Fifty Shades of Secrets

Chapter 25: Fifty Shades of Strangers

Anastasia Steele,

"Congratulations, you just sold your apartment!"

Long after I left the realtor's office, it rang in my ears. At nine in the morning, I'd worked my way through midtown to finish the paperwork with Angela King, who made the process as painless as possible. But despite the copious amounts of coffee and intensely sweet donuts, I was left stunned. The final signature was anticlimactic. I'd hoped for a life-changing moment that would grant me clarity, but I was the same person, just minus one apartment.

What I didn't expect was the nagging nostalgia. On the train back to the office, I'd felt a rising panic than I would never climb that building's creaking stairs or return to my old borough. As I glanced around the crowd, I idly wondered how many of these people were going to the stop I used to call home. Things I'd never cared about suddenly felt integral to my life, including the oversized vanity in my bathroom I'd repeatedly banged my hip on. My stubborn lock was long gone, and the tiny Chinese restaurant a block away felt out of reach. By the time I got to my stop, my fear had escalated to an obsession.

In Manhattan, it was ridiculous to feel this way. Living in another borough didn't isolate me from the others or make them inaccessible, and moving from a one bathroom apartment to an amenity-filled, palatial residence was hardly a downgrade. Considering how long I'd lived in Christian's apartment without venturing back, the pull was clearly not as powerful as I thought. And if I ever wanted my old life back, there was no shortage of tiny apartments with nearby takeout in New York.

No matter how hard I tried to shift blame, the problem was not the apartment. I'd established myself as an independent, capable mother and publisher behind that front door. I'd established myself in New York. I was approaching the situation as if I'd moved from the city entirely, not just an apartment. But honestly, I just had. By signing the paperwork, I'd let go of New York and left myself untethered to the East Coast. Without the Lewis Publishing and property to hold me down, I was free to move to Seattle imminently.

But the risk was on me. I was the one leaving my home, my job, and my comfort zone. If we crashed and burned like last time, my support system was miles away. Our relationship was rocky without sudden changes. I couldn't imagine what it would be like with them. I was vulnerable, and with our track record, I was bound to be hurt. The girl who always ran wouldn't have that option anymore.

In an effort to ditch my whiney melancholy, I decided to end homeowning days with a final night in the apartment with Teddy. As the new owner didn't take possession for another week, most of my things hadn't been packed up, so it was as close to home as it would ever be. I was determined to make it as cheesy and nostalgic as possible with a Shrek marathon, our favorite takeout, and as many fluffy blankets as possible.

Curtis, as much as he tried, couldn't contain his amusement. "Is that… a onesie?" Curtis practically bit his lip to avoid laughing, and I grabbed the fuzzy fabric from his hand. It wasn't the first time he'd laughed at my bag and, at this rate, I doubted the last. After learning about my plan, he'd found it adorable and offered his assistance, but the further we progressed, I couldn't tell if this offer stemmed from his desire to flirt with my nanny or entertainment at my expense.

"I enjoy lazy, slouchy pajamas," I explained, shoving it back in my overnight duffle.

"No wonder you were single for over two years," Curtis shrugged.

"You haven't worked up the courage to ask Essie out in a year," I reminded him, earning a glare. I'd been consumed with the Essie-Curtis saga for the same amount of time, throwing my frustrations of my own love life- or lack of one- on them. And just a few weeks with Christian had pushed it to the back of my mind. Though it was really none of my business, there was a twinge of sadness that I may not get to see the culmination. Curtis had done well as my assistant and could surely parlay it into a higher position, and Essie was still Teddy's nanny. I wouldn't see their casual flirtations, his desperate yearning, or the miraculous moment where Curtis actually did something about it.

Curtis opened his mouth for a witty rebuttal but closed it just as quickly when he heard a knock at my bedroom door. Naturally, Essie stood in the door frame, measuring just about half of the door's height. I'd vaguely noticed that she was dressed differently this morning, but with everything going on, I didn't realize the extent of it. The girl known for her converse collection and babydoll dresses was wearing a blazer, and her casual attitude was replaced with frustration from a long day.

"Are you okay?" I leaned against the wall, not sure what else to say. I'd never seen Essie like this and had no idea what it meant.

"Yeah, I got your text. You and Teddy are staying at the old place tonight?" Essie fumbled for her phone as if she was unsure she'd read it right.

"Yes, we are… I know it's your night off, so you can get off early if you want. I'll take him from here," I suggested. It didn't fit into the plan, but something had to be wrong with Essie. She'd been odd since we got back from Seattle, which was partially my fault. I'd been consumed with Christian and hadn't had required talks with Essie. At some point, she'd have to go to Seattle again, especially around Kate's upcoming wedding, and there was a move looming on the horizon that needed to be discussed.

"No, it's fine. I have a few more errands, and I know you have some things to get ready over there," Essie shoved the phone back in her pocket, "I'll bring Teddy over. I do need to talk to you tomorrow, so maybe after work?"

"We can talk now or tonight if something is wrong. Is anything wrong?" I didn't expect the hesitation her expression.

"Everything's alright, really. Tomorrow is great. I should really get going with the kids. I need to get Wini home soon," Essie offered a smile, and just like that, she ducked out of the room.

I turned back to Curtis, hoping for an explanation. Curtis murmured, "No idea." An awkward pause ensued where Curtis traced the pattern of my duffle, either lost in thought or spellbound by the diamond shape. Finally, snapping back into it, Curtis checked his watch and looked back up at me, eager to go back to being my assistant instead of a puppy in love, "Your takeout is about ready. You should probably get over there, so I can wrap up here. I'll try talking to Essie later. Need me to do anything else?"

"No, I've got everything I need. You should go home and get some rest. Or don't go home and have fun," I scooped up the duffle, tucking the bag under my arm and pulling my hair into a ponytail in one drawn out motion, "I may be a little late tomorrow morning, so don't rush into the office."

Talking about the office was still strange. Though Scarlet hadn't announced the sale of Lewis Publishing, word spread through the cubicles like wildfire. Many approached it with disbelief while others instinctively jumped ship. Three editors had applied to other publishers in fear of their jobs, and one already accepted a position.

For years, my work was a haven from instability, but it was just as instable as the rest of it. As I hustled through Manhattan, I naively searched for meaning in every street corner. I expected reliability in an ever-changing city and got nothing in return. Even when I got to my favorite Chinese takeout restaurant, the woman behind the counter who had seen me every week for years didn't recognize me.

And, as I was standing in the corner of a restaurant filled with some of my favorite memories, I finally decided to call bullshit on nostalgia meaning stability. I loved my apartment. I loved New York. I loved the life I'd built with Teddy. Bust most of all, I loved Teddy and Christian. Teddy deserved a family and a life without constant jet lag, and Christian deserved someone who didn't run. My independence built on lies and rejection, and it had hurt everyone I cared about. So maybe there was nothing wrong with letting go.

Moving to the west coast wouldn't be some terrible event. I didn't suddenly become an unhappy, unqualified sub. I didn't have to adhere to ridiculous rules. I didn't have to give up working or do anything I didn't want to do. I was still me. Christian was still Christian. The only thing that changes was our proximity.

When I finally got my order (twenty minutes late, as usual), a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and there was a pep in my step as I walked the remaining blocks to my building. The ride up to my floor was uneventful enough for me to fish out my keys and started to focus on bigger problems in life, like which animated movie came first in our marathon (my vote was Shrek, but Teddy's would be Toy Story). When I reached my front door, I shoved my key into the finicky lock and hoped for luck, but to my surprise the door put up know resistance. It was already unlocked…

"Angela must have forgotten the lock," I mumbled to myself, knowing that it was easy to leave the door unlocked if you didn't know how to do it right. So, I started to think about other things. Like if I should add a little bit of drizzled chocolate to the popcorn or smother it in butter. Or how my apartment would be just like old times when I got in.

And it was like old times. There was the weathered bookshelf right at the entry, housing copies of books I hadn't read in years but couldn't bear to part with. Spare shoes were at the doormat in a half hazard tower. The sofa was still too large for the living room and the dining table crammed into the corner with an assortment of toddler-proof vases and pictures I'd accumulated to make the apartment home. And there was the…

The woman.

In my kitchen.

Wearing my clothes.

With…

A knife.

I froze. In that instant, I could hear my every breath and counted the creaks I'd made just coming from the front door. Her back was to me, seemingly unaware of my presence. The knife slowly dragged over the cabinets, deepening a horizontal line in the once spotless white while her free hand flicked through the pages of a hardly used recipe book. With my mind racing, I could only now make out the signs I'd missed when I walked in. Scratches littered my walls and kitchen. Pictures of me had another face crudely taped over them from behind the glass, a face so like my own that I couldn't tell the difference from a distance. The dishwasher was running. And it wasn't Angela King that left the door open. It was her.

One step behind me. And another. I didn't even realize that I was trying to creep back, fighting the scream building in my throat. Just a few more steps.

In my horrified state, my eyes were strictly trained on her, praying she wouldn't move. Oh please don't let her move. They were so directed on her that the small, wet rainboots took my high heels by surprise, and the panic I'd pent up released as my balance started to slip. A screech filled the apartment as I fell back onto my ass, knocking my head on the plaster wall and sending my Chinese food into the air. General Tso's landed with a splat on my hardwood floors. And before I looked up, I knew she'd heard it.

She knew I was here.

I scrambled to get up, to get out of the apartment. But my shaky legs couldn't provide the traction to hold up on the slippery floor, and the strap on my shoes kept them firmly on my feet as I violently shook my feet to free me from four inches of hindrance. In an effort to get the shoes off, I'd twisted my ankle when the tip of the shoe got stuck. Wildly reaching for the door only made it slip out of my hands, and the more I failed, the more I panicked. I had to get out of here. I had to fucking get out of here. I couldn't hear anything over my pounding heart and the ensuing anxiety that accompanied it.

Through labored breaths and watering eyes, I watched the dark figure walk around my island, the knife dragging on the butcherblock. And it was like looking at an appalling version of myself. Her frame, while similar, was weak, and the skin exposed on her arms showed deep, self-inflicted scars. Her unwashed dark hair had been crudely cut into the same cut I'd sported in most of the pictures on the wall, an awkward stage of growing out my bangs and wearing it in a frizzy ponytail. I recognized my dress from my closet and the high heel shoes that were practically falling off her small feet. But most of all, I recognized her. I'd seen her in the coffee shop, reaching for my cup of coffee. She'd followed me to LP, and she'd been living in my apartment as me.

"Who are you?" my voice cracked, pushing myself further into the wall. A tentative, fake smile weakly sat on my face in an attempt to keep her calm.

"An-ah-stay-sha Steele," she sounded the word out, offering me a smile that made every hair stand on edge. She thinks she's me. Holy fuck.

"Are you alone?" I pushed as casually as possible, desperate to know if Essie had faced the same ambush with Teddy.

Without a word, she stepped closer, and she tilted her head, the expression morphing into that of confusion and apathy. "Alone." The word was slow, and she repeated it, "Alone…" The strength of the word was clear, and I regretted saying it. I could never think of 'alone' without hearing the gut-wrenching sadness in her and the fright in me.

"Is there anyone else in the apartment?" my fingers turned white with the force of me grabbing onto the ancient, heavy bookshelf anchored to my wall. As I pulled myself up, I could feel the distress in my ankle and forced my weight to the other. She watched me the whole time, tilting her head as she saw me stand.

With a glance over her shoulder at my seemingly empty apartment, she whispered, "All alone."

The relief forces tears from my eyes, which I quickly tried to swipe away. And that was when she truly scared me. All at once, her posture straightened into a steel rod, staring me down with focused eyes. The knife, which had been hanging at her side, raised towards me.

"Sad. I'm sad," her grip tightened on the knife, "Why you? What do you have that I don't?"

"What do you mean?" I swallowed.

"Master Grey. You call him by his given name," the venom in her voice echoed through the kitchen.

Christian. This is about Christian. She must have been one of his fifteen…

"I do," I agreed, wondering how she knew that. How did she even know about me? How did she know Christian? Oh God, did she know about Teddy?

"You sleep in his bed." Holy shit. How did she know that? "You are a submissive. Master doesn't let submissive in his bed."

"I'm not a submissive," I whispered carefully. She knew about Christian's lifestyle. She'd been in the Red Room. She must have been one of his fifteen. "I am…inadequate to fill that role."

"Inadequate." The word was rushed, full of intensity, but intensity of what? Relief? Happiness? Anger? Was stabbing an emotion?

"Would you like some tea?"

What the fuck, Ana? I offered her some fucking tea. What was I thinking?

The girl shook her head from side to side in an unnatural, eerie motion.

"I am Anastasia Steele. I am in his bed. He smiles at me. That is our baby," the girl insisted. She used the knife to point to a photo on the wall of newborn Teddy, and my pity evaporated.

"I am Anastasia Steele. Now who are you?" I was forceful this time. The rational side of me urged me to play along, to call her Ana. To get out of that door and run before that kitchen knife was inside of me. But I couldn't. My feet were frozen, and I was angry as hell.

"Master is dark," she whispers as if to herself, "But I love him. I-I will be Leila Grey. Gah-rey."

No is all I can think. No, he isn't. No, she doesn't. And no way in hell she will.

"Leila, do you want to give me the knife?" I insist, carefully offering my hand towards her shaking grip. Her finger traded the edge of the blade, forcing drops of blood to splatter on the floor, and she quickly shook her head.

"This will join us," the phrase was vague, and while I couldn't get in her head, I could understand enough to know that it didn't mean anything good. It was only a matter of time before the blood on the floor is my own, and I couldn't let that happen. Teddy could be here any minute if I didn't find a way to keep them from coming, and if she turned that knife on me, my precious baby would be without a mother.

"I know what I have that you don't. I can tell you. Then we'll be the same," I swallowed, praying the gamble would pay off. Leila's eyes filled with hope, earning a fleeting fit of sympathy. She took an eager step closer. She thought she was walking into her dream, the way she'd be the one in the pictures. And she was walking into my escape.

"I read."

The confusion was momentary, but in fairness, I couldn't see much of her face as I gripped onto my copy of War and Peace and watched fourteen hundred pages get shoved in her terrifying face. Her hands were faster than I anticipated, and I screamed as the sharpened blade sliced across my arm, tearing my shirt to reveal the blood oozing from my forearm. The force of book's impact pushed her to the floor, and she landed on her back with an unsavory thud. The knife scratched at the hardwood floors as it landed a few feet away from her, and I grabbed the largest books I could find, throwing them at her to keep her from reaching the knife before me.

Yes! My grip on the knife turned my knuckles white, and I fervently grabbed my front door, throwing it open with such speed I thought the wood might crack when it hit the wall. I was nearly out of the door when I felt something tug on my injured ankle. I yelled with the pain, holding onto the door to keep from falling.

"You stole him. You stole my life. You don't deserve Master!" Leila's nails started to dig into skin.

"You threatened my kid, you fucking bitch!" I delivered a hard kick to her face and cringed at the sickening crack afterward. She screamed and let go of my ankle, and once in the hall, I pulled off my heels and threw them at the door of the apartment, hoping that it would give me more time to get out. I frantically pressed the button for the elevator, but when I heard her distant grown, I abandoned it and ran to the other end of the hallway and shoved the heavy door to the stairs open. I sprinted down the stairs, adrenaline keeping me going.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't know who to call. I didn't even know what just happened.

At the landing for the second floor, I saw a familiar face.

Taylor? Taylor.

"Miss Steele?" Taylor's reserved nature was replaced with concern and confusion, and I rushed to him, hardly able to form a coherent sentence. His eyes drifted to the bloody knife in my hand.

"She's-She's up there," the words choked on panic, "Leila. She was in my apartment. She cut me. I-I threw a book at her. She's in my apartment. Help me."

"Leila?" Taylor knew her name, which surprised me. I nodded urgently, leaning against the wall to collect my breath. I couldn't help but look at the top of the stairs, waiting to see her tiny frame barreling for me. Taylor placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and another over my hand, carefully working the knife out of my fist. "Come with me. I'll take care of it. Let's just get you out."

"But she's in my apartment-" I pointed up, every limb shaking with panic, but he didn't look up. He looked at my arm, which was still dripping crimson.

"You're injured," Taylor was surprised, "Do you have others? How bad are they?"

I had to close my mind to remember them through the panic. My ankle was hurt but not badly, and while I was sore, nothing had been broken in the fall. But my arm…. "I, um, fell. Nothing feels broken. But she cut me," I offered my arm for proof, though I knew he'd already seen it. After a quick survey, he seemed both revolted and relieved.

"Anastasia, I'm taking you home," he wrapped his coast around my shoulder, "You're alright. Someone will take care of this immediately." As I looked into his eyes, I realized that this was his means of comfort. And he was comforting me because he was right. He had to be right. She wasn't coming down the stairs and slitting my throat with a butter knife from my dishwasher. It was really over.

Standing by my side, Taylor guided me down the last level of stairs to an exit door I'd never seen before, and his car was waiting. After carefully seating me in the passenger seat, Taylor rolled through Manhattan, dodging traffic until I couldn't see my building in the rearview mirror.

Who saw THAT coming? I've been planning this for a while and really wanted it to come out of the blue for the reader and for Ana, which I think it did. My experience isn't with scenes like this, so forgive me that it isn't the best. How do you think Christian will react? Was this a good surprise?

Now, I am so sorry I didn't get this out sooner! I wanted to publish this before the holidays, but the last month has been really crazy and put me behind. I think that the surprise element for this chapter makes up for the wait. I was going to include the after-effects of Leila, but the first draft was nearly 8,000 words. So I broke it down into two.

I hope you had happy holidays! As always, please review, follow, and favorite!

PS. We made it to 25 chapters! Woohoo!