Chapter 11

Anastasia

September 4th, 2020

I log out of the GEH task management system for the final time. Today marks the end of my time at GEH. Can't believe it's happening. No more GEH. A different set of expectations.

"Well, it's good," I say out loud, twisting my hair. "Not working for Christian's company."

I pull out the agenda my new company sent me. Training conferences for eight hours a day. I'll be busy. My stomach stirs. This is no entry level position.

"Not that my old team cares," I mutter, underneath my breath. Stop it. I shouldn't let Lily's jag get to me. She's jealous. That's all.

"Oh Ana," Lily said, smirking at the camera. "We'll be seeing you around. We know all about your other job." She doesn't matter. It's not a job.

But…what about these? I toy with the earrings Christian gave me. The cultured pearl and diamond jewelry weigh down my earlobes. They're exquisite but bulky. He wanted to make a statement.

"They go well with your necklace," Christian said, pointing to Ray's graduation gift. I finger the thin undersized pearl on my drop pendant necklace. The gifts are incomparable.

Oh well. It's a gift. Nothing more. He's NOT my sugar daddy. I have a job. I need to prepare for it. Scanning the pile of packaged equipment next to my desk, I commit to clearing out the old and installing the new.

I bend down to sort through the corporate onboarding materials my new company sent me. My eyes flicker to a purple brochure on implicit racism training. What's this?

"All new white employees must attend this training," I say, reading the front cover. Only white employees? That's me. I'll learn more Monday.

I unplug the dual computer monitors from GEH. A wave of unease passes over me, as I place them into the prelabeled return boxes. What if this position falls through? No. The position at Orakk won't fall through. They sell software to millions and they recruited me.

I straighten my shoulders as I close up the return boxes. It's going to be fine. More than fine. Everything is getting better. No more weirdness with Christian. Work will be strictly professional from now on.

º-º-º-º-º

Everything's set up. I wipe the sweat off my mind. Now it's time to celebrate. I'm making Christian dinner. He'll be my guest tonight.

My phone rings, and my body jerks as I search for it, accidentally knocking the new employee orientation binder over. It's Christian. I smile as I answer. It's official – he's no longer my boss.

"Hey, are you heading over?" I ask, hoping he didn't change his mind.

"Yes, in an hour. I'm finishing up facility checks at Grey House now."

"Didn't you already board the building up?" I ask, thinking of the news. Graffiti filled plywood covered GEH's first floor. No big issues.

"Yes. But we're expecting more damage," Christian says. "It won't be long."

"Okay, see you soon."

He's got everything covered, but a small voice nags me. What if he doesn't? The negative news coverage keeps escalating. A local tabloid did an article on Christian yesterday. Not a positive take.

I pull up the article on my phone. Seattle's Me-First Billionaire. My hands tremble, as I finish the article. Clickbait. They cast him out to be scrooge. No mention of his charity projects or how he got wealthy. Who wrote this?

I squint to find the author. It's sponsored by a local activist group. Why's he on their chopping block? It doesn't make sense.

I click through the related articles. A picture pops up of Christian and I from last weekend. A small caption box next to a picture of us eating ice cream near the marina: "The Billionaire's COVID Nurse Strikes Again." Christian doesn't care about social distancing. What are they talking about? This was a private moment outside. Not a political statement.

My stomach lurches as I check the comment section. I knew I shouldn't check it. But I find myself going down the rabbit hole, reading the hate.

She's not even pretty. She should wear more makeup.

Why would he pick her? Out of everyone. Is she rich or something?

Her name's Ana and she went to my high school. Ask my anything.

How do they know my name? I can't read this anymore. Senior year of high school and I'm on the phone with my mom. She's grilling me.

"Ana, why don't you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm busy…maybe I'll get one later this year. Tell me about –"

"You're a senior. You should have had a boyfriend by now. Unless you're into girls, which fine. You know you can always tell me."

"I like men."

"Well, start attracting one! You're too skinny."

I set my phone down and push the memory away. The commenters are right. Christian could date someone prettier. More put together. Stop this. He chose you. And if things get rough with the news, you need to support him. But don't worry. It won't come to that. The news cycle will move on.

º-º-º-º-º

My doorbell rings and I lower the heat on wok. It's too late to back out now. I cooked for Christian before, yet today feels different. Last time I served him, he had COVID, so expectations were low – he didn't have a sense of smell. He was helpless.

Shaking my head, I open my front door.

"It smells fantastic," Christian says, tearing his face mask off. He steps towards me and kisses me. It's soft at first and then harder, his tongue invading and applying just the right pressure. He stares deeply in my eyes as his fingers trail down my arms, gripping them. "What did you make?"

"Beef Stir fry," I squeak. "Korean style."

Christian nods appreciatively, as his hands lower down to my waist, pulling me closer to him.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I ask, wiggling out of his embrace. If he keeps this up, I'll never get a chance to feed him. "I have Sake or Beer."

"Sake. I'll pour it." He walks towards the stoneware cups I set out, and pours two glasses, handing me one. Dark circles are visible under his eyes. He keeps working late.

"Is everything okay with GEH?"

"Yes," Christian says, avoiding eye contact. "Everything's under control."

I take a sip of the cool alcohol. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I prefer it served hot. Setting the cup down, I stare at Christian who's checking his phone.

His forehead wrinkles, as he types something.

I want to ask – what's bugging him? But I'm not sure it would help…talking might not be what he needs. I should focus on feeding him. I start walking to the black wok, when Christian grabs my hand.

"I need to make a call."

"But we're eating soon," I say, "The food's ready."

"I'll make it quick. It's important." Christian says, giving my hand a squeeze.

I nod and check the rice. Everything's ready. I taste a strip of beef. More oyster sauce? No. I'm getting out the dinner plates and I hear my name come up in his conversation.

"With Ana. Yes, that's her."

I set the plates down and walk towards the living room.

"The following week dinner… I'll ask. Yeah. I'll be careful. They'll find another person to attack tomorrow." He gets off the phone and catches me staring.

I smile and he shrugs back.

"That's Grace, my mother," he says, scratching his neck.

"Oh…" I say, trying to stay neutral, despite my burning desire to ask what he's told her. Does he want me to meet his family? I stop myself. I shouldn't come off as so eager.

"She wants to know if you'd like to come to dinner," he spits out.

Anger rises in my belly. I suppress it the urge to roll my eyes. Does he want me to come? I head back to the kitchen and dish out two plates, bringing them to the modest square dining table.

He follows me, treading on my heels. "My brother's bringing over his girlfriend."

"Hmmm…" I say, walking past him. I pull two glasses out of our white kitchen cabinet and fill them with water.

"I haven't told them about us."

"Hmmm…" I repeat. I jostle the two glasses past him, spilling on my white blouse.

Christian lifts an eyebrow. The wet spot on my shirt outlines my bra. It's red. Not particularly daring, a pushup lined with lace.

"Are you inviting me? Because it doesn't count if you don't ask," I say, placing the glasses on the table. I've already laid out chop sticks. My breathing heavy, I fail to pick up a beef strip on the first try.

"Ana would you please come to dinner with my family next Friday?" he aks, with a twinkle in his eyes.

I poke my food again with the chopsticks, finding a small piece and biting it sharply.

"We'll tell them we're dating together," he offers, taking a bite.

"I've got…I've got questions." Forget mystery. I can't hold this in anymore. This gives me leverage. If we're getting his parents involved, I need to know more.

"Okay, ask," Christian says, between bites.

"What's going on with the news? The attacks on your character...do they bother you? Have you gotten any death threats?" I ask, my hands trembling leading another piece of meat to fall off my chopsticks.

"It's fine Ana," he says, reaching for his water. "Normal stuff."

I nod, not convinced.

Christian's eyes gaze down at the wet spot on my blouse. He daps his mouth with a napkin and winks at me. "Now tell me why you chose Korean?"

I try to hide my visible red bra, by crossing my arms in front of my chest. "I don't want to talk about food."

"Is something bothering you?" Christian says, taking a sip of water.

I consider lying to him...but if something happens and he gets attacked by the media, it might impact me. We're a team. Right? I better check.

"Are you satisfied with me sexually?" I whisper. "I don't want to get your parents involved if you're not…" His parents might have seen the internet comments about me. I want to make my own first impression. I need to get answers from him. Is this a big step for him? Meeting his parents.

"Ana, you know the answer," Christian says.

I blush. I learned from a podcast the perfect way to…I can't even say it. I dab my face with my napkin instinctively remembering the results of my efforts on his pelvic area.

Christian takes another bite and his default facial expression, a steely glare, softens. He's measuring my reaction.

I stare down at my wet shirt, pulling the damp spot forward to shake it out.

"It'll dry," Christian says, a wicked smile lining his face. "Let's talk about tonight. What do you have planned?"

"A boardgame," I say, picking up our finished dinner plates. The goofy card game should loosen him up and get him to stop thinking about work. "I'll get it."

He smirks at me. "A boardgame?"

"You'll like it," I say, taking his plate away. I put our plates in the kitchen sink and grab the black game box. I'm headed back to him when I hesitate.

I'm back at GEH, walking into Christian's private bathroom. I find the white lacquer box hidden underneath the orchid. I open it and find the paddle, the whip, and the massage oil.

I shake my head at the memory. But I know what I need to ask before we get his parents involved. It's possible we're not compatible. I pull at my damp shirt again as I walk towards the table. Bringing the game with me, I sit back down.

"So, tell me about this game of yours," Christian says, eyeing the funny graphics of exploding cats on the cover.

"One more question," I say, stuttering.

Christian eyes me and nods. "Shoot."

"Do you have any fetishes or any sexual habits I need to know about?"

Christian grabs a napkin and starts coughing like his water hit the wrong pipe.

"Sorry this is out of the blue," I say, "It's just–"

"Excuse me," Christian says, backing up his chair and heading to the living room.

"You…you don't have to answer," I say, following him. "I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable."

Christian shakes his head and sits down. "Why are you asking?"

"It's okay Christian, forget I asked," I say, patting him on the shoulder. It's possible he hasn't had many sexual partners. "Let me get the game."

"No wait," Christian says, patting the couch. "Sit down."

I join him on the couch and my heart races. Why does he need a sit down? The whips. Oh no. I don't want that.

"Tell me why your bringing this up?"

"I um…found a special box in your private bathroom at GEH. I shouldn't have snooped. But I did, and I need to know. Why did you have a whip and a paddle?"

Christian's eyes dart from me to the ground. "I see."

"What were those for?"

"Historically, I have had certain sexual preferences."

"Preferences?" I ask.

"Never mind," he says, "You not ready."

"You can trust me," I say, inching closer to him. What if he's into feet? Or bisexual? I gulp, as I imagine him telling me he wants to wear a diaper and call me mother.

"You won't understand!"

"I'll try..." I whisper.

"You were a virgin," he says, turning away from me. "It's not a lifestyle for beginners."

"Please explain the um…lifestyle."

"BDSM," Christian says, measuring my reaction. "It's a subculture of consenting adults who…"

I'm shaking but I reach for his knee, trying to encourage him to speak. "I want to know more."

"Contracts, roles, sessions, tools."

"It's a new technique?" I ask, trying to picture him with a whip. He's so metric focused at work, there's got to be a reason he does this. "BDSM is an advanced way to increase pleasure…using biometrics? Testing devices?"

Christian shakes his head. "No, it's not new."

I trail my fingers on his thighs, which tense up.

"BDSM practices can be traced back to pre-history." Christian says, stopping my hand and interweaving his fingers. "I mastered the role of the Dominant."

º-º-º-º-º

Christian

Christian checks his watch and leans back into the couch cushion. It's been ten minutes. Ana told him she needed to get something and ran into her bedroom. What's she doing in there? BDSM. He must have scared her.

She's a modern woman. His description of the submissive and dominant relationship must have freaked her out. He shouldn't have told her. But she brought it up. He should never have let her in his private bathroom. A weak moment.

His heart beats faster as he considers losing her. Just like the news reporters, she could put his actions in a box. Label him. Call him a monster. He shouldn't care what the media thinks. But his stomach stirs, and he starts scrolling through his phone contacts. He needs that women in New York. The one who handles cases of bad publicity. She could fix this for him.

"Christian," Ana says, in a singsong voice.

He glances up to face her, bracing himself for another hard discussion about BDSM. But his jaw drops.

"I want you to show me," Ana says, biting her lip. She's stripped down to a simple, elegant pair of red lingerie.

Forget the media. Christian stands up and touches a bra strap. "Show you what?"

"Your…your preferences."

Christian develops a lump in his throat. Can she handle it? He's not sure.

"I want to know."

Christian scratches his neck. He's getting hot and needs to clear his head. "Let's have another drink first."

Ana nods, and saunters to the kitchen, taking out two beers. She hands him one and gives him a smoldering look. "Tell me your preferences."

"I'll show you," Christian says, stalling by taking a sip of the beer. "But we need to talk limits. Boundaries."

"No ass-play," she chirps. "I don't want that. Nothing too weird. I did an internet search and learned some of the basics of BSDM. I don't want a collar or a nipple clamp. I'm not sure what I want. But I'm willing to learn about it if it's important to you."

Christian adjusts the line of his pants and plops back on the couch. His brow sweats, as he stares at her. "I don't have my supplies."

"Where are your keys?" Ana reaches into his pocket, giving him close access to her cleavage.

Christian groans as she pulls out the key to his SUV.

Ana dangles the keychain in front of him. "You had the duffel bag in the other vehicle. Let's get out your supplies."

"What about the card game?" Christian says, rubbing his temple. "I'll prepare something another night. I need you to sign a consent form."

"You're afraid?"

"Baby steps Ana," Christian says, moving to stand.

"I'll go fetch your bag," Ana announces, her hands press into his body, telling him to stay seated.

"No. I'll show you my playroom. It'll explain everything."

I gape at him. Playroom? Another image of him in a diaper freak me out. I should never have asked. Things were going so well.

"Ana, you asked for this. Are you going to back out now?"

"Yes, your right…let's go to your um…playroom," Ana deadpans.

º-º-º-º-º

Anastasia

We arrive at his penthouse, and Christian pulls out a prepared fruit and cheese tray. He must have a cook. Damn it. I was supposed to entertain him. How did roles get reversed again? Roles. The word means something different to him.

He looked at me earlier and said, "I mastered the role of Dominant."

Dominant. What does that mean? I can't believe he wasn't joking. I kept expecting him to say this is all a joke. But he never did. Instead he asked if I'd want to move in with him. Already! We've only been dating officially for a few weeks.

I pick up a strawberry and play with the stem, while Christian uncorks a bottle of white wine. Tasting the strawberry, it's perfect. Plump, sweet, not overly ripe.

I walk towards his living room. It would be easy to live here. But I can't especially if he's into roleplaying. Maybe it's not as weird as it sounds. Or maybe it's weirder. His playroom. What is he five? Stop it. Let him explain.

I focus on the Seattle skyline, which is bright red from the wildfires. The world no longer appears innocent. I snort. Mother nature's timing is right. It's like God or the simulation is telling me something.

"Everything okay?" Christian calls out, walking towards me with two wine glasses.

"Yes, I was just checking out the sky. It's ominous."

"Taste," Christian says, offering me a long-stemmed wine glass. I nod and swish the glass lightly before sipping. "What do you think?"

"Delicious. Fruity notes."

He nods, then pulls me close to him, holding me with one arm.

I take another big sip reckoning I'll need a lot more alcohol if he's about to show me a spiked neck collar.

The doorbell rings. A sequenced knocking follows it.

"SOS," I question, recognizing the signal.

"It's Ros," Christian says, speaking of his Vice-President. He walks to open his front door. "Must be an emergency. She hates working weekends."

I take another sip of the cool wine, assuming a business deal's fallen through. Maybe I should hide. Last time I saw Ros, she exposed us to COVID. I hate to bring out bad memories. Too late.

"Nice to see you again, Miss Steele," Ros says, briefly waving to me. This time she's wearing a face mask.

"Whatever it is, we'll handle it tomorrow," Christian says, holding the door open.

"Tomorrow's too late. All hell has broken loose on Social media."

"We'll handle it Monday," Christian says, meeting her dark gaze.

Ros sighs and doesn't move. "You need to see this. We need to get PR on the phone before it's too late."

"What happened?" I ask, walking up to them.

Ros tightens her lips and stares at Christian, as if she needs permission to speak.

"You can tell her what they're saying about me," Christian says. "I don't care."

"No, it's fine. I'll give you two some privacy." I squeeze Christian's hand before heading upstairs. I've never been up this level. What if this is where he keeps his playroom?

º-º-º-º-º

Christian

Christian gets a throbbing headache and starts rubbing his temple. He's listening to Ros ramble on and can't concentrate. She's bringing up his old life. The life before he became a Grey.

Why's Jack Hyde fucking with him now? It's been over twenty years since they were foster siblings in an overcrowded home in inner city Detroit. It's a nightmare. A bad dream. This can't be real.

"More people are off work on the weekend," Ros says, swatting him to get his attention. Her eyes and the sharp creases in her forehead tell him she's exhausted from explaining. She wants him to move to problem resolution. "What's your plan?"

"Monday," Christian says. "We'll resolve this Monday."

"Don't you want me to schedule a meeting with PR?"

Christian picks up his phone and does an internet search on his name. There it is. The tweet dominating the news cycle.

Don't sugarcoat reality. Christian's no hero. He's a blatantly racist white supremacist who called me an ape and stole my future.

jackhyde

Jack wrote it, underneath the advertisement for recent winners of the global 40 under 40. Christian was nominated. The only positive news about him lately. And now…now Jack had to run it. The tweet went viral. Thousands of internet commenters call for the award to be dropped.

"I wish they hadn't nominated me," Christian mutters under his breath. He didn't ask for this attention. To be the villain of 2020.

"We should schedule an appointment with PR and do immediate damage control. Think it over, and I'll be back tomorrow," Ros says.

Christian drags his eyes away from his phone to meet hers.

Ros's expression softens as she walks towards the door. "Sorry about this Christian. It's not personal. Jack's looking for attention. Don't take this too hard."

"Tomorrow," Christian says, pasting on a fake smile. "We'll handle it. It'll go away."

Ros nods and walks to the door.

Christian's smile turns dark, as he watches her leave. Jack used to beat him when they were both boys. In all these years working together, he's never told Ros the truth about his past. Now everyone knows he was adopted. He's not a real Grey.

º-º-º-º-º

Anastasia

I pick the lock on one of the upstairs bedrooms with a tension wrench. I should wait for Christian to finish talking to Ros. But I found the wrench in a dresser and couldn't help myself. I apply light pressure until the springs of the lock pin give way, and I can turn the doorknob. Poor security.

I gasp when I switch the light on. What is this place? The medieval lighting, the overwhelming smell of scented oil. My earlier bravery is replaced with panic. Why would Christian want this? Everything else is owns is light and modern. This place is dark and cavernous. A deep burgundy color.

I pick up a black riding crop. A secret equestrian? No…this is BDSM stuff. This must be his playroom. Shuddering, I imagine Christian whipping me with one. I touch my butt, wincing at the thought. I don't want to be whipped. This was a bad idea.

I put the crop back where I found it and try not to look at the other toys. I better leave. I walk towards the door but stop. My eyes are drawn to an iron file cabinet. What's that doing here? A file cabinet in a playroom.

Checking to see if they're still talking, I open the heavy playroom door and hear arguing. Something about fixing a problem tomorrow. I better be quick.

Running back into the room, I start opening a drawer of the iron cabinet. The hardware needs to be replaced. The latches should be greased. I pull harder and jerk it open, finding a dozen metal files. I dig into one. Nudes.

Bile rises in my throat, as I go through the files, finding picture after picture. All these women look similar. Thin brunettes. Like me.

"Ana," Christian shouts from downstairs, "Ros left."

I pick up a stapled paper packet in the file titled Leila. I fold the paper into a square, stuffing it into my pushup bra. I'll read it later. Images of him using this stuff, these chains, these collars are me flying into my mind as I walk towards the door. Should I out myself? Show him what I've seen?

"Ana?" Christian says, opening the door. "What are you doing in here?" Hard wrinkles form on his forehead. He grabs my hand and yanks me out of the room. "Baby, you shouldn't be in here. Not alone."

I nod as we descend the stairs and go into his living area. It's the first time he's called me a pet name. It's what I thought I wanted. A relationship with him with love and open affection.

"Let me get us more wine. I'll explain everything," Christian says, squeezing my hand and then dropping it to walk to the kitchen.

I touch my stomach, which is churning. I don't need any more wine. I might throw up. Those pictures. Those identical girls. How could he keep those pictures? What I saw at his other house? That was no accident. He has dozens of pictures.

Christian comes back into the living room with two fresh glasses and a bottle of red wine. His eyes widen. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm sick," I say, "Maybe food poisoning. I better head home."

Christian's mouth opens then closes. "You can stay here."

"I don't want to get you sick," I whisper, rushing toward the kitchen counter to pick up my bag. "I'll call you." I don't look back as I open his door.

My heart beats wildly as I run to the exit stairwell and sit down on the cold concrete. I have to know. Now. I take the paper from its hiding place in my bra. What's in this contract?