Space.

That's all I needed, some space, no more and no less. Far away from her outrageously blue eyes I am myself again, I am in control. Grabbing some Excedrin for the pounding headache beginning behind my eyes, I slouch off towards the kitchen for a tall glass of cold water. Trying to avoid alcohol is the first port of call in feeling like myself again. Escala is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, every light in the place is burning the midnight oil. The inkiness of the outside night is a stark contrast to my glass lightbulb shining high above a sleeping city.

Somehow… I can't bear to be in the darkness right now.

Paging Dr Flynn.

These endless fucking nights are beginning to get to me. I haven't slept a solid five hours in what feels like forever. My irritability is getting worse and Taylor is manfully bearing the brunt of it. If I don't sleep soon, I'll crash. I know it, but I refuse to take sleeping tablets, not after the Harvard incident… no, never. My fingers hover over the keys of my piano but my private love of the ivories is gone. My love, what little I am capable of, is all gone.

Perhaps never to return.

Tomorrow's the day, the next segment of the Christian Grey shitshow that I can't press pause on. If I were a more forgiving man, I'd have to admire Elena's craft. After the macabre faking-her-own-death stunt, she knew one of two things was going to happen and either one of them would serve her cause. One, I'd behave like the snivelling coward I am and bend down to her, cow to her inexplicable power over me and she and I would sail off into the perverted sunset. No charges, no jailtime, nothing except complete ownership over me. Just what she always wanted. Or, if she didn't get that, she'd get the next best thing.

An insanity plea so pretty it might as well come with a pink bow attached to it.

From the depths of her padded cell at the relatively comfortable state psychiatric hospital, Elena's managed to get herself new representation. I don't know how even she managed to alienate that sleaze ball McCallum, but he was last seen running for the hills and hasn't returned since. Her new shark in a suit is a Miss Glenda Belling. At some fifteen to twenty years Anastasia's senior and the Managing Partner of her own top tier firm, she's a force to be reckoned with.

I knew it the moment I saw Ana's pupils dilate with apprehension at our first introduction.

But she handled herself incredibly well. Professional to the end and with enough confidence to prove she was a player without making an arrogant ass of herself. Man, her ass… damn it, for fuck's sake Grey, focus. I fuck myself down on the sofa with a groan. This is not me. This has never been me. I have never once in my life lusted after the good girl, the wholesome girl. The kind of girl Grace and Carrick would part with a kidney each for if it meant I had her on my arm.

But that's not me.

I don't do that. I don't do the Anastasia Steele's of this world. I do the Suzannah's and the Leila's. The girls that were probably labelled as being at risk in their youth. And even then, my obsession is skin and ego deep. They were good fucks and even better ego trips. I allow, against my better judgement, the image of a naked and bowed Anastasia at my feet. The image doesn't last long, doesn't even get the chance to get me hard.

Anastasia will never bow at my feet.

The obnoxiously bright LED clock beside me announces the time as three am. I must be washed, dressed and presentable at six thirty. Taylor will then arrive to chauffer me to Elena's capacity hearing. It'll be the nightmare it sounds like, that much I'm sure of. The place will be heaving with lawyers and shrinks, each assured in their opinion, each ready and waiting to say whatever will garner them the biggest pay check. And these people, these inane people, will decide whether or not Elena can continue to stand trial and face a multitude of additional charges or whether she's too fucking nutty to understand the proceedings. Basically, they're going to decide whether everything I've been through has been completely and utterly fucking pointless.

Ethan wanted to be there but thankfully his parents wouldn't hear of it.

Matthew will be there, tough… I feel my brow knit together as I think of him. It's fucked up and wrong on so many levels, but I still can't relax around him or fully trust him. He called to Escala, unannounced, not long after Elena's latest stunt with beers and a sympathetic grimace on his face. Staring moodily out at the black sky, I still cannot understand why I reacted like I did. He was, on the face of it anyway, just trying to be… nice.

There was no need to slam the door in his face.

I know that. I knew it when I was slamming said door in said face and yet I couldn't help it. I was furious, boiling with a seething anger that has fuck all basis in rationality. I think it was the sympathetic I understand you, bro fucking look in his eyes. He doesn't understand shit. Sure, he was Elena's victim as well. I don't dispute it. But… shit, I don't know. It's different. It was different for me than it was for him. He was a victim of Elena's journey, sure…

But I was always her final destination.

A niggling explanation of my anger snips away in the corners of my brain, but I brush it away. It doesn't paint me in a good light. Wishing that he was her final destination and not me… isn't exactly a winning personality trait. All my life I have despised the whining pricks who weep into their beers with shrieks of why me, why not somebody else, anybody else…

I guess I can add hypocrisy to my winning list of charming attributes.

Fuck.

I'll talk to him tomorrow, try and explain. He's so annoyingly understanding he'll probably offer to blow me for my troubles. Jesus Christ, Grey! The fuck is your problem? Gripping a handful of my hair and pulling it tightly, I wish I knew. I really wish I knew. I'd love nothing more than to have a clear, one-line answer as to what I'm feeling right now. The feelings I'm having, the onslaught of them, their never-ending, overwhelming presence experienced all the live long day. Google has already given me one, but it's bullshit. The clock ticks slowly forward whilst I'm debunking WebMD's wisdom. By the time six thirty rolls around and the sun is streaming in the window, I have effectively diagnosed myself as having the complete opposite of what that shitshow of a site has labelled me with.

Because there's no way I'm clinically depressed…

I can't be.

….

TBC