I didn't recognize the girl staring back at me. My reflection, I knew, but the eyes were dull and large against her sun-burnt face, and her chlorine-damaged hair hung dry and knotted around her small face. Her hands trembled as she gave up trying to tame it.
"Ana?" Mom called somewhere outside the bathroom, her voice sweet and chipper. Completely and utterly oblivious and ignorant to the daily torment I endured beneath her nose.
I smoothed my damp hands down the thin, white fabric of my sundress and tried to smile—though it looked more like a grimace—before I plunged the bathroom into darkness, opened the door, and steeled myself as I walked down the corridor.
My stomach rebelled against me, threatening to make me sick, as I passed my bedroom. The door was wide open, and I could see the contents. My childish bedroom, the walls painted a soft blue, my baby-pink little girl bed sheets, the twisted mess of comforter and my grandma's quilt.
My eyes stung.
"Ana, are you ready?" There was an edge to the words now, telling me she was starting to get annoyed.
When she saw me walking down the stairs, she flashed her patented fourth-marriage Carla Adams smile—showing off the Colgate-white, brace-straightened teeth that landed her job interviews and husbands and boyfriends left and right. I watched it slip off her face the closer I got.
Had I not hidden my anxiety and distress well enough? I quickly arranged my face into a happy mask with a matching smile. A smile so wide and cheery, it rivaled my mother's.
"Don't you look lovely, Anastasia."
At the sound of the voice I'd been dreading, my heart stopped, and I lost my footing as I went to take the last step. I'd been so focused on my mom I hadn't noticed him so close to me, hidden in the shadows of the alcove beside the stairs, but his large, thin hands caught me all the same, his arms bracketing around me, solid bands of muscle. The hot, acidic taste of bile flooded my throat, burned my vocal chords, as he held me too tight for a heartbeat too long.
I heard him inhale. Smelling me. Basking in my scent. The uncomfortable heat of his body against me threw me back into yesterday's nightmare, when he'd let himself in like he always did and found me home alone.
"Anastasia," he'd whispered, breath reeking of wine and something sweet, his pupils so blown wide it almost canceled out the light color 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. Wouldn't want you to fall," he said, pushing me back into the present, as he helped me down the last step. As he did so, his hand squeezed my hip and his thumb rubbed the line of the waistband of my underwear. His touch was a brand against my skin, even through the fabric of my dress, and I was dizzy for a moment. My knees went weak a little bit. His scent was making me nauseous. I always had hated his cologne but more so even now—now that it was burned in my sinuses, imprinted in my sheets, ingrained in my skull. It reminded me of all the bad things he'd done to me and would continue to do to me. Because I was weak and no one would ever believe a little girl over a rich man.
I inhaled slowly and pulled out of his grasp. His thumb gouged into my sunburn as I did so but I forced myself not to wince.
"Are you okay, honey?" Mom asked, concern creasing the edges of her large eyes, as she examined me critically. There was a sudden edge to her that I didn't like. Like she was seeing what was happening.
"I'm fine." My reply was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction. I didn't even have to think about the response before it fell from my mouth. I still couldn't make myself meet her eyes, terrified at what she'd find in my gaze if I did, and briskly walked into the kitchen.
"She must be hungry," Christian laughed to her as I passed through the kitchen doorway and sat down in my seat. Bob stood at the stove, putting the finishing touches on the salad he was tossing in a bowl while the steaks cooled on the platter. I watched him under my bangs. Did he suspect? The idea made my stomach hurt even more and I took a long sip of my sweet tea.
Even though I'd trained myself not to tense in his presence, my muscles still twitched as though to clench up when my tormentor sat himself into the chair beside me. His chair.
I squeezed my hand tight around my glass and imagined the shrieks of pain he would make if I were to smash it into the side of his face. I'd be so happy if the shards gouged into the vulnerable, soft skin of his face. The idea of all that blood made me queasy, and I took another sip of my tea. As I did so, I pushed the violent daydream out of my mind.
Beneath the table, Christian Grey rested a hand on my bare leg as he spoke with my mother. In the exact shape and size of his hand was a purpling bruise. A reminder that I was his, that I'd always be his, and how I could never, ever escape him.
How only death would keep him from me.