Disclaimer: I don't own the FSOG Trilogy. Rights belong to E. L. James

Friday night, October 23

The last time Cason came to see Aileen, his older sister, was more than a year ago. They weren't close, and they both preferred keeping their distances from each other. It was safer that way—for both, but mostly her. The only reason he was here, perched on the edge of her awfully soft couch and waiting for her to pour him a glass of wine, was simply because he'd gotten desperate.

For the second time ever, he deeply regretted taking those photos of his Rose. The first time they bit him in the ass, he'd been forced to take drastic measures that hurt Rose and himself. It's almost poetic that the second time happened on the five-year anniversary of the first time. He could still remember how broken Rose was for months following the aftermath, how she is still hurting.

He played with the black ring that once belonged to Rose's father. She didn't know he had it as she'd been led to believe it had been lost. Cason ran his thumb over the "I love you, Daddy" engraving. The ring had been a gift from Rose on Ray's fortieth birthday. Cason sometimes liked to pretend she'd given it to him. He always wore it on a chain and tucked under his shirt.

The sudden click-clack of heels coming closer startled him. He tucked the ring back into hiding in his shirt.

Cason straightened in his seat as Aileen walked to him with two wine glasses filled to the max in each hand. She wasn't smiling but given that she recently went under the knife for fillers in her face, she might have for all he knew.

"Thanks," he said as she handed a glass to him. He drank all the wine in seconds, hardly noticing the slight burn in his throat. His sister raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow in question. "I'm having a rough day," he explained.

She nodded once, sat on the single-seater directly across from him, and placed her still full glass on the glass coffee table between them. "As I expected. Your separation from Rose is takings its toll. Shit looks better than you."

He refrained from glaring. If he turned nasty, she'd kick him out before giving him advice on how to move forward. "Rose isn't the problem," he stressed, pausing briefly for effect, "her photos are missing." At his sister's blank stare, he clarified, "The ones I took of her when she was fifteen."

Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. "What? I thought you had them in your safe."

He dropped his head in his hands. "I did. I noticed them missing today. Last I checked them was last night, so I know someone broke into my place while I was at work. What fucking gets me is that nothing else was out of place. They knew where to look! How would they know where to look, or what my code to my safe is? I don't have it written down!"

He looked at his sister when she leaned over the coffee table to touch his wrist. She paused for a moment to study the tattoo of a red rose on his forearm. "You didn't have that before. In honor of your Rose," she asked, tapping her claw-like red nail on a thorn. "You should have trimmed those early."

"Aileen! I'm losing my mind here! I don't know what to do," Cason yelled, pulling away from her reach.

"Maybe Rose is playing with your mind. Did you consider that she might have taken them and plans to blackmail you to stay away from her?" Aileen grabbed her glass of wine and took a sip. Cason didn't miss that her foot was tapping. She used to do that when they were younger when she was anxious.

"I asked her, and she denies taking them. I don't see her doing that. She needs me."

"Is she still rebelling with that pretty boy? She could have told him everything," Aileen says, stilling her foot upon noticing his attention.

Finding his visit to his sister's pointless now, Cason stood. "She wouldn't do that, either. Thanks for nothing."

Aileen set her glass down and stood as well. "You're welcome. Cason, perhaps all you can to do is wait and see. You face isn't shown in any of those photos. Sure, you were in possession of child pornography, but you can claim they were planted. They didn't take your flash drive, right? You haven't mentioned it."

Shoulders drooping, he said, "I checked as soon as I saw the photos were gone. The flash drive is still where I left it." He picked up the coat he'd thrown over the back of the couch. After shrugging it on, he made his way to the foyer. He could hear his sister heels tapping on the floor behind him.

"That's good. Just wait and see. I'm sure you're concerned over nothing. Call me when you find out more, Cason. I promise to help you with whatever happens."

He paused at the giant front door. His sister almost crashed into him. He laughed while steadying her. "You're fifty-two. Lose the six-inch heels before you break a hip, grandma," he teased. She was older than him by ten years, and it was his right to tease her as her little brother. Not that they had a strong brother-sister relationship. There were wrinkles they were still ironing out together.

"You of all people understand that age is just a number," she snapped, unamused.

"C'mon, Aileen. Dress your age. Get rid of the short dresses, skirts, and leather shit you have in your closet. Age gracefully," he mocked. He stepped away from her as she raised her hand to smack him.

"I told you to stop calling me that. I haven't gone by that name for more than thirty years," she complained, stomping her foot like a child.

Cason rolled his eyes. "Right, sorry. Goodnight, Elena. I'll keep you updated."

He knew he was being followed. Cason eyed the blue sedan that had been tailing him from his sister's house. He figured whoever was inside the car had probably been following him around all day. He was close to his apartment, but he took a wrong turn, then another. Switching lanes and slowing down, he hoped to be able to come up side by side to see the driver. Fear settled into his bones when they went behind him and began tailgating him.

Desperate to lose them, he decided to start heading for the police station. He could park and wait until they left. When he signaled left, relief nearly drowned him when they signaled right. He took the turn and watched in the rearview mirror as more distance was put between them. Relaxed, he started to head home.

This day was getting to him, and he couldn't wait until he could get home. He was going to play Rose's videos. After a day that he's had, he wanted to go to her apartment. Sadly, he was sure that she was with Grey, or he was with her. Something about Grey worried him. Cason had looked him up after meeting him and that Grey was rich, which pissed him off. He couldn't get to him as he always had security on him. He'd noticed that security man sitting close to them at the deli.

He knew Rose wasn't attracted by money, but what girl would say no when they were given everything they wanted? Grey could get her that expensive convertible she's always wanted. Set her up in a nice apartment building or move her into his penthouse. Well, Cason could to—not the penthouse—but he didn't want to spoil her. He liked that she depended on him. Hopefully, she learns her lesson when she starts starving now that he's not helping her with her rent.

Come to think of it, maybe Cason should also take away the furniture he bought her. She'll be gone all day tomorrow; he can confiscate the rest of her things then. She can't afford to buy new furnishings. It's a good thing he decided not to go visit Ray.

In front of his apartment complex, Cason pulled up to his designated parking spot. After locking the car and setting the alarm, he headed inside the building. In the lobby, the night security nodding to him. He smiled stiffly and entered the elevator. At his floor, Cason got off.

Standing in front of his door, Cason felt the worry of the missing photos come back. He had no clue who could have taken them. Sure, he's been robbed before, but it was obvious upon entry. This time, he was sure if he hadn't wanted to look at Rose frozen in her innocence, he would have been none the wiser they were gone.

He put his key in the knob and frowned when he felt the door was unlocked. Rolling his eyes, he remembered he'd been so panicked after talking with Rose that he'd neglected to lock the door behind him. He went into his apartment and shut and locked the door, not reaching for the light. He just wanted to go to bed after this long day he's had.

He'd taken five steps what felt like a blanket unexpectedly covered his entire head. Just as he tried yelling, something hard hit him in his stomach. Air left him, and he hunched over gasping. A hand wrapped around his neck. Pain exploded in his nose as the toe of a shoe connected with his face. Still gasping from the punch to his stomach, he could only groan as the cloth covering his face became wet. The hand still on his neck forced him down to his knees. Cason felt two punches land on his kidneys.

He tried to punch back, but someone seized his arm and wrenched it behind his back. Fearing that his arm was about to be broken, he begged, "Please. Let me g—"

The attacker shoved Cason down on his back, and his words cut off. Blind, Cason felt a heavy weight on his chest, his arms pinned at his sides. He breathed in deeply, about to start begging again, when more blows rained on his face and head. The cloth over his head was soaked. The metallic taste of blood was strong in his mouth. The pain was everywhere. A cloud enveloped him, but he was still conscious.

When the fists stopped coming, he tried to catch his breath. He spat blood out and tried speaking again. "Take everything," he managed to get out. Feeling no new pain, he sagged in relief.

Hands wrapped around his throat and began squeezing. Cason sputtered and jerked. A fuzz came over him. His face was bugling. His eyes were going to pop out of his head! Then, the hands released, and he gasped. Air entered his lungs again. Then, the hands returned. Then, left and came back. He wanted it to end! Why was he being tortured?

For the final time, the hands released. As his awareness came back, the weight above him shifted.

A voice filled with warning almost made him piss himself. "Do not touch her again. She is not yours. She has never been yours. Touch her again, and I'll fucking kill you. With my bare hands, I'll kill you. Understand?"

Cason tried to nod, but his head felt weighed down.

The attacker only said, "Good," and then the weight on his chest was gone. Soon after, Cason blacked out.

Christian's POV (Saturday evening)

Holding hands, Ana and I step off the elevator and enter my home.

"I think it's so cool you have your own elevator," Ana remarks, leaning into my side. "You don't have to wait for it or suffer walking in on extreme displays of PDAs."

I walk us to the kitchen, saying, "Suffer? What have you witnessed?"

"I went out with friends to have a drink. I came home around midnight and found this couple having sex in the elevator. They were an older couple, too." Ana shudders. She shrugs out of her jean jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair as we pass the dining table.

I laugh and pull out a stool for Ana to sit at the kitchen island. "What did you do? Stay and watch?" I jest, opening the fridge. Ana hops onto the stool and places her elbows on the white granite countertops.

She scowls. "I took the stairs, sicko. They didn't even stop when they saw me. They were higher than a kite."

"Care for something to drink?" I ask, grabbing a water bottle for myself.

"Do you have tea?"

I close the fridge, then enter the pantry. "Twining's English Breakfast Tea, right? Yes, I do," I confirm, spying it on a shelf overhead. I retrieve a tea bag and toss it towards the counter.

As I search for the tea kettle I recently had Gail purchase, Ana says, "You remembered."

Crouching to search into the cupboards under the island, I admit, "I hoped you'd visit, and I wanted to have your favorite tea. I've noticed that you're a tea drinker. I want you to feel welcome in my home." I peek over the counter and find her trying to hide a grin behind her hand.

"Mission accomplished," she states, appearing bashful.

"Good." I discontinue my search for a tea kettle, and I stand. If I were Gail, where would I put a tea kettle?

"What are you looking for, Christian?"

I point to the unopened tea bag beside the fruit display. "The tea kettle," I admit. "My housekeeper does the heavy lifting in the kitchen. I don't know where she keeps anything."

Chin resting on her closed fist, Ana's lips pursed as if she's holding back a smile. Her eyes dart to the stove and back to me. In a sing-song voice, she suggests, "Maybe she left it on top of the stove for you because she doesn't want you snooping through her kitchen."

I spin around, and, sure enough, the glass tea kettle is sitting pretty on the stovetop. My ears redden. "Oh."

I avoid her eyes as I pick it up. "Don't feel bad, Christian. My dad never knew his way around the kitchen either. And it was his childhood home."

Filling up the kettle with tap water, I confess, "I don't have the time to cook for myself or the skill. The only thing I know how to do in the kitchen is heating up the prepped meals Mrs. Jones cooked for me, and I need to follow her instructions." I turn away from the sink and place the teapot on top of the stove. I stare at the dials, wondering which setting is best for heating up water.

"Set it to medium, pumpkin," Ana instructs. I smile at her in thanks. After being sure the flame is on, I go to Ana.

"Well, that was embarrassing," I joke, picking her up bridal style and exiting the kitchen. Ana squeals in my arms and holds onto my shoulders. My destination is the couch.

Once there, I drop her. She laughs as she bounces on the cushion. I take a seat next to her and pull her close. She cuddles into my side and rests her head on my arm. After kicking off her converse, she brings her feet up on the couch. Her knees touch my thigh. I hold her hand and sigh, content.

"One day," Ana speaks, breaking the silence after a moment, "you're going to play me something on that fancy piano of yours."

I glance at the instrument set in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. "Why do you assume I know how to play?"

She snorts. "Kitchen aside, you wouldn't own something you didn't know how to use. You're not a shmuck."

I chuckle. "Thanks, I guess."

"How long have you been playing?"

Moving my free arm behind my head, I answer, "I learned when I was six."

"That's impressive. Did you want to learn, or did your parents want you to learn?"

"A little bit of both," I state. "My parents wanted my siblings and me to be able to play an instrument, and they let us decide which ones. I figured it would be easier learning to play the piano as my mother and grandfather already knew how." I close my eyes and relax.

"What instruments did your brother and sister pick?"

"Elliot, the guitar. Mia, the cello."

"Did your parents require you to do anything else?"

"Sport and language. Again, our choice. Except for Mia. My dad wanted her to learn self-defense, so he had her begin karate. That lasted one whole summer when she was nine until she demanded they let her be a ballerina. I remember my little sister went on strike, stating she wouldn't leave her room for anything unless they gave in. She ended up hating ballet and settled for volleyball."

"At least she got to do what she wanted. What about you and your brother?"

"Elliot chose football, and Spanish as his language. He only chose Spanish because he had a crush on a Latina girl at school. I spent my time with kickboxing, boxing, track, and rowing. My sister and I learned French."

"French?"

Smiling, I say, "Cela vous surprend-il, mon amour?"

"So, you are perfect," Ana affirms.

I open my eyes and look down at her. "No. I can't cook to save my life. I'm obsessive, controlling, jealous, and a long ass list of all the things wrong with me. I'm far from perfect," I state nonchalantly. I glance at the piano. "Would you like me to play you something right now?"

She burrows her face under my chin. "Next time. I don't want to move."

"Okay."

Ana speaks up after a silent minute. "Christian? I want to say thank you for coming with me to see my dad. I know that isn't something you do with someone you just started dating, but thank you, nonetheless."

I bring her hand up to my face, then kiss her knuckles once. "Your very welcome, sunshine. Whenever you need me, don't hesitate to tell me. I'm your boyfriend. I take the title seriously. I had a grand time spending the day with you."

"It means a lot to me, Christian. Seriously, thank you. If you weren't there, I would have been stuck with Case."

I stiffen slightly, and I shift around in my seat. "Would that have been distressing for you?"

"Yeah. The past times we've gone to visit my father's grave, Cason acted like an ass to me. He didn't like that I cried, spoke to my dad, or that I left flowers. He always told me that my dad was dead, and all my tears and gestures were for nothing." She sniffs. "I am really happy he didn't come with us today."

I squeeze her hand. "Me too. If I'd heard him talking to you like that, I would have choked him."

A sudden loud whistle startles us. "Your tea," I say, releasing her hand and rising. "Stay. I'll be right back."

In the kitchen, I wonder if now—given that we are on the topic of Westbrook being an asshole—would be a good time as any to speak to Ana. I will not bring up the photos, videos, or her abuse. This will solely be about my need to let her know. If I'm willing to disclose that I was abused, maybe Taylor's right in that it'll help her understand that she was, too.

The psychiatrist before Flynn told me outright to take off my blindfold and realize I was Elena's puppet. I cursed at him and fought back malevolently. He was fired, too. Flynn has tried to explain that I would sing a different tune if it happened to my son, but I just walked out. It took Ana coming into my life, me falling for her hard, that the truth punched me in the gut.

Last night, I watched Ana sleep. I don't believe I would have realized that Elena's and my relationship was wrong. Though I briefly entertained the possibility that I deserved the abuse, I had to throw that argument away. If I gave excuses, Ana would surely use them, as well. I can't have that. She needs to be free of that mother fucker.

Slowly, I walk back to Ana with her weak tea. She sits with her legs crisscrossed on the couch, unsuspecting. She smiles and accepts the mug I hand over.

"It's very hot," I caution. Despite my warning, a pink tongue comes out and dips into the tea. Not a second later, it disappears back into her mouth.

"Fuck," she mumbles and sets the tea on the side table. Seeing my expression of exasperation, she says, "I know, I know. You told me so."

"How's your tongue?" I ask, sitting next to her.

She sticks it out. The tip is slightly red but nothing to be concerned about. When her tongue vanishes back inside her mouth, I lean forward and kiss her. Her lips move against mine slowly. I tease her lips with my tongue, and she pulls away. "Thanks for the tea," she says.

"You're welcome."

She leans back into me, pressing her lips to mine. The kiss is soft and, dare I say, innocent. It also needs to end if I plan on speaking to her today.

"Ana," I say against her lips, "I need to talk to you."

Not pulling away, she asks, "About what?"

I break away regretfully. "Something very important to me that I think you need to know."

Her surprise and curiosity plain as day on her face, she nods. "Okay."

"Can you promise me that you'll have an open mind and hear me out completely?"

She blinks and raises an eyebrow. "Pinky promise," she replies, wrapping her dainty pinky around my much larger one. A firm shake, and then she lets go.

I smile at her sweetness. I twist around until I'm seated with my leg under me and I'm facing her fully. She mirrors my posture. "Okay," I start, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, "I know I told you I've never had a relationship with a woman that was romantic. It was always sexual." She nods, mouth twisted. "I began having sex when I was fifteen."

"As have I, and I'm sure plenty of other people have, too," she interrupts, grabbing hold of my hand.

"Please, baby, you promised you'd listen." I continue after taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. Can she notice how serious this conversation is for me? How uncomfortable talking about this makes me? Like a band-aid. "I lost my virginity to my mother's friend. She was thirty-seven at the time." Ana turns her face away, and I am unable to see her expression. "We had an affair for six years. Though it ended nine years ago, we kept contact throughout the years. We are not on speaking terms now. I considered this woman my only true friend, the only person that really knew me, but, recently, I can't stand to even think of her." I involuntarily shudder. From our intertwined fingers, Ana feels it.

She looks at me. In her eyes, I spy pain. "Does your mother know about you and her friend?"

"A bit of it. The woman's husband found out and told my parents. He apparently felt the need to explain to them why he gave their youngest son a black eye." I take my fingers from Ana's and pull her on my lap. She's pliant in my arms. "They all believe the affair lasted a few months after I turned twenty. My mother and she aren't friends anymore, regardless. Not that I blame my mother. She couldn't get past the fact that her friend could have intercourse with me. She'd known me since I was six. My mother was paranoid that her friend had had her eye on me when I was a minor."

"She wasn't wrong," Ana points out, fingering my watch.

"You're right."

"Is that why the relationship ended?"

"No. We had already decided to stop our physical relationship for a month prior to her husband finding out."

"How did he find out?"

"That is still a mystery." Though I suspect Elena told him in a gamble to get him to hit her, so she'll have my attention again. Linc is a loose-cannon, but she never expected that he'll go after me instead.

"Why did you lie to your parents about how long the abuse started?" Her finger traces the outline of my watch.

I watch her finger make circles. "You said abuse," I whisper. At her lack of response, I answer her question. "At the time, I didn't see the point in hurting my parents more. They lost their closest friends because of me. I also didn't want the woman to get into trouble. Yes, I wasn't the legal age of consent when our affair began, but I was arrogant and thought highly of myself. I mean, can you be abused if you wanted it? That's how I saw it, so I lied for her."

"Why aren't you speaking to her now?" Her finger follows the big hand.

"Months ago, she tried to make a pass at me. I did not appreciate it. I thought of her as my mentor, my friend. Yes, we had sex for years, but I got bored with her. As a teenager, I was horny all the time, and she threw her self at me. When I became a man, I didn't need her anymore."

The apartment is quiet for a moment as Ana leans against me. I'm hugging her tightly, wondering what's going through her mind. Though our introductions to sex are similar, I recognize that our experiences are vastly different. Ana loved her abuser. I loved the sex, but I could have eventually figured how to get some if I didn't have Elena.

"Why did you have sex with her then? Didn't you go to high school? Couldn't you have found a girl around your age?"

I ponder that for a moment. Not expecting her to ask me that, I don't have an answer ready. Honesty is the best option, I guess. "Do you know what haphephobia means?" She shakes her head no. "It means fear of being touched. I developed the phobia when I was a child."

Ana stiffens in my arms. She meets my eyes. "I'm touching you right now. I've touched many times. Why didn't you tell me, Christian?" She tries to get off me, but my arms keep her where I want.

"You don't bother me, sunshine. I know you won't hurt me." Grasping her hands, I place them flat on my chest. A warmth spreads where her palms are. "There is something about you that I find disarming. I think that's why I'm fine with your touch, but I haven't discussed this with my psychiatrist. He'll be able to make sense of it."

"You see a psychiatrist? To treat your phobia?" Ana bites her lip.

Unable to resist, I steal a brief kiss. "Yes, but also because I have other issues. I suffer from night terrors."

"You were abused as a child, weren't you?" She leans forward until her forehead touches mine.

"Yes. Before I was adopted, my biological mother had a pimp who enjoyed beating me and putting out his cigarettes on my skin." Ana gasps and begins examining my exposed forearms. I release one of her hands and pull down the collar of my shirt to show her one scar on my collarbone. Her eyes fill with tears.

"That's what those scars are from? I thought it was because of chicken pox." She hesitantly touches the exposed scar with her pinky. "Your mother let him?"

A lone tear falls from her eye. My voice cracks as I answer. "The crackwhore was busy being too high to be able to protect me or feed me."

"I'm so sorry, Christian. No child deserves to be hurt. How did you get saved?"

"The crackwhore overdosed. I was stuck with her body for four days until police arrived. My mother, Grace, was the doctor on call. She took a liking to me. She and her husband, my dad, adopted me shortly after."

Ana repositions herself on my lap. She straddles me with both legs on either side of me. Then, she hugs me. I reciprocate and bury my face on the side of her neck. I don't cry. I've lived with my demons. I may not have conquered them, but we've lived companionably for a while. I accept her comfort, feeling light. Of all the therapy sessions I've had to endure, I've not ever felt so at peace as right now after unloading to Ana.

Ana jerks in my arms. She doesn't make any noise, but I know she's crying for the little boy who'd faced such horror.

After some time, when I've become lethargic, I say, "The haphephobia is why I couldn't have sex with girls my age. My mother's friend knew of my struggle. I felt safe in knowing that." I stroke Ana's hair. "That's all for tonight, love."

Still holding me, she leans back a little until she can see my face. Her face is wet. "Thank you for telling me. I know that couldn't have been easy."

Pecking her nose twice, I reply, "Thank you for being you." She smiles. "I know you planned on going to your place tonight, but do you want to spend the night? We can see that movie we missed yesterday. I can burn down the kitchen trying to cook for you. How does that sound?"

Ana giggles. "Hold the burning kitchen, and I'll graciously accept."

"Done," I say.

"I have an overnight bag in my car. Let me go get it." Ana slides off my lap. She grabs her converse and begins slipping one on.

"Overnight bag? I like a girl who's prepared, sunshine. Points to you." I take my phone from my pants pocket. After sending a message to Sawyer to grab her bag, I kiss the side of Ana's neck. "I have Sawyer getting your things."

She is tying the laces of her second shoe. "Thank you, but Sawyer doesn't have my car keys."

"You left them in the foyer when you arrived this morning, remember?"

"Again, thanks, but Sawyer is not a butler. I'll be fast, especially using that private elevator of yours." She stands.

Before she can step away, I quickly grab her and toss her on her back on the couch. I support my weight over her with an arm by her head. "The staff elevator is faster. Sawyer is most likely already on his way back. Now just sit and wait."

She pushes against my chest. When I don't budge, she laughs. "You're impossible, you know that? Get off me."

Slowly, I do. She sits up and fluffs her hair. "Would you like a comb to take out those tangles," I ask, seeing her trying to pick at a knot inconspicuously.

"Please?"

"Come on." I grab her hand and pull her to stand. Not letting go, I lead her into my room and into the bathroom. I hand her my comb. Now that her place in my life is looking more permanent, I think I should have a hairbrush for her. And some other feminine beauty products that I don't have, for obvious reasons.

Ana thanks me and sits at the foot of my bed, starting a painful process of running the comb through her tangles. I watch her attempt one knot until I take back the comb and sit behind her. Wordlessly, I divide her hair down the middle and get to work on the right side. I finish fast. If I wasn't planning on shower sex tonight, I would braid her hair.

A knock on the door captures our attention. Sawyer enters following my nod and sets a green duffel bag on the bed. "Mr. Grey. Ms. Steele," he greets, giving Ana a friendly smile. I'd rebuke him if I wasn't afraid Ana would scold me right back in front of him.

"Mr. Sawyer," she responds, mimicking his formal tone. "What happened to your knuckles?"

Sawyer glances at his hands. His knuckles were bruised. He looks to me for direction, but I have none to offer him. I know what happened, but that doesn't mean I want Ana to know. He grins assuredly at Ana. "Part of the job, Ms. Steele. We deal with crazies 24/7. Have a good night, miss. Sir," he nods and walks out of the room.

"Crazies?" Ana looks at me with her eyebrows raised in question.

A/N: Big fat thank yous to everyone who took the time to review, fave, and follow! And thanks to the guest who catches and points out my mistakes. Feel free to do so with this chapter as well:)

"Cela vous surprend-il, mon amour?" translates to"Does this surprise you, my love?" I hope the French isn't wrong. If it is, blame google translate :)