Chapter 13

Christian

October 6, 2020

The doorbell rings, stirring Christian who's typing a memo to his lobbyist. Flynn's back to apologize. His psychiatrist must have realized his earlier mistake. Weakness. Him. Not possible.

Christian drifts from his standing desk to his front door, pausing at the staircase.

"I'm losing your attention," Flynn says. "How about we schedule a retreat? A sabbatical."

"I won't hurt myself again. It was a weak moment. A trivial cut."

"You cannot outsmart your psyche Christian. The trauma from the past it–"

"It's gone. No more homework assignments."

"Self-sabotage drains energy. Your refusal to address your past–makes you weak."

Christian can't help recalling their earlier discussion. Flynn called him weak. He's supposed to help him. Not makes things worse. Not remind him of his failures. Flynn should be fired. Humiliated.

Christian opens the door, scowling, expecting to see Flynn. His face contorts when he sees the visitor. It's her. "Ana, you're here."

Ana's dressed down. A black t-shirt and jeans. Her typical sneakers. She smiles. "Hey!"

Christian inhales, trying to maintain control. He can't touch her yet. They need to talk. "You were coming Friday."

She fidgets in the doorway. "I was at Camp Murray, dropping something off. It's already 7:00 PM, so I thought maybe you'd be done with work–"

"You missed me."

Her gaze drops to her feet.

Christian's heart beats faster, as adrenaline courses throughout his body. She's here. Now. Has she gotten over the contract issue, the playroom visit? This swiftly. A smug grin forms.

"Can I come in?" Ana asks, avoiding making eye contact.

Christian nods and gestures for her to come inside. "Would you like a drink? A glass of wine?"

"Water please," Ana whispers.

Christian strides ahead of her to his kitchen and takes a water bottle out of the refrigerator.

"Thanks," she says, taking it. "I should have warned you."

Christian wants to hold her, touch her, but he takes a breath, slowly down. Better tell her about dinner with the family. "I want to invite you to dinner."

Ana scoots away from him, dropping the water bottle in the process. She bends from the waist to pick it up. "Oh, but restaurants are closed."

Her scent overwhelms him. She's done something different with her hair. Lavender. Nothing special. Waiting might kill him. It's been four weeks. Tease. "Dinner with my family. At my parents' house."

"Um…I'm just here to check on you," Ana says, "I should go. I'm glad you're doing okay. Sorry about the media."

The blood rushes to his pants, as his eyes flicker to her chest. He wills himself to focus. Why's she hesitating? Should he apologize for the mess Jack created? Not necessary. A check should suffice. Acknowledge it and move on.

"Not yet," Christian says, narrowing his focus. "Your new job didn't work out. I want to compensate you. It's only fair."

"You don't need to do that. Besides with freelancing, I'm busy enough."

"In Montesano," he says. His tone flat.

"Yes."

Christian pauses and takes a deep breath, forcing his facial muscles into a neutral expression. It's like a business negotiation. Seek first to understand. "For how long?"

"I've started renting a place," Ana says, twisting her hair. "Week by week."

"You should…" Christian says, as Ana's eyes widen. Don't scare her. "Tell me about your new place?"

"It's nothing really. A small rental," she says, lips quivering.

Christian nods and walks towards the expresso machine. He presses the bronze button to start making a cup. He needs more caffeine.

The machine's noise causes Ana to move closer to him and speak louder.

"It wasn't due to you – the leaving. I needed a job."

Christian downs the expresso shot. She's lying. It's not the job. She's afraid. How can he change her mind? "Tell me more about your freelancing?"

Ana's jaw drops. "I started…actually it's getting late and Montesano's two hours away."

"You're right," Christian says. Seek first to understand. Validate her opinion. What's her real concern? He puts his hands on her shoulders. "Montesano's far."

She stiffens at his touch.

"You're here now. Let's talk about the contract. You've seen the playroom and the pictures. It's a lot to take in."

"Um…" Ana's face reddens and Christian stops touching her.

Christian steps back and leans against the countertop, averting his gaze. How long will it take to get the problem out of her? Turn up the pressure. A purposeful silence. 1…2…3…4.

"The terms and pictures of women concern me," Ana says, her voice getting steadily louder. "I don't think people change. If those are your sexual preferences, I can't get on board with it."

Christian's eyes meet hers. He refuses to blink. There is it. The truth. Get the elephant out. "You are concerned about the contract terms and pictures in the iron cabinet. You're afraid I'll pressure you or turn out to be a psycho."

"I can't be one of those girls. I'm not–"

"Exactly. It's not you," Christian says, eyeing the goosebumps lining her arms. "I'll destroy the cabinet. Consider it done."

"But the past…your preferences, they'll come back. Men, I mean people don't change."

Christian studies Ana, like she's a balance sheet. The fundamentals are there. She's into him. She's responsive. She quivers at his touch. But there are liabilities. Fear. "Tell me more."

This time she meets his eyes without trepidation. "I don't want to be obedient. I don't want you to hurt me."

"I would never hurt you," Christian says. "The most dangerous person knows a little. You don't grasp the purposes of BSDM. The pleasure.""

"I grasp enough," Ana stammers, "You've hurt others."

His heart rate escalates and his concentration breaks. His mouth opens and closes. Him. Hurt her. Doesn't she realize her advantage? His desire. "I would never do anything without your consent. BDSM. Forget it. Consider it done."

"How can I know your desires won't come back?"

"BDSM was a consenting relationship between adults. If you don't consent to it, we won't go down that path. Come sit. I can explain."

Ana's hands shake as she sits down at his dining table. "I'm…I'm not sure you can explain. Just forget it. All of it. Us. You have enough to deal with, and I'm moving. We should break up."

Christian nods along to her words. Not paying attention. Sacrifice. A heroic gesture. She's searching for an exit strategy. Where's his hook? "How can I prove BDSM was consensual? And pleasurable. And that with you, I'm looking for something different."

Ana starts standing up. Her blue eyes water. "Christian, you shouldn't have to change for someone. I'll head out–"

"Write me a contract," Christian says, standing up and facing her. His body aches, wanting to embrace her. No. Close the deal. "A contract, outlining what you want me to do to get your trust."

Ana gawks at him. "But you're a–"

"Control freak, I know." Christian says, his heart now pounding. "But I understand your backing away from this deal. Let's fix this. Us. Then we can move on. Go back to the way things were. It can be better. I'll challenge you. Create layers of pleasure."

"But…but, don't you want someone like Leila? Obedient. A BDSM relationship–"

"No," Christian says, tersely, stepping closer to her. Whatever it takes. "Do you agree? You'll write your terms. We'll fix this. And go back to how we were in Seattle."

Ana's mouth gapes. "But I–"

Christian can't take it. Instinct takes over. His hands move to her waist and his lips press into hers.

Ana kisses him back. Her restrained passion bubbles to the surface and her tongue invades his mouth. She touches his back and pulls him closer to her.

Christian picks her up by the waist and places her on the heavy dining table. Kissing her on her neck, he wants to lay her down. Take her there. Worship her body.

"But I…" Ana says, whimpering. "I'm not ready for this."

Christian stops kissing her and nods. There are no take backs. He needs to regain her trust. The simplest explanation is clear. "You're right."

"I'm right?" she asks, with swollen lips.

"Yes," Christian says, between breaths. He presses a gentle kiss on her forehead and helps her off the table. "I'll be waiting for your contract. Send me your terms."

"But I don't know–"

"True. It'll be work for both of us. I have something that will help you." He walks to his living room, finding his bookshelf. He forcefully exhales, trying to cure the dull ache developing in his pants. Grabbing a hard copy off the top shelf, he walks back to her, handing her the book. "Read this."

Ana stares at the negotiating book. Her lips tremble, as she flips through the book. "Never Split the Difference."

"Yes, it should help. You need to learn the basics of negotiations."

"One question first," Ana says, dog-earing one of the book's pages. "Are those marks on your chest from Jack when he hit you?"

"No," Christian says, not meeting her eyes. "Those are cigarette burns. From my birth mother."

Ana's eyes water. "Your birth mother?"

"Yes."

"I'll see you later, Christian," Ana says, pecking his cheek. "I'll get the contract to you in a week."

Christian stares at the door, hoping she'll come back. Tell him she trusts him. It can all be over. They can go back to the way things were. But they can't. He told her too much. Why'd he let it slip? The truth about his birth mom.

Christian shakes his head, walks to the kitchen, and pulls a beer out of his fridge. Don't worry. She'll forget about his mom. Her demands will be simple. More therapy. No collars. No other women. She's not that creative. Right?

º-º-º-º-º

Anastasia

I'm sitting outside alone on my stepdad Ray's patio. My laptop rests on my thighs, as I try to force ideas. Nothing's coming. I press my hands into the wooden bench. Ray built this outdoor dining set during lockdown. The craftsmanship shows his skill. His first entertaining space.

My stomach grumbles. Gazing down at my arm, I notice the minute improvement. Less bony. Ginny's right. I need more protein. I started adding milk to my tea each morning. It's making a difference.

Closing my laptop, I wonder what Ginny would say about Christian. What's he deficient in? Trust? Love? Security? His adopted family cares about him…what's with the edginess? The playroom. The contracts. The mixed signals.

"What's he hiding?" I say out loud.

"Who?" my stepdad says, while pulling open the sliding door. The soccer reruns must have ended.

"Um…a friend," I say, lamely. Knowing Ray's good at reading lies. Where's Ginny with the takeout? She invited me to Sunday brunch with them.

He grunts and joins me at the table, sitting on the other bench. He tilts his head up, checking out the sky. The red tints still there. I feel my body tense up, knowing he might ask me what I'm working on.

"How are things with work?" I ask. He grunts in response. Typical. "Did the new hire work out?"

"Mostly."

"Roger's a veteran right?"

"Yes, Army," he says, "He's terrific with a handsaw."

"Then what's the issue?" I say, noticing his shoulders stoop, "Do you have someone else to help?"

"No one else," he says, frowning. His work keeps overflowing. There are more jobs than he can handle alone with so many repair requests; an upside of keeping people locked in for months.

"Tell me more about Roger," I say, prodding. He grunts again, but stays silent, leading me to brainstorm. What might impact a carpenter? Divorce? Gambling? "Does he have PTSD?"

Ray cocks an eyebrow like he's not at liberty to say. Yet, the way he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back into his seat and sighing, tells me enough. It's a problem.

"Let's say hypothetically, he has PTSD. Trauma related."

Ray grunts in response, but it doesn't deter me.

"How would he get help?", I say, suddenly connecting the dots. "What would a partner do to help him? Let's say if he had PTSD and a wife."

Ray turns to face me, his eye narrowing, sudden interest. "What are you getting at?"

"How does somebody help someone with PTSD? What if I had a boyfriend who had trauma issues?"

"Are we talking about a real person? The CEO. The one who's been in the news. He's why that company fired you. I thought you came here for a fresh start."

I gulp, not knowing what to say. He nailed it. We both keep quiet. I open my laptop again and start building a contract from the template of a business proposal. Close enough.

I stare at the screen for what seems like hours, only typing the names of the two parties the agreements for: Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey. Giving up, I close the laptop again and start pushing back my chair. I'll get more tea.

"If he has PTSD, the invisible wounds might be deeper than the visible ones," Ray says, breaking the silence.

"Huh?"

"Trauma changes a person. They're no longer who they were before."

"What happens if it was when they're young?"

"Annie, I'm no doctor."

"But, Dad!"

"I'd guess suppression. Pushing the memories down, not feeling. Numbness."

I let that sink in. Numbness. Suppression. How would I even start to understand?

As if reading my mind, Ray comments. "Don't try to compare your experiences with that of a trauma victim. Incomparable. The best you can do is help them with their healing process, yet, they have to choose to heal."

"What if the person asks for your help?"

Ray stands up like the conversation drains him. He twists the black bracelet on his wrist, as he opens the sliding door. "It's a step. But healing takes more. Much more. Be careful, Annie."

My stomach's sore. No longer from hunger. What does Ray mean?

My phone vibrates and I read the text from Christian:

Baby, I'm waiting, send your terms. It's time to come back to Seattle.

My body tenses. What if this approach is all wrong? He needs to choose to heal. I type a reply:

Christian, I'd like to propose a new plan.

Come to Montesano, please.

We can work on this contract together.

After sending it, my stomach cramps disappear. Telling him. It's a big step, likely not what he had in mind. Any serious changes have to come from him. I can suggest it, like Ginny did with my protein intake, but he must choose. Compulsion won't work here.

"You guys ready for some chicken and waffles!" A familiar voice shouts. It's Ginny, stepping outside with two to-go bags, as Ray opens the sliding door for her.

"Sounds fantastic!" I say, grabbing one of the bags.

"Go by a dear and get the orange juice," Ginny says, kissing Ray on the cheek.

He grunts but starts marching inside. His face tinges red. He's the same guy. Taciturn, silent, hardworking… But he's no longer alone. No longer waiting for someone who won't come back. He's contented. Different from before.

As I separate the to-go boxes, I do the math. Five months. It's how long I've known Christian. I guess it's enough time. To help someone. To change their world.

º-º-º-º-º

Christian

Christian sits in the golf cart waiting as Arthur teeters to the nearby drink stand, pestering the attendants. Should he intervene? No. Honor is everything for Arthur, his Brazilian friend. It's why he's here. To help persevere Christian's dignity. His reputation.

"I took the test, up the nose to get here," Arthur says, pleading with the middle-aged blonde attendant. Her mouth is covered with a face mask. But she rolls her eyes as Arthur produces an open-handed gesture and tilts his head back. "I need another please."

Christian shakes his head, remembering the email he received with Arthur's flight schedule. No other notice. "Arthur, let's finish our game."

"I can't. I'm being denied. You're too good at this game. You scoundrel. Forget the news. You're a golf cheater. Nothing else is wrong," Arthurs says, winking at him and then turning back to face the drink stand. "Please now, another. To help me win."

The blonde woman relents and hands him another beer.

Her young black colleague is now giggling, as Arthur leans in to whisper something in her ear.

"I'm going to the restroom," Arthur proclaims, waving back at Christian. "Lead the way," he says, to the beautiful young woman, who's twisting her curly locks.

"Alright," Christian says, checking his watch. This could take a while. He knows he shouldn't have agreed to play golf. But the alternative was worse. Being grilled by his publicist for the podcast episode with Ben, which got retweeted by an influencer last night.

"Holy shit," Christian says, once he unlocks his phones. 200 missed calls. 1000 notifications. Oh. Two quotes from his interview with Ben spread like the recent wildfire.

"A gentleman doesn't show fear."

"Your cowardice and Seattle's law means I'll choose the weapons."

On all different platforms. Thousands of comments. Lionizing him. Demonizing him. The full gauntlet. Didn't they realize? He was being facetious at the time. Too late now.

"Christian, change is coming for you. Don't despair," Arthur said, his eyes twinkling, as he jumped in Christian's SUV. Arthur claims he's a psychic. And his track record is excellent. He was the first person who told Christian – you'll be rich one day.

"Change is here," Christian mutters, underneath his breath, as he sorts through the notifications. "Another win for Arthur."

He presses ignore to another call from his publicist. Later. The picture of the certified check for $14,500 he sent Jack is circulating the internet. Where'd they get that picture?

Christian finds Jack's social media accounts. Jack accepted his challenge. Why? The check wasn't much. He could have gotten more to keep slamming him on media interviews. Clicking on another viral link, the answer becomes clear. Filo.

A stroke of luck. Or Arthur's intervention? Christian's stomach twists as he watches her homemade video. The internet's not great, so it uploads slowly.

Christian inhales when he sees her. She's overweight but she still has the same smile and kind eyes. He never forgot her. His former foster sister.

Filo's accent's thick as she talks to the camera:

Tha' boy used to be puny. Don' let Jack lie.

And Christian, remember me.

We played dolls…I could use some of tha' cash.

Filo waves a Polaroid picture before the video ends.

Christian pauses the video, trying to see the polaroid. How old were they? She was seven. He was five. Jack was nine.

It's a shot of all three of them together. "Celebrating" Christmas together – the same downcast eyes. Where are the others? Somewhere else. A lifetime ago.

Christian scrolls through the comments. The unexpected alliances.

"Boys should play with dolls."

"Christian's a victim."

"Never trust a capitalist."

Sparring words. Don't people have better things to do than think about him? It worked. His silly plan. He redirected the narrative and now they'll battle it out by drones. What's next? Getting a second? Arthur.

Christian dials Andrea's number, "Jack accepted."

"Yes, we're all talking about it," Andrea says in hushed tones. "McKenna–"

"This isn't Mckenna's project. I need a different type of publicist for this. Find another one. One who uses controversy to build momentum. All the proceeds from this event should go to charity."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Get us a slot on live TV. All proceeds go to charity and I need a drone. The best you can find. For fighting."

A young woman with unnaturally red hair comes up to the golf cart, with a bright pink face mask. "Mr. Grey, Sir. Can I take your picture?"

"Sure," Christian says, hoping the photos not for a hit piece

"I can't believe you challenged him. So extra."

Christian snorts as the young women captures a picture of him on her phone.

"And Mr. Grey. Do you still have a girlfriend?"

"Yes. I do," Christian says, waving her off.

"She's lucky," the woman says, and runs off towards the drink stand.

Christian shakes his head. If he was lucky, he'd have her by his side. Christian sorts through his messages, trying to see if Ana texted back. A wave of relief hits him when he sees a missed message.

He reads her text:

Let's build a contract together in Montesano.

Christian rubs his temple. Ana wasn't supposed to take this seriously. It's time to find Arthur. He'll need his psychic powers after all.