Reviews from Chapter 9:

daytonalay: thank you so much! We all must remember that Christian has not only been physically abused but mentally as well. Christian is definitely not entertaining the Bitch Trolls suggestions. In fact, this will only help him begin to realize just what she is. As for Jack Hyde, I've got something special cooked up for him ;)

peachesgo: I assure you all, Leila and Ana are 100% biologically related.

Krooela: Please remember, Christian was abused up until the age of four and then again from the age of 15 and while physically it ended when he was 21, he's still being abused mentally. Let me be clear: Christian has not abused Ana in any way, shape, or form. He first saw her when she was 15. Knowing that she was too young, he left without saying a word to her and didn't see her again until she was 18 years old. Still, he didn't speak to her. He officially met Ana when she was 19 and their affair began months later. He never touched Ana without her consent. She came onto him.

MrsAnanstasiaGrey: just a reminder for everyone since it hasn't all been explained since one of the first chapters . . . Leila was raised by a Lambert until her late teens. She grew up thinking of Grandma Lambert as her grandma. So it makes sense that Grandma Lambert might leave her something.

bertha55: Sara Reed is the name on my profile. If you've been added to the Facebook group Sara Jo Updates then you can always send a friend request to me by clicking on my name via one of the posts. There's also now a link to the group on my fanfiction bio. :)

Songs:

Like Everybody Else by Lennon Stella

and

The Heart Wants What It Wants by Selena Gomez

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

Friday, June 3rd, 2011

I find myself waiting for a bag of luggage after my flight arrives home. It wasn't what I wanted—or what I had planned—but nevertheless it was happening. A small suitcase full of Grandma Lambert's most precious soft collectibles were working their way round. Another box would be arriving on my doorstop when I arrived home.

It had been a shock to my system—to arrive in Texas at the nursing home to have a short visit with the grandmother I didn't really know, only to lose her to the dark grip of death only hours later.

It wasn't what I expected and the outcome was cruel. Her last Will and Testament had stated the only person she wanted at her service was one lone Anastasia Rose Steele.

It was lonely and I desperately wanted to call him every single night as I cried myself to sleep—but I had held on strong.

Or by a thread if you considered the way I broke down when I learned that Grandma Lambert had left the majority of her fortune to me of all people.

Gracie—her only living child—had written her own mother out of her life. She wanted no part in being the heir to the Lambert fortune.

Then there was Leila—who wasn't really her granddaughter. Besides that little fact, her lawyer and dear friend claimed she thought I deserved claim to the legacy that was being left behind.

In hindsight, perhaps she was right. According to what grandma had told me on her deathbed, I was owed an entire trust fund. Plus the money that had been set aside for college. Money I had never received as I should have when I turned eighteen.

Instead, the money had been stolen by my flesh and blood. A lineage that Grandma Lambert insisted I check out once everything had been settled.

Meaning the money, the farmland, the empty land, the estate she lived in her entire life, properties in California, New York, and Lake Tahoe. An island in the Caribbean and a villa in Rome. Then there was the stakes in oil and hundreds of other small companies. Somehow it was all mine . . . including a house on the Sound.

Leila would be furious and when Carla found out all hell would break loose.

In truth, I needed help. I could ask Kate to talk to her father. Or I could ask Elliot—he owned his own business. Carrick was a good bet being a lawyer—but did I want to involve someone who was technically Leila's father-in-law.

I could ask Christian . . . he would know all about the properties and the businesses. He could help me manage the abundance of money I was suddenly the holder of. He would know what to do about the Lamberts involvement in the oil company . . .

No. I wouldn't—I couldn't give in and contact him.

I would hold off. It was his turn to apologize and grovel at my feet.

After all, it seemed only fair after everything he had put me through.

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

When I arrive home, I find that my own apartment is not only empty but achingly unfamiliar. I haven't lived or even spent enough time here for it to feel like home.

As I move through the living room, the words of my Dom ring through my head.

"You put yourself in danger by leaving the damn door unlocked Anastasia! Any creep could have snuck in here and . . . they could have hurt you. I mean really hurt you."

I turn around and swiftly lock the deadbolt before heading straight for my room.

Flicking on the light, I survey my surroundings. My quilt lays folded where I left it at the end of my bed and hanging limply beside it is the very deflated, Charlie Tango balloon. The crumpled foil looks just exactly how I feel deep inside. I drop my bags at the door and angrily snap the balloon from its ribbon tie, and crush it to my chest before falling into a heap on top of my bed.

Christian, what have you done to me? To us?

I break into gut wrenching sobs, and the pain brought on is indescribable. It's everywhere all at once, seeping into the marrow of my bones and into the cracks of my heart. Physical, mental . . . it's metaphysical and pure grief. A grief I've unwittingly brought onto myself.

Deep down in the depths of my soul, an unpleasant, unsought idea comes to mind. The bite of his belt—hell, the bite of a cane—has nothing on this utter devastation I am experiencing firsthand.

As my body heaves, I curl up on my side, clutching desperately at the now flat foil balloon that was once Charlie Tango.

On my nightstand, I spot the scrap of fabric that represents the worst day of my life—well, the second worst day. The first was the day Christian married my sister. I grab for Elliot's handkerchief and wipe at my eyes with it before clutching it in my fist against my chest before surrendering myself to my act of mourning.

Day Four Post-Christian is a bust.

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

Monday, June 6th, 2011

I survive Day Seven Post-Christian by a thread.

Monday morning, I walk into my first day at SIP and am greeted warmly, then immediately rushed into HR to sign papers before I officially start my day.

The whole day in a whole, is a welcomed distraction. Between a haze of new faces and work to get done, time has flown by as if it's nothing.

Then, there's Mr. Jack Hyde. The very same Mr. Jack Hyde who not only interviewed me, but feels as if he can sit on my desk.

As he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkle with something I can't decipher.

"Excellent work today, Ana. I think we're going to make a great team."

I somehow manage to curl my lips upward in a shadow of a smile as he continues to stare down at me—getting an eyeful of my breasts in the process.

"Thank you. I'll be off, if that's okay with you," I murmur.

"Of course, it is five thirty after all. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Jack."

"Good night, Ana."

Shrugging on my jacket as I go, I collect my bag and head for the door. Out in the early evening of Seattle, I take a deep breath. The fresh air doesn't come close to filling the void in my chest, a void that's been present since last Monday. Each and every day has been a painful and hollow reminder of what I've lost. From the empty side of the bed to the days without email—I've fallen into a black hole. The pain, the loneliness, it's neverending.

As I head towards the bus stop, I walk with my head down, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk and contemplating being alone and without Wanda . . . or the new Audi.

I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. I mustn't think about him. Christian Grey is a Hard Limit.

Without Wanda, I can afford a new car. A nice, new car. He's either been cruel or over-generous in the direct deposit that landed in my account first-thing Tuesday morning. Despite his cruel words, I'm leaning towards over generous. The mere idea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I do my best to dismiss it as I board the awaiting bus.

Along the ride, I try to keep myself from thinking of him. I numbly concentrate on keeping my mind as blank as possible. I simply can't think of him. I don't want to start crying again—not out in public. It's too painful to endure.

When I arrive home, the apartment is as empty as it was when I left. I miss Kate terribly. Although, I'm sure she's having the time of her life as she lies on the beach in Barbados, cocktail in hand as she flirts with Elliot.

I slip my jacket and shoes off before turning on the tv so that there's noise to fill the void and to provide some comfort in my own company. I find that I can't concentrate on it. Instead, I air and blankly stare at the brick wall.

I feel numb from the inside out. The only thing I can feel is the heart aching pain deep within. How long must I endure this? Why can't we talk like civilized adults and end this suffering once and for all? It's too much.

The doorbell startles me from my inner battle, and my heart skips a beat. Christian? No, it couldn't be. I hesitantly press the intercom.

"Delivery for Ms. Steele." A bored, disembodied voice answers and disappointment crashes through me.

"I've got a delivery here for a Miss Steele."

I quickly make my way downstairs and find a young man holding a large cardboard box as he leans against the front door. He noisily chews his gum as I sign for the package before wishing him a good day and retreating upstairs. I'm surprised to find that the oversized box is light. Inside lay two-dozen white long-stemmed roses and an enclosed card..

Congratulations on your first day at work.

I hope it went well.

And thank you for the glider. Not only was it thoughtful, but it was a small joy to put together after a particularly bad day.

It has a place of pride amongst my desk.

Christian

I stare at the typed card as the hollow part in my chest expands. No doubt, his assistant had these sent. But then, the words . . . it's far too painful to think about.

I examine the roses next—they're breathtaking and I can't bring myself to throw them in the trash. They are far too beautiful. Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase so I can display them with pride on the kitchen table.

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

Soon a pattern for my daily routine develops. I wake, shower, go to work, come home, and cry myself to sleep. Or at least, I try to sleep. It's pretty difficult to escape him, even in my dreams. Most nights his trademark copper locks are standing on end as he paces the length of his office over and over again. Sometimes, he crusades through Escala and throws the framed wedding picture through the window and out onto the streets below. Then every night like clockwork, burning gray eyes haunt my vision as he leans over the piano and stares straight into the depths of my soul.

When I wake after that last nightmare, I lay awake until my alarm sounds. Not the nice music I'm accustomed to, but a consistent beep because the sound of music . . . it's become far too much. I'm careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the gentle jingles in the latest commercials make me shudder with grief.

My capability to speak is saved for important duties at work because I can't stand to listen to idle chit chat. I haven't even called my mother or Ray. My relationships forged at work are impersonalable at best. I haven't bothered to call my mother but I haven't called Ray either. If I talk to Ray, I know that I will break—and I have nothing left to break.

Instead, I have learned to become content on my lone island. I've been ravaged of emotion, and a drought has settled in where nothing grows. That's all I am. It's all I have the capability to be.

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

I haven't eaten and it's showing. When I finally find the strength to look in the mirror, I find that I am literally wasting away before my very eyes. By lunchtime on Wednesday—Day Nine Post-Christian—I manage to eat a cup of peach yogurt. My first meal since the previous Monday, and I can barely keep it down. Somehow I am surviving on a newfound love of lattes and Coke. I need the caffeine after the night terrors, but it's making me far too anxious.

I've noticed that I'm especially anxious whenever Jack is around. He tends to hover over my desk, irritating me to no end, and adding to it by asking me personal questions about my life. I manage to be polite while keeping him at arm's length. There's something about him that doesn't sit quite right with me, and I can't place my finger on just what it is. It's irritating, but I'm trusting my gut just like Christian would tell me to do.

I'm over halfway through with my third day at work when I begin shuffling through a large pile of correspondence addressed to Jack. Some of it was led over by his last assistant, and he only just dropped it on my desk. It's menial work, but I'm happy for the distraction as the day winds down.

I'm replying to some of the correspondence by email when my inbox pings and I notice the word Grey in bold font in the bottom right corner of my screen.

Holy shit. An email from Christian. At work. What could I have possibly done to deserve this? Has be realized his mistake? Did Elliot tell him? Or am I going to have to?

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8, 2011 14:05

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia,

Please forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it's going well. Did you get my flowers?

I note on my calendar that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend's show, and I'm sure you haven't had the time to purchase a car. It's a long drive, one in which you shouldn't be making alone. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.

Let me know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

My eyes well up with tears, but I manage to withhold them until I'm inside the safety of a bathroom stall after a hasty retreat to the restroom.

José's first gallery opening. How could I have forgotten all about it?

In the chaos of my life after graduation, I've completely spaced it out. I promised him I would go, and being that Kate can't make it, I have to go. Which means that Christian is right. Shit. How am I going to get there?

I rub at my forehead in a fit of frustration. José hasn't called. Why? Actually, now that I think about it, no one has called. Not even Carla to bitch at me about Leila's latest woe. Why hasn't anyone called? Is it possible that I've been so absent-minded that I haven't noticed that my cell phone has been on silent for over a week?

I think back to my flight to Texas. I had taken a cab straight from the airport to the hotel before heading to the hospice center. I coordinated with the lawyer in person each day. Which meant . . .

Shit! I am such a dumbass!

After Elliot brought me back to the apartment, I had packed a box full of Christian's things. The Mac, the Blackberry, and a present I had picked up for him on a trip to Pike Market, the glider. The damn Blackberry was with Christian. Year's later, I still have my very ancient cell phone set to forward my calls to the BlackBerry. Holy hell. Christian's been getting my calls—if he even still has the Blackberry, that is.

Then I have to wonder, if he knows he has my phone, how did he get my email address meant for work?

Of course, the question is absurd. He's the Master of his Universe. He has access to almost anything he wants right at the tips of his fingers. The man knows my shoe and bra size. A measly email address is nothing. Hell, this time he didn't even need to get me naked.

Now the dilemma is if I can face seeing him again. Could I bear it? Do I even want to see him again? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing rush through me. Of course, I do. I love the man with every fiber of my being.

That was it. Plain and simple. It was something I had realized on the flight to Texas. After that I had resolved to make myself forget about it. Our love was a forbidden desire that could never be. Not so long as he was married.

Perhaps—perhaps I can convince him of the truth . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who lies to me and takes pleasure in inflicting such pain on me, someone who can't love me. Because that was just it—I couldn't, in good faith, continue on an affair with a married man.

My mind is flooded with torturous memories of the small moments we spent together. We enjoyed gliding over spring break. He had taken me for a day trip—after waking me at the crack of dawn—to a small town. We had started out the day with a feast of pancakes before spending our time holding hands, stealing kisses, and in the end, soaking in the bathtub. Over the course of a day, he wooed me with his gentle ways, his humor, and his dark brooding stare once he was ready to take me to bed. It's impossible not to miss him after nine days. Nine days of agony that have felt like an entire lifetime. I have spent every night crying myself to sleep, wishing I hadn't just walked out when he said those awful things. I wake every morning wishing that he wasn't married to my sister and that I had fought for him before he left for the alter. I spend my days wishing that we were together, committing our lives to one another. My heart and my soul, are in purgatory.

I hug myself tightly, thinking that maybe if I wrap my arms around myself hard enough, that I'll bind the broken pieces and hold myself together when the inevitable dam breaks. I miss him and I love him beyond what is comprehensible. It is simply that sweet . . . easy . . . and simple.

Despite what my heart wants and craves, I know I must test my resolve and stay strong. Except that I want to go to José's show, I've promised him I would. Then there is the fact that deep down in the darkest parts of my soul, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. After all, it's how our tryst began.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of the stall and take a look in the mirror. My makeup-free face is slightly blotchy, but a splash of lukewarm water makes it all but disappear before I head back to my desk.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8 2011 14:25

To: Christian Grey

Hi Christian

Thank you for the flowers, they are lovely and take pride upon my kitchen table.

If it's not too much trouble, I would appreciate a lift.

Thank you.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

Digging through my purse I find my old phone buried in a rarely used makeup bag. The hunk of junk was useful on days I forgot to charge my Blackberry simply because the battery always seemed to last forever. It was every persons dream. I discover just as I thought find—it is still set to forward calls to the BlackBerry. Finding that Jack is still in a meeting, I quickly call José.

"Hello?"

"Hi, José. It's Ana."

"Hello, stranger." His tone is so warm and welcoming after over a week with no friends, that it's almost enough to push me over the edge again.

"I'm at work so I can't talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?"

"You're still coming?" He asks, sounding excited and all too pleased.

"Yes, of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world." I smile, but the corners of my mouth make it feel stiff—forced into puppetry after nine days.

"Seven thirty."

"Sounds good, I'll see you then, José. Bye."

"Bye, Ana."

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8 2011 14:27

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia,

What time shall I pick you up?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8 2011 14:32

To: Christian Grey

José's show starts at 7:30. So, what time would you suggest?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8 2011 14:34

To: Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Portland is some distance away. I shall pick you up at 5:45 on the dot.

I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Tomorrow

Date: June 8 2011 14:38

To: Christian Grey

See you then.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

Oh, hell. For the first time in nine agonizing days, my sorts lift a fraction at the certainty that I'm going to see Christian. I have to wonder how he's been.

Has he missed me? Probably not like I've missed him. Has he found love again with Leila? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and begin to tackle it as I try to push Christian out of my mind once again—not allowing myself to think of him until I crawl into bed.

That night, I toss and turn, because for the first time in nine days I'm attempting to fall asleep without crying my way into a nightmare.

Instead, I visualize Christians face the very last time I saw him as I left. His painfully tortured expression as the elevator doors closed haunts me. Remembering that he's the one who ordered me to go is torture. I still don't understand it all. After three years, why would he believe that I would cheat on him? I couldn't be with anyone but him. We each have our own issues—my anger towards Leila and my own mother, his fear of . . . what exactly? Commitment? Love?

Filled with a sense of overwhelming sadness, I turn on my side, wrapping my arms and legs around my body pillow before returning back to my inner turmoil.

The man thinks that he doesn't deserve to be loved. Why does he feel that way after all these years? Does it have to do with his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? Or worse . . . Elena Lincoln? My thoughts plague my mind, body, and soul into the early hours until eventually, I fall into a fitful and exhausting sleep.

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

The day drags on, and today of all days, Jack is unusually attentive. Of course, it's all due to my favorite plum dress and the added black high-heeled boots I've stolen from Kate's closet this morning, but I try not to dwell on the thought. The dress is looser on me than it once was and I know I'll be hearing about it later this evening. Although, it's a much-needed reminder that I must go on a shopping trip when my first paycheck hits the bank.

Except, I don't have to wait. I don't even have to work, really. Except that I want too. I could have all the money in the world and I would still want to read manuscripts day in and day out. It's something that I enjoy. It's what I love. One day, I hope to have someone read my own . . .

Finally, the clock changes to five thirty, and I quickly collect my jacket and purse, trying to put my nerves to rest. I'm just going to see Christian. It's simply two friends going to see a mutual friends art—together.

"Do you have a date tonight?" Jack asks as he strolls past my desk on his way out.

"No, not really."

His interest piqued, he stops and raises an eyebrow at me. "Boyfriend?"

I flush under his intense stare and silently curse at my blushing genes. "No, just a friend. My brother-in-law actually."

"Well then, maybe tomorrow you'd like to come for a drink after work. You've had a stellar first week, Ana. We should celebrate it together." An unknown, unsettling emotion flits across his face as he smiles, causing me to once again, feel uneasy in his presence.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through the double doors without another word. Drinks with the boss, is that a good idea? I frown at his retreating back and vow to at least get Christian's opinion on the matter.

I shake my head. I have an entire evening of Christian Grey to get through before I can even broach the subject. Perhaps an email would be better.

I head into the restroom to make last-minute adjustments to my end of the day look. In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look at my face. I'm my usual pale self, with dark circles to match around my too-large eyes.

"Your skin is like unblemished porcelain, baby. And those powder blues could bend me at will, Little One."

I shake the memory of his words away. I look gaunt, haunted. I briefly wish that I knew how to use makeup a little better. Maybe I should have listened to Leila all those years ago. Or Kate when she lectured me about finding a boyfriend. I apply some mascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping for some color. Next, I arrange my hair so that it hangs artfully down my back, before I take a calming, deep breath.

I nervously make my way through the foyer, walking with a smile and a wave to Claire at Reception. If I snap out of the fog that's consumed me, I think she and I could become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for the doors, but the moment he spots me, he smiles broadly, and hurries over to open them for me.

"After you, Ana," he murmurs.

"Thank you." I smile, feeling flustered and confused.

Outside on the curb, Taylor stands waiting. The moment be spots me, he offers me a kind smile before he opens the rear door of the car. I hesitantly glance at Jack, who has followed me out. He's looking towards the Audi SUV in dismay.

I turn and silently climb into the back, and there he sits—Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, sans tie, with his white shirt open at the collar. In the sunlight, his gray eyes are gleaming with mirth.

And Leila is sitting next to him.

My mouth dries as I open my mouth to speak. The man looks glorious after a day of work and it's just not fair. Except he's scowling at me. Why must he always scowl at me?

"When did you last eat?" he snaps as Taylor closes the door behind me.

Fuck. Couldn't he just not notice?

"Hello, Christian. Yes, it's nice to see you, too." I roll my eyes.

"I don't want to hear your smart mouth now. Answer me." He growls as his eyes blaze with fire.

Holy shit. "Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime . . . Oh—and part of a banana." Again, the man has rendered me practically speechless.

"When did you last have a real meal?" he asks acidly.

Taylor slips into the driver's seat, starts the car, and pulls out into the traffic.

I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he can see me through the dark glass, I don't know. I don't bother to wave back, but still Christian notices.

"Who's that?" Christian snaps.

"My boss." I peek up at the Greek-sculpture-of-a-man beside me, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.

"Well? Your last meal?"

"Christian, that's really none of your concern," I murmur, feeling foolishly brave.

"Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me."

No, it doesn't. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes upward in defiance which only makes Christian narrow his in return. The action is so childish, that for the first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle the giggle that threatens to bubble up and over. Christian's face softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and a trace of a smile kisses his lovely sculptured lips.

"Well?" he asks, his voice softer.

"Lunch last Monday," I whisper. "I couldn't eat the takeout with Kate."

He closes his eyes as fury, and possibly regret sweeps across his face. "I see," he says, his voice expressionless. "You look like you've lost at least 8 pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia," he scolds.

I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. How is it that he always make me feel like an errant child?

"Okay, enough with the eating issues you both seem to have. Who's your boss and has he asked you out yet?" Leila asks.

"His name is Jack Hyde and he's the Editor. And no, at least . . . I don't think so."

"He's your boss, I hope—"

"You don't think so?" Leila says, cutting Christian off. "What exactly did he say? Is he nice? Do you like your job? I didn't even know you'd gotten the job until Christian told me."

"He told me I should go for drinks after work tomorrow to celebrate my first week. I don't remember his exact words though. I like my job so far, but there's just something about . . ."

I trail off and Christian's look becomes troubled.

"Anastasia, if he's said anything—"

"No, nothing out of line. It's probably nothing and just nerves on my part."

"You always have been oblivious to male attention," Leila says exasperatedly. "The man obviously likes you."

Rolling his eyes so Leila can't see, Christian shifts and turns toward me. "How are you?" he asks, his voice still soft.

Well, I'm shit, really . . . I swallow. "If I told you I was fine, I'd be lying."

He inhales sharply. "What happened?" he murmurs and reaches over and clasps my hand. "In Texas," he adds.

Oh, fuck. Skin against skin. How am I supposed to resist that?

"Christian, I—"

"Ana, please."

I'm going to cry. No. I can't. I won't.

"Christian, I . . . please . . . I've cried so much," I whisper, trying to keep my emotions in check in front of Leila.

"Oh, Ana, no." He tugs my hand, and before I know it, I'm tucked into his side. He has his arms around me, and his nose is buried in my hair. "I saw the notice online," he breathes.

I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain some distance, but his arms are wrapped around me. When I realize that he's pressing me to his chest, I melt in his hold.

Oh, this is exactly where I want to be. It's where I belong.

I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hair repeatedly. This is home. He smells of linen, fabric softener, body wash, and my favorite smell—Christian. For a moment, I allow myself the illusion that all will be well—that Christian will apologize, that he'll divorce Leila, and that we will live happily ever after—and the dream soothes my ravaged soul.

A few minutes later Taylor pulls to a stop at the curb, even though we're still in the city.

"Come"—Christian shifts away from me by an inch—"we're here."

What?

"Helipad—on the top of this building." Christian glances toward the building by way of explanation.

Of course. Charlie Tango.

Taylor opens the door and I slide out. He gives me a warm, avuncular smile that makes me feel safe. I smile back.

"Thank you, Taylor."

"You're very welcome, Miss. Steele."

I blush as Christian comes around the car and takes my hand as he holds Leila's with his other. He looks quizzically at Taylor, who stares impassively back at him, not revealing one thing.

"Nine?" Christian says to him.

"Yes, sir."

Christian nods as he turns and leads us through the double doors into the foyer. I revel in the feel of his hand and his long, skilled fingers curled around mine. The familiar pull is there—I'm drawn, lone island to his ocean. I've drowned in the man that he is, and yet here I am ready to face the storm once again.

Reaching the elevators, he presses the "call" button. I peek up at him, and he's wearing his enigmatic half smile. As the doors open, he releases our hands and ushers us both in.

The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glances down at me, and it's there in the air between us, the familiar electricity. It's so palpable that I can almost taste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together.

"What notice did you see online?" Leila asks, breaking the moment.

Christian keeps his gaze on mine as I take a deep breath, his eyes clouded and intense.

"Grandma Lambert passed. That's why I was in Texas."

Desire pools dark and deadly in the depths of my soul and he seems to sense the moment I cave into him. He clasps my hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and all my muscles clench tightly. How can he still do this to me? And with Leila—my sister, his wife—beside us.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She whispers.

I gaze up at Christian, releasing my lip. I want him. Here, now, in the elevator. How could I not? Except he's not mine to have.

"It's not as if you kept in touch with her," I murmur.

Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we're on the roof. It's windy, and despite my black jacket, I'm frozen. Christian puts his arms around us, pulling us both into him on either side, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango stands in the center of the helipad, with its rotor blades slowly spinning.

A tall, blond man with a broad jawline and dressed in a dark suit, leaps out before ducking low and running toward us. Shaking hands with Christian, he shouts above the noise of the rotors.

"Ready to go, sir. She's all yours!"

"All checks done?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll collect her around eight thirty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Taylor's waiting for you out front."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland. Ma'am and Ma'am." He salutes both Leila and me. Without releasing either of us, Christian nods, ducks down, and leads us to the helicopter door.

Once inside Leila insists on sitting in the back row of seats due to motion sickness. Christian buckles her in quickly and efficiently before moving on to me. He buckles me firmly into my harness, cinching the straps tight. He gives me a knowing look and his devious smile.

"This should keep you in your place," he murmurs into my ear as he begins to move into his seat. "I must say I like this harness on you. Don't touch anything."

I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger down my cheek before handing me the headphones. Leila is simply too absorbed in her phone to notice. I'd like to touch him, too, but he won't let me. And his wife is here. I scowl to myself when I realize he's pulled the straps so tight I can barely move.

He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts running through all his pre-flight checks. He's just so competent that it's somehow very alluring. He puts on his headphones and flips a switch and the rotors begin to move at a deafening speed.

Turning, he gazes at me. "Ready, girls?" His voice echoes through the headphones.

"Yes," we answer in unison.

He grins his boyish grin and it's simply breathtaking after not seeing it for so long.

"Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango Golf—Golf Echo Hotel cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please confirm, over."

The disembodied voice of the air traffic controller answers, issuing instructions.

"Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out." Christian flips two switches on the board, then firmly grasps the stick, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.

Seattle and my stomach drop away from us, and there's so much to see.

"We've chased the dawn, now the dusk," his voice comes through on the headphones. I turn and gape at him in surprise.

What does this mean? How is it that he can say the most romantic things when his wife a mere two feet away and not become flustered? He smiles, and I can't help but to shyly smile back at him.

"As well as the evening sun, there's more to see this time," he says.

The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this evening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world. We're up among the tallest buildings, going higher and higher.

"Escala's over there." He points toward the building. "Boeing there, and you can just see the Space Needle."

I crane my head. "I've never been."

"We'll take you—we can eat there," Christian says.

"Or the two of you can go. I've been there enough times to last a lifetime," Leila sighs. "Boring as fuck business dinners."

"It's my business. You could still take your sister out to eat and play nice can't you?" At her brooding and stubborn silence, he sighs. "I can still take you there and feed you." He glares at me.

I shake my head and decide not to antagonize him. "It's very beautiful up here, thank you."

"Impressive, isn't it?"

"Impressive that you can do this."

"Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I'm a man of many talents."

"I'm fully aware of that, Mr. Grey."

He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in nine—no, ten—days, I relax a little.

Perhaps this won't be so bad.

"So, honestly now. How's the new job?"

"Good, thank you. I find it interesting."

"What's your boss really like?"

"Oh, he's okay." How can I tell Christian that Jack makes me uncomfortable? Christian glances at me.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Or perhaps I won't have to. If I can bring myself to admit what's wrong.

"Aside from the obvious, nothing."

"The obvious?"

"Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes."

"Obtuse? Me? I'm not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele."

"Well, don't, then."

His lips twitch into a smile. "I have missed your smart mouth over the past week, Anastasia."

I withhold my gasp and I want to hell at him. Remind him that he's the one that sent us both through hell this past week and a half. But instead, I keep quiet and gaze out the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango's windshield as we continue south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus above the ocean and lone island, flying far too close to the evening sun.

"Just don't interfere with my work," I manage to mutter. And from there, the ride is silent.

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

The dusk follows us from Seattle, and the sky is awash with illuminating opal, soft pinks, and stunning aquamarines that are woven seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how. It's a clear, crisp evening, and the lights of Portland twinkle along the skyline, welcoming us as Christian flawlessly sets the helicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of the same brown brick building in Portland that I have become familiar with in the past three years.

Thinking back, nearly three years is hardly any time at all. Yet, it's as if I've known Christian for a lifetime. Of course, if that was true, I probably never would have endured the wrath of husband number three. Christian powers down Charlie Tango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and eventually, all I hear is my own breathing through the headphones. Briefly, it reminds me of the Thomas Tallis experience. A night—a fight—from a lifetime ago, that I don't want to remember.

Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across to undo mine.

"Good trip, Miss Steele?" he asks, his voice mild, his eyes glowing.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey," I reply politely.

"Well, let's go see the boy's photos." He holds his hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.

"I really wish you would be nicer about José," Leila pipes up. I find her getting herself out of Charlie Tango will skilled ease, although she's probably ridden in the helicopter less than I have. After all, I was the first.

A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, grinning broadly, and I recognize him as the same man from the last time we were here.

"Joe." Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe's warmly.

"Keep her safe for Stephan. He'll be along around eight or nine."

"Will do, Mr. Grey. Mrs. Grey, Miss. Steele," he says, nodding at me. "Your car's waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator's out of order; you'll need to use the stairs."

"Thank you, Joe."

Christian takes my hand as we head to the emergency stairs, and when he attempts to reach for Leila's she swats him away, causing him to frown.

"Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels," he mutters in disapproval as he looks down at my choice of footwear.

No kidding.

"They're boots. You're all always teasing me about my constant need to wear flats. Don't you like the boots?"

"I like them very much, Anastasia." His gaze darkens and I think he might say something else, but he stops. "Come. We'll take it slow. I don't want you falling and breaking your pretty neck."

P.R.E.T.T.Y.B.I.G.L.I.E.S

We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is quiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even. Our lighter mood from earlier—despite Leila's presence—has dissipated. There's so much I want to say, but this journey is too short and Leila is still here. Christian stares pensively out the window.

"So, do you think you might finally give José a chance?" Leila asks, finally looking up from her BlackBerry, which I notice isn't the same as the one Christian had gifted me. In fact, it's not even the previous version that I currently have—it's the model from before.

"José is just a friend," I murmur.

Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away like the ocean of misery he's put me in. My eyes first down to his mouth, which is as distracting and unbidden as ever. I remember it on me—on every inch of my flesh. My skin heats at the brief memory and he shifts in his seat and frowns.

"Have you talked to your father at all? Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you'll eat."

"Yes, Christian, I'll eat," I answer automatically, a platitude, "And no, I haven't talked to Ray, but way to lay on the guilt."

"I mean it."

"Do you, now?" I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who has put me through hell over the last week and a half. No, that's wrong. I've put myself through hell. No. It's him. He's the one who made me leave. I would have stayed forever.

"I don't want to fight with you, Anastasia. I hate the thought of you returning to what you had let yourself become when we first met. I just want what's best for you. I want you healthy," he says.

Ah, the brief fear of an impending eating disorder three and a half years ago. Never diagnosed, but so close to reality I was nearly shipped off at Christian's insistence.

"But nothing's changed."

You're still fifty shades and you think I'm the one that cheated on you when you're really still sleeping with your wife.

"Let's talk on the way back. We're here."

The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door for me and for Leila, and I clamber out while she gracefully makes her exit.

"Why do you do that?" My voice is louder than I expected.

"Do what?" Christian is taken aback.

"Say something like that and then just stop."

"Anastasia, we're here. Where you want to be. Let's do this and then talk. I don't particularly want a scene in the street."

I glance around. He's right. It's too public. And again, she is here. I press my lips together as he glares down at me.

"Okay," I mutter sulkily. Clasping my hand, he takes me into the building, while Leila holds her phone between both hands—staring at the screen intently as her fingers fly over the keys.

We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It's airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José's work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that José has achieved his dream.

"Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez's show." A young woman dressed in black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us. She glances briefly at me, then at Leila, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.

My brow creases. He's mine—or was. I try hard not to scowl at her and as her eyes regain their focus, she blinks again.

"Oh, it's you, Ana. We'll want your take on all this, too." Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.

"You know her?" Christian frowns and so does Leila as she grasps a brochure for herself.

I shake my head, equally puzzled.

He shrugs, distracted. "What would you like to drink?"

"I'll have a glass of white wine, thank you."

His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue before he turns to Leila.

"Lei?"

"Huh?"

"Your drink?"

"Oh, the same," she shrugs.

Christian shakes his head as he rolls his eyes in exasperation before he turns and heads for the open bar.

"Ana!"

José comes barreling through a crowd of people.

He's wearing a suit that for once, fits and he's beaming at me, which only makes Leila smirk with satisfaction. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me hard and it's all I can do not to burst into tears. A friend—he's my only friend while Kate is away and the thought makes tears pool in my eyes.

"Ana, I'm so glad you made it," he whispers in my ear. Abruptly he holds me at arm's length, examining me.

"What?"

"Hey, are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mío, have you lost weight?"

I blink back my tears—not him too. "José, I'm fine. I'm just so happy for you. Congratulations on the show." My voice wavers as I see the concern etched on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself together for my own sake, as well as Christian's.

"How did you get here?" he asks, glancing briefly at Leila.

"Christian brought us," I say, suddenly apprehensive.

"Oh." José's face falls and he releases me. "Where is he?" His expression darkens.

"Over there, fetching drinks," Leila nods in Christian's direction and I notice that he's exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I'm paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His dark gray gaze hot, burning into me my soul, and we're lost for a moment staring at each other.

Holy shit . . . Just from his stare, I can see that this beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.

"Ana!" José distracts me, and I'm dragged back to the here and now. "I am so glad you came—listen, I should warn you—"

Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. "José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on." She gives me a polite smile.

"How cool is this? The fame." He grins, and I can't help but grin back—he's so happy it's disarming. "Catch you later, Ana, Leila." He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall, lanky photographer.

José's photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both monochromes and colors. There's an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes. In one taken near the lake at Vancouver, it's early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I'm transported by the tranquility and the peace. It's quite stunning.

Christian joins me and hands me my glass of white wine.

"Does it come up to scratch?" My voice sounds more normal.

He looks quizzically at me.

"The wine."

"No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy's quite talented, isn't he?" Christian is admiring the lake photo.

"Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait when Kate wrote that article?" The pride is obvious in my voice. His eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.

"We should purchase a photo or two—for the house in Aspen," Leila says wistfully, "He would love that. Perhaps one for a housewarming present for Kate and Ana, so we can support him."

Christian's brow furrows, but he nods and manages a smile at his wife.

"Sure, whatever you want."

"I'm going to look around," Leila says before walking off by herself.

"Christian Grey?" The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches Christian. "Can I have a picture, sir?"

"Sure." Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can't hide his surprise.

"Mr. Grey, thank you." He snaps a couple of photos. "Miss ...?" he asks.

"Ana Steele," I reply.

"Thank you, Miss Steele." He scurries off.

Twice now, he's let someone take our picture.

"I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet when I first met you. There aren't any. That's why Kate thought you were gay."

Christian's mouth twitches into a smile. "That explains your inappropriate question. No, I didn't do dates, Anastasia—not even with Leila when we married. Only you. But you know that." His voice is quiet with sincerity.

"So you never took your"—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us—"subs out?"

"Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know." He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.

Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain and his apartment. I don't know what to feel about that.

"Just you, Anastasia," he whispers.

I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.

"Although quite talented, your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let's look around."

I take the offer of his outstretched hand and we wander past a few more prints. As we walk, I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I'm with Christian, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd.

We turn the corner, and I see why I've been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits—of me.

I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All super close up, all in black and white.

Holy shit! I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I'd been out with him as driver and photographer's assistant. I had thought he had taken snapshots—not these invasive candid shots.

Christian is staring, transfixed, at each of the pictures in turn.

"Seems I'm not the only one," he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard line.

"Excuse me," he says, pinning me with his bright gaze for a moment. Then he heads to the reception desk.

What's his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit card.

Shit. He must have bought one of them. How is he going to explain that one to Leila?

"Hey. You're the muse. These photographs are terrific." A young man with a shock of bright blond hair startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is back.

"You're a lucky guy." Blond Shock says to Christian, who gives him a cold stare.

"That I am," he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to one side.

"Ana?"

I turn to Leila as she comes around the corner with a wide-eyed expression.

"There's something you need to see."

"I think we've seen it all," I mutter.

"No, Ana," she says gently. "You really haven't."

Christian grasps my hand and pulls me around the next corner, where he suddenly stops cold.

There upon the wall, hang even more portraits. I stare blankly ahead, my heart nearly stopping this time around. Me: sleeping, wrapped in the arms of a faceless man—the man that I know is Christian—tied up, coming. All candid, all in black and white.

"C—Christian—" I whisper.

His arms are around me in a millisecond, hugging me close to his chest, his hand holding the back of my head protectively.

"Is that what I think it is?" he whispers hoarsely.

I nod and Leila touches my arm, hesitantly.

"Ana, I didn't even know you were seeing someone. But you could have given us a little forewarning—"

"I didn't know!"

Leila's bourbon eyes widen a fraction as she glances up at Christian and then again, at me.

"Wait, he's not the one in the photos?"

"No," I say thickly.

Christian's lips brush against my forehead before he grasps my face in between his hands.

"Did he have your permission for any of this, Anastasia? I need to know."

I search his storm gray orbs full of intensity and shake my head as the tears well up in my eyes.

"No," I breathe.

"Holy shit! Ana, that's a ring!" I glance up to what she's pointing at and nearly wilt at the sight. "You're sleeping with a married man?" she hisses.

I gape up at the portrait. It's the one where my head is thrown back in bliss and Christian's hand is firmly wrapped around the base of my throat. In the moment, I am grateful for José's photography skills because due to the editing, you can't see the identifying details of the ring.

"Ana!" she snaps. "Explanation. Please!"

"I—It—It was a professor," I choke out quickly. "It was a one-time thing and it's over."

"You slept with a professor for a grade?" she hisses.

"I didn't say that," I say slowly.

"Then, why? I mean, God Ana! Kate and I thought you were still a virgin. When? Why?"

"It was only a few weeks ago, right before finals," I say remembering that exact night clearly. "It just sort of happened, okay? It's not going to happen again."

"And how? Just . . . how could you sleep with a man who's married?"

"Leila, that's enough." Christian's voice is stern.

"I need to talk to José."

"I'm going to go get someone to talk to about getting these taken down," Leila frowns. "Maybe I know someone here."

She walks off and I notice that Christian is staring at me as if I'm crazy.

"You're not talking to him alone."

"He knows, Christian," I say carefully, studying his face as I do. "I don't have a choice."

"Anastasia—"

I turn away from him in search of José and when I find him he's talking to a group of young women. I stalk off toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought me here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he think he is?

The girls are hanging off of every word he says, and as I approach one of them gasps, recognizing me from the portraits.

"José," I call.

"Ana. Excuse me, girls," he grins at them and puts his arm around me, attempting to act smooth and suave when at the moment he's anything but.

"Thanks for the warning about the portraits!" I snap.

"I suppose I should have told you," he regards me coolly.

"You took pictures of me sleeping. Of me . . ." I trail off and shake my head, attempting to hide my disgust.

"You just want to know if I'll tell her."

The man standing before me, is not the José I've known as a friend all these years. Instead stands a man who is a complete stranger.

"José, you invaded my personal space. You took nude photos of me without my permission. Without, his permission. You're lucky it's me who's standing in front of you, right now and not him."

Sighing, he reaches into his pocket and produces a flash drive.

"Every single photo is right here, and when I get home I'll delete every photo from my hard drive."

"Thank you," I say, reaching for the usb.

"Not so fast," he says, pulling it away from within my reach. "I want to know how long."

"It was that one time."

He scoffs as he stares me head-on.

"No, Ana. It wasn't. I took one initial photo the weekend before that night at the bar, then I set up a camera to get those real personal shots," his voice sends a shiver done my spine. "So, tell me, how long?"

"A few weeks maybe?" I lie. "Does it really matter? It's over now and it was a mistake I won't be making again."

"I think I'll give this to you, but keep my personal copies. We can do lunch when Kate gets back from Barbados."

I feel my lip tremble as I look up at him.

"You're blackmailing me into being your friend?"

"Yep."

"You're a real piece of shit, you know that?"

"At least I'm not a whore."

"Back the fuck off."

I look back to see Leila, just as she wraps an arm around me protectively.

"You are going to stay away from my sister," she sneers.

"Oh, Leila, if you only knew the real Ana."

She only rolls her eyes in response before she snatches the flash drive and drops it into my purse. Then she forces me to turn away and we head back towards where Christian is once again walking away from the red-lipped woman.

"Did you get the negatives?" she asks him.

"No," he says angrily, and again she's off.

"Did you just buy one of these?" I ask, feeling horrified as we come upon the photos featuring the one expression I know Christian never wanted anyone but him to see.

"One of these?" he snorts, not taking his eyes off the wall made of us.

"You bought more than one?"

He rolls his eyes. "I bought them all, Anastasia. I don't want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home."

My first inclination is to laugh but I'm in such a state of disbelief that I can't.

"You'd rather it was you?" I scoff.

He glares down at me, clearly caught off guard by my audacity, but still trying his best to hide his amusement as he arches on eyebrow.

"Frankly, yes."

"Pervert," I whisper before I proceed to turn my pout up at him as bait before biting my lower lip to prevent my teasing smile.

When his mouth stops open, his amusement is obvious. Catching my equally amused grin, he makes a show of thoughtfully stroking his chin.

"Can't argue with that assessment, Anastasia." He sorrowfully shakes his head but I sew the moment his molten gray eyes soften with humor.

"I'd discuss it further with you, but I've signed an NDA."

He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken to a storm gray ash. "What I'd like to do to your smart mouth," he murmurs.

Knowing full well what he means, I can't help but gasp at his words.

Seemingly shocked, I scoff. "You're very rude." Has he no boundaries when we're in public? With Leila, nonetheless!

He smirks, seemingly amused before he suddenly frowns.

"You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don't get the pleasure of seeing you like that very often."

A complete change of subject—from playful to serious in a matter of seconds.

I flush, glancing down at my fingers nervously. Then his fingers are on my skin, I inhale sharply at the contact just as he tilts my head back and proceeds to shock the hell out of me.

"I want you," he whispers, all former traces of humor have gone and disappeared.

Deep inside me, the small spark of joy stirs. How can this be possible? We have issues. So many issues. We could spend an eternity trying to solve them.

"You lost that right when you broke up with me," I snarl.

"What did you expect, Anastasia?"

"For you to hear me out. For you to have a little faith in the girl who has given you everything over the last three years."

"It wasn't that easy," he murmurs, and his hand drops back to his side.

"I have the email from Dr. Greene to prove that I was clean."

He frowns, looking utterly lost as he studies the portraits of just me, that hang above us.

"I want you to be that relaxed with me," he whispers.

"You have to stop intimidating me if you want that," I snap.

"You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel," he snaps back, eyes blazing with fury or frustration—it's hard to tell.

I take a deep breath. "Christian, you were never okay with me just being . . . me. You wanted me as your submissive and that's where the problem lies. It's the definition of a submissive—you emailed it to me once." I pause, trying to recall the wording. "I think the synonyms were, and I quote, 'compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.' I wasn't allowed to look at you. I wasn't allowed to talk to you unless you gave me explicit permission to do so. What do you expect?" I hiss at him.

His frown deepens as I continue.

"It's very confusing being with you. You say you don't want me to defy you, but then you make comments about liking my 'smart mouth' and then manage to give it right back instead of punishing me. Then you want obedience, except for when you don't, so you can punish me as you deem fit. I just don't know which way is up and which way is down when I'm with you. Then, there's Leila. I can't be blamed for things that she does. You can't punish me for your wife's transgressions."

He narrows his eyes. "Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele." His voice is frigid. "Come, let's find Leila and go eat."

"We've only been here for half an hour."

"You've seen the photos and you've spoken to the boy."

"His name is José."

"You've spoken to José—the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and sick," he snarls.

"He's never hit me," I spit at him.

Christian scowls, fury emanating from every pore of his body. "That's a very low blow, Anastasia," he whispers menacingly.

I pale, and Christian runs his hands through his unruly hair, fuming with barely contained anger. As he looks up to glare at me, I glare right back at him.

"I'm taking you for something to eat. You're fading away in front of me. Let's find my wife and go."

"Talk about a low blow," I mutter.

Appearing at least slightly guilty, Christian looks up towards the door and freezes.

"Shit. Fucking photographers."

"T—The photos. They're going to know it's me. Christian," I cry, "They'll be all over."

He pulls me close and grasps my head, guiding my face into the crook of his neck.

"I promise you, it's being taken care of. No one will ever again see you in the throes of passion. Those photos are going up in our room," he murmurs into my ear. "We will own them, Anastasia. No one can take that power away from you. Not even that Rodriguez fucker. You are beautiful when you come, Little One, and no one can take that moment from us. No one."

I pull back slightly and gaze up at him in awe.

"Our room?"

The corner of his mouth turns up in amusement.

"That's all you got out of that?"

"Yes, that and Little One," I murmur in a daze.

Seeing Leila approaching with José on her tail, I attempt to pull back from his grasp, but he holds on, shaking his head as they reach us.

"The pictures are fantastic, José—you're a very talented photographer."

He beams. "Thank you, Christian. Do you like them?" he asks me.

"Um . . . I don't know," I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his question after our previous conversation just minutes earlier.

"Well, they're all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You're a poster girl."

He reaches in for a hug that I'm reluctantly ready to accept, but Christian pulls me back against his chest, glowering at him.

"Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive." Christian sounds icily polite. "I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?" He subtly stresses the word we and takes my hand as he does so.

"Bye, Ana," José says and then attempts to lean in for a kiss on the cheek, but once again Christian halts his efforts.

"I'm going to make myself very clear, Mr. Rodriguez. I don't like you and I don't want you anywhere near Anastasia. Or Leila. Or even Katherine Kavanagh. Got it?" he snarls. "Oh, and one other thing. It's Mr. Grey to you."

He pulls me away and Leila follows silently until Christian stops.

"There's paps outside. We can't go out that way."

"Taylor is waiting up front, take Ana around back and we'll meet you at the end of the block."

"Thank you, Leila," I say hoarsely.

She only nods, and before I know it, Christian is dragging me out of the building through a back door. I can practically feel him boiling with silent wrath, but I am too.

He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a brick wall. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his determined eyes.

I gasp, and his mouth swoops down to claim mine, then he's kissing me, violently. Briefly, our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth.

Desire explodes like kryptonite throughout my body, and then I'm kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling at it as hard as I can. He groans a lowly, the sound reverberating in the back of his throat and through me. Then, his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress.

I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last week into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he's doing the same, he feels the same way. He's missed me just as much as I've missed him.

He abruptly breaks off the kiss, panting as his eyes are illuminated with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth goes slack as I try to drag air into my needy lungs and I rest against the brick of the building in an attempt to relax.

"You. Are. Mine," he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees as if he's run a marathon. "For the love of God, Ana."

I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium.

"I'm sorry," I whisper once my breath has returned.

"You should be. You don't even know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you— the disgusting little fucker."

I shake my head, guiltily. "No, Christian. He's just a friend. Hell, he's not even that anymore. I'm so sorry."

"I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It's very . . ." He frowns, grasping for the word. "Unsettling. I like control, Ana, and around you that just"—he stands, his gaze intense as he gasps—"evaporates." He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep breath before he clasps my hand.

"Come, you need to eat."

A Note from the Author:

Hello Lovelies,

Sorry for the wait! This one is super long. Almost 12,000 words!

Want updates on my writing? Join the Facebook group Sara Jo Updates. Link is in my profile.

Recommend FanFiction: Revenge by Imaginationgirl91

xoxo,

Sara Jo

Note: from reviews that have been left I see that there is some confusion. Please remember:

1. When Christian and Ana finally see one another, it's been a week and a half since we've seen Christian and his POV

2. Christian is smart and cunning. Why wouldn't Christian keep Leila close while gathering information? They are still married after all.

3. Pay attention to the clues and you'll find your answers in future chapters. That's how this story works.

4. Ana is in love with Christian. Yes, he's made a mistake and while it looks like she should suspect that he really was sleeping with Leila, she knows her sister is a master manipulator.

5. In the future, if you have questions please feel free to sign in and PM me. I can't directly reply to those of you who review as a guest.

Thank you.