling as though the whole world around me has deliberately fallen away. How can one tiny simple gesture feel like so much more? Slowly, I look up. Messy copper hair with a strong chiselled jaw greets me, his eyes intently trained on the movements of his thumbs. His jaw is locked tight in anger, but his hands are portraying a different story. Silently, I wish for him to look up; to see his eyes; to gain some insight to what he's thinking.

The gods must have heard my plea, because seconds later he slowly lifts his head, a fury of emotions flash through him before beautiful soft grey eyes settle on mine.

"Christian." I breathe. I can't believe he's here... yet I'm so relieved that he is. "Hi." I hush. He's just as good looking as I remember from the cafe. Maybe even better than what memory serves. His locked jaw loosens upon my small shy smile, with an answering one of his own.

Absolutely breathtaking.

"Hi." A hushed whisper escapes his perfect lips. "We have to stop meeting like this Miss Steele."

"We've met before haven't we?" My voice barely a whisper. Why at this moment I ask this question is beyond me. His eyes wildly search mine. For what? I think I catch a flash of confusion, but I'm not sure.

"Are you ok?" He asks, ignoring my question. Still holding my arm, his movements slow and steady.

"Umm, yeah. Better now. Wha-what are you doing here?" I stammer.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I came to see someone that works here."

A full HD panty dropping grin slides across this face. "I work here. Did you come to see me?"

Oh, playful Christian is sexy, his sex appeal sky rockets tenfold. I try to hide it, but I can't help but grin back at his cheekiness. "Sorry to disappoint, but no. Why would I come to see you?"

His grin disappears quickly, and I just want to kick myself. I really do know how to ruin a good moment. A smile rapidly returns, but not reaching his eyes, seemingly trying to recover.

"Oh, you know, one could only hope." Now I feel like a complete shit. Another reason to add to my list that I don't date. I suck at flirting, suck at conversation, oh hell I just suck in general.

"Sir." A handsome older gentleman with dark hair, hazel eyes interrupts, instantly bringing me back to reality. I sense of dejavu comes to me as the warmth of Christian's hands leaves and coolness of my now bare arm is left. Taking in my surroundings, the crowd that had gathered earlier has now gone except for a few stragglers, namely women who are staring intently at our exchange. The man hands Christian my hand bag and my now half unwrapped gift. My eyes well at the state of what was beautifully intricately wrapped. The carefully placed strands of ribbon and wrapping paper now look like the craze of medusa's snake haired head.

"I believe these belong to you, Miss Steele. Please except my heartfelt apology for the state that your gift is in. It looks like it would have been a beautiful temiyage."

"You know what temiyage is?" I'm truly surprised. Not only is he gorgeous but he's culturally well read.

"Yes, I do. I have a few Japanese business ventures, so I know a traditional Japanese thank you gift when I see one."

"Thank you." I whisper, a mixture of emotions overcoming me. He knows what it is and that pleases me.

As I take hold of my handbag and the temiyage, my annoyance at this situation builds as I try to fix up the strands as best I can. The time and effort that goes into the wrapping, has now been wasted; leaving a very bitter taste in my mouth.

"You know, there's no need for you to apologise. It's not your fault that these 'men in black' drones have their protocol dials turned up to extreme. The idiot that trains and employs these morons should do a better job and should be the one apologising, not you." Christian tenses at the frustration flowing through my voice.

"Yes, I suppose so. I'll bring that up." Great, he probably heads up security or something. That's all I need after this spectacular day I'm having. "So, you came here to thank someone?" He says, trying to veer to safer conversation.

"I had come to say thank you." His brow rises in confusion. I sigh, feeling deflated. This afternoon has just been a rollercoaster of emotions and I think I'm about to run out of steam. "I had a little accident and he pretty much saved my life. I'm told he stayed and held my hand at the hospital for a while before he was called away on important business. Apparently he works here." And apparently he's important. Too important to stay and find out if I'm ok, too important for a phone call or some flowers. Ugh, now I'm just being a narky bitch. I just need to find this guy and get the hell out of here.

"You don't remember what happened to you?"

"No. I don't." My tone is little clipped. I don't elaborate. Telling a practical stranger that I have epilepsy and can't recall events leading up to a seizure is not high on my to do list. Especially to a guy like Christian. He'd probably run a mile if he found out. Who wouldn't? Some stranger who found me didn't bother sticking around to see if I was ok. Stupid parents and instilling good manners in me. Only reason why I'm here... and bloody nagging Kate and her stupid nurse gossip. Now I feel like a total fool. I just need to do this and get the hell out of here.

Trying to steer my building resentment, a take a breath.

"Maybe you can help me. Would you happen to know or know where I could find a Mr Jason Taylor?"

A/N: A heartfelt thanks goes out to all those who review, follow and favourite my story. You have no idea what it means to me, especially when my life at the moment is quite hectic. It gives me the reason to keep pushing through when I could easily just drop it and pick it back up in another lifetime. Thank you so much for waiting patiently for this chapter and for those who have nudged me along to pull my finger outta my ass. :D I love you guys xx. As always, suggestions are always appreciated and advanced apologies for the wait to the next chapter.

Much Love, M ox

P.S. the wait SHOULD be less to the next one as winter break is approaching! Yeah to nearly completing my first semester of law school! … just gotta get through exams – boo :(