My entire face is sun-burnt, and I look horrendous. I run my hands through my chlorine-sticky hair, trying to pull the tangled, dried-out locks apart to no avail. My hands tremble when I give up.

"Ana?"

My mother's voice is chipper and sweet.

I smooth my sweaty palms down the thin white fabric of my dress and give myself one last glance before I switch off the light and walk down the hallway.

My stomach is cramping and twisting as I pass my bedroom. My childish bedroom, the walls painted a cream color, my baby-pink little girl bed sheets and comforter bunched at the end of the bed, my grandma's quilt hidden in the folds of my comforter.

"Ana, are you ready?"

I'm walking down the stairs as she asks this. She gives me her patented Carla Adams smile, one-thousand megawatt and Colgate-white, brace-straightened teeth, as she spots me coming down. As she watches me, the smile on her face falls for a second when she sees the look on my face.

I haven't hidden my anxiety well then, I guess. My cheerful mask must've slipped. I make sure to school my features into a bright mask with a matching smile.

"You look lovely."

At the sound of his voice, my heart stops and I stumble over the last step. I'd been so focused on my mom that I hadn't noticed him so close to me, but his hands catch me all the same, his arms bracketing around me, solid bands of muscle. The hot, acidic taste of bile flood my throat, burning my vocal chords, as he holds me for a heartbeat too long.

I hear him smell the top of my head, inhaling my scent. The heat of his body takes me back to yesterday afternoon, when he'd let himself in as he always did and since my mother and Bob were out doing errands, he came into my bedroom.

"Anastasia," he'd whispered, breath smelling of wine and something sweet and decadent like dark chocolate, his pupils so large and black it almost canceled out the green of his eyes. His fingers had slipped beneath the strap of my camisole, sliding it down my shoulder and my arm. I hadn't worn a bra to bed as I often did. I regretted it as I often did.

"Careful there," he says, bringing me back to the present, as he helps me down the last step and his hand squeezes my hip. His touch burns through my sundress, a white-hot brand on my skin, and I try to inhale but the oxygen in my lungs has frozen to ice. My lungs are paralyzed. My head spins as he steps away, smiling at me.

My hammering heart pounds in my head as the air splinters through my ice-lungs and I can breathe again.

"Are you okay, honey?" my mom asks, concern creasing the edges of her eyes, as she examines me critically. With a sudden edge.

"I'm fine." The response is automatic and monotonous. I can't make myself meet her eyes, frightened that she'll see through me, and hurry into the kitchen.

"She must be hungry," he whispers to her, laughing, as I pass through the kitchen doorway and pick my seat. Bob's at the stove, putting the finishing touches on his famous garlic-butter pasta, and I watch him. Does he suspect? The idea makes my stomach twist violently and I take a large sip of my water.

My body tenses, muscles tight and straining, as the chair beside me scrapes the floor and the intimidating, man-body drops into it. He's all arms and legs, sprawling in the seat, invading my space. My hand tightens around the glass in my hand and I imagine smashing my cup into his head, watching the shards cut the soft, vulnerable, tender flesh of the side of his face, hear his cries of pain.

I close my eyes against the violent fantasy and grind my teeth to dust.

Christian Grey places his hand on my leg beneath the table as he makes small talk with my mother. Reminding me that I'm his, I'll always be his, and I will never escape him.