Chapter Two

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I take the day off to prepare for my "hour". At eleven o'clock, sun has become clearer and warmer outside as I stand in my room, windows all open, gazing at the mirror, trying to decide if I look adequate for the occasion. I've preferred a knee length a pleated chiffon skirt in dark beige, combined with a white satin blouse, a thin belt with little sparking stones in nude tones sewing up two different items to each other seamlessly. Simple but elegant, it's what I'm going for this interview.

Three years of hanging with Katherine taught me the importance of clothes, and I've always been a quick study. Like she often remarks, fashion isn't just about what to wear, but a statement; a quick and safe way of presenting yourself, especially to absolute strangers. If you know how to look, clothes tell many stories about their owners. Half an hour ago, standing in front of the mirror, I discarded the black pencil skirt for a reason. It was giving the effect of "trying too hard" to impress, a twenty-five almost college graduate playing a role of a full badge reporter, like a little girl playing the house with her mother's clothes. Nosce te ipsum. And I do. I know as soon as I put a foot into that monumental building, I will be out of my depth. Pretending the opposite, I wouldn't gain anything, only would have him looking at me with laughing eyes, I could almost imagine the smirk playing over his lips. No, I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. I don't know how, again perhaps another gut feeling, but I'd already gathered that it would be a battle of wills between us, his against mine, and I'm not the one who gives up without a fight first. Christian told me once that's what he likes me about the most; my inability to recognize when it's time to let it go and admit the defeat. His words weren't mocking, but dead serious, like his story finally finds its opposite, because every villain needs his arch-nemesis, because the opposites define each other, how light defines the darkness, and even though some day their love would fade, their struggle would prevail.

Guess he's right, pretty much like always.

As if to agree with myself, I silently nod at my reflection in the mirror then slip on my pumps with sensible heels. I take my sunglasses from bed stand and flip it over my head, giving a last glance at the mirror before I leave the house. Yes, I'm ready, ready for the battle.

Outside, I lower my sunglasses, turn to left and start walking toward the Grey House. Close to New York Public Library, the building, his heart of power isn't very far away from ours, so I prefer walking, letting the early June air cool my strained nerves. Ten minutes later, I'm in front of the majestic building. Like always, I lift my head up and stare at the skyscraper in something close to awe. No matter how its sight has grown to an everyday occurrence for me, it's still breath-taking, a monumental altar for the age of knowledge and what it presents, a totem pole made by steel, glass, and aluminum, glinting under sunlight like a serrated blade, sharp as a razor; a totem pole where its monarch sits up at the top of, gazing at us the mortals below.

I look at the script that runs over the chromized panel over the main entrance; the curt, stylistic "Grey House" in dark inox for a second longer, then walk inside. Inside isn't any different, only more sterile, almost emotionless, the high-tech equipment even in the lobby giving the whole interior a futuristic ambience, like it belongs to a distant utopia more than New York in 21th Century. I approach over the information desk, where an elegantly dressed in a suit receptionist greets me, smiling a smile that don't reach to her eyes. "Hello, welcome to Grey House," she says, voice detached, "How may I help you?"

"Hello," I say back, smiling back, but unlike hers mine has the warmth inside, "Anastasia Steel is here to see Mr. Grey."

The woman titling her head slightly looks at me, her eyes this time confused, "It's almost lunch time," she says, "Mister Grey never misses lunch time."

I shrug. "He said twelve."

She nods, albeit tersely. "Let me check with his PA, please."

I nod back, shifting one foot to another, still eyeing the intimidating building. It's giving me creeps, like you know you don't belong to some place, but still try to fit. Suddenly I feel my whole hard work to choose adequate attire for this interview seems rather pointless as a feeling of dissonance enthralls me. I wouldn't fit into here, no matter what. It's so out of reach, so distant...then suddenly I understand what's wrong with the place. Like its owner, it's majestic but unreachable, like stars in the sky. You all could see it, watch them enchanted, but what you see is only a pale reflection of reality, a reality of cold stones, long dead. And that's why I tell him later that, tears in my eyes, and pain in my heart; Christian Grey, you're like a star; beautiful, captivating, fascinating but so distant, so out of reach, you're like a star, and like a star, you're dead inside.

"Miss Carter would see you to up floor, Miss Steele," said the receptionist suddenly, breaking over my thoughts. I turn to her, as a blonde woman arrives beside her. "Miss Steele," the newcomer says formally, "Please, come this way," she continues, already turning toward the lift behind their back, pressing the button that marked with the head of an arrow, "Mister Grey will see you now."

Dutifully, I pad after her into the elevator, getting tenser and tenser as the glass-cage platform carries us up and above. I imagine Grey standing here, every morning, in the glass-cage as he moves up and up and away to where he belongs. To the top of the world.

The doors slide a few seconds later, and stepping out of the elevator, in the hall, I see him, waiting looking at the elevator, his legs wide open, arms tied across his chest. Upon seeing him, I halt in my steps, so suddenly the PA almost bumps at me. She moves aside at the last moment before any embarrassing moment may occur, so swiftly like she slides over her feet rather than walk. My eyes skip over her as I glance at her graceful movements, before I turn back to him. He stares at me back. Standing motionlessly, I continue looking at him, as he does the same. Then he suddenly launches forward, so quick so vigorously for a moment I think he will tackle me down. Before he hits me, though, he stops, looking at me. "Just right on time," he says, "You're very punctual, too," he sounds very pleased, but I wouldn't even guess why.

"Uh—" I mumble.

"I was afraid we would be late for lunch."

"Lunch?" I ask, my eyebrows knitting above my crease. What lunch, I almost add, but manage to hold it back at the last moment.

"Twelve is lunch time," he explains, like it's the most obvious thing in the world then shows me the elevator. "I run a very busy schedule, Ms. Steele," he says, "If you don't want to wait for another eight months, I'm afraid, the lunch time is only available slot I can assign to you."

"Oh."

He smiles. "So if you don't mind—"

I shake my head, and walk back to the elevator once again. "Not at all," I counter, breaking the ice, so to speak, "I know you're a person who is very—engaged," I say, and smirk, "Your PA has been telling me that for eight months."

Inside, I look at him, in waiting for a retort, but this time wordlessly, he only reflects my smirk back, his lips pulling out in a way that it resembles to anything but a smile. The doors of elevator slide open, and I'm again at the main entrance, and this time the experience is even more—upsetting. Next to mine, his strides are too powerful, too hasty as he marches to the main door, entirely at ease, not even without checking on me to see if I'm still following, which I am, but that's beside the point.

Outside, a black classic Bentley is parked at the front, its doors already open for us. Like a true gentleman, he waits me until I arrive to his side, and climb into the luxury car before he follows me inside. Before he does, though, I slightly tilt my head down, and catch a glimpse of him, his left arm stretched over the door's edge, and behind him, his building reaching out to the sky, challenging the God above. For a moment, I remember the Babel Tower, and my eyes skip over his and there I see the same of arrogance of its King. I think I would never forget that day, how he stands in front of his own Tower, with the same grandeur, the same wish to leave something to the world, a permanent mark, something that no one would forget even one day you only become dust and soil, but your legacy would always prevail. I remember calling it arrogance of humanity, but that was before I know him, truly knowing him.

He sits next to me at the backseat, leaving the wheel to his driver. Remembering my manners, I turn to him. "Thank you sir," I mutter, "for—this hour," I clarify, "I really appreciate it."

All in honesty, I've expected a faint smile, not meaning but at least still courteous for a return, but all I get is a frown. "And you should," he rasps, slightly turning to me, "This isn't an everyday occurrence for me."

I play the dumb. "What?" I ask back, adding a little mocking in my tone, "You don't have lunch every day?"

He fixes at me a stern look, and I regret my words as soon as they left my mouth. "I'm a business man, Ms. Steele," he almost sneers, "And I make deals, not favors for gratis."

"I thought it isn't a favor," I say, now frowning myself too, "but a gift, because tenacity would be always regarded."

His stare bores through my eyes. "Most people would ask something else," he slowly whispers, in a voice that almost suggests something else, but I just couldn't be sure about that else. Suddenly I notice how close we sit at the back seat, and my first instinct is to squirm, and pull back, but somehow, thank god, I manage to stay still.

"I'm not most people," I say, but my voice lacks the self-confidence the words suggest, I realize. Being in his proximity is disorientating, much like all the things with him.

"I can see that," he whispers back then his look grows heavier, then he nods, almost at himself. "Then make a deal, Ms. Steel," he declares.

This time surprise takes me, and I look at him baffled, "What?"

"If you're going to ask me questions," he says, pulling back an inch, leaving me a bit relieved, "In return I want the same courtesy."

"You want to me interview me?" I ask, my eyebrows getting lost behind my hairline.

"I want you to answer three questions at the end of our hour," he states, "as for my fee."

"Then I could hardly call this as a gift," I shoot back.

He shakes his head. "A gift would only provide you an hour of my time."

"But a deal?" I ask back, my voice now curious. This is getting interesting.

"My honesty," he deadpans, "Not some PR shit."

"Well, Mr. Grey," I say, "You know how to make offers cannot be refused."

"I'm a business man," he retorts, then smiles, "And I have one condition as well." And I would expect nothing else from him. "About the nature of your answers," he continues, "As I'm to offer my honesty, you're honor bound to do the same thing."

I nod. "I won't lie."

"Not necessarily," he counters, "But you can't give evasive answers, either," he elaborates, his eyes fixing a look at me, "or things like "no comment."

I laugh, sincerely, laugh at his suspicious mind, "If only you do the same, Mr. Grey."

He nods in agreement, and then as our bargain is finishing, we stop. I lean forward slightly, and crane my neck up to the infamous New York Stock Exchange looming our behind, as Cipriani glints purple and fuschia at me. I let out a sigh. Of course.

The host greets us at the entrance, respectively bowing his head to Grey, and of course doesn't ask if we have a reservation. The perks of being a billionaire. I follow him toward to the corner at the left side as he stands next to the table by the tall window. Again, like a gentleman he awaits until I'm settled, then sit back, taking the menu our waiter in suits presents. I take mine too, and start exploring the dishes, all sounding quite unfamiliar despite the fact that I'm an Italian cuisine admirer.

As I look at the menu in uncertainty, he tilts his eyes over his, and asks, "What do you eat?"

The way he asked it for a moment makes me all forget about the menu. The question sounds innocent, but the way he voiced it not. I frown, my eyebrows pulling slightly at something that I can't fully name, and it disturbs me more than question itself. I'm good with reading people, and noticing little things that most people would normally miss, but with him, I feel like I'm looking at a blank Rosetta Stone, written all three different I don't recognize, but I know the cipher is somewhere there, and if I look carefully enough, I'd find it out. Frowning more, I turn back to the menu. "There is surely something that'd catch your interest," I hear him say, voice too causal now, and it disturbs me much more, "I prepared it myself."

I lift my head and stare at him. "Did you?"

He nods. "I bought the restaurant a few years back," he answers, lifting a shoulder off, "I don't like surprises," he remarks, "Especially with my food."

I shake my head, my mind focused on the former comment, "Tishman Speyer bought Cipriani—" I tilt my head over the place, "Over a disagreement of the ownership of the building."

He shot out a laugh, "And who you think holds the majority of Tishman Speyer shares now?" I look at him in disbelief. That wouldn't be true, I mean, it's Tishman Speyer, but this is also Christian Grey. As if guessing my thoughts, he smiles, truly content with himself, "Please, allow me to introduce myself," he intones, his voice sounds very pleased, for a moment, young and careless as I still stare at him, "I'm a man of wealth and taste."

Then I can't help myself, I let out a laugh back. "Mr. Grey," I lean over the table, "Are you wishing to be judged with—sympathy?"

He smirks, and slowly mutters, "Deus solus me iudicare potest."

My hands itch to take the recorder inside my bag as I feel my—hour has finally stared, and a clock is ticking somewhere outside. I lose no more time. "And that's what is essential to your character, Mr. Grey?" I ask, "to be judged by someone just."

His lips pull out into that smile that isn't a smile, and he shakes his head. "Despite what you may have heard of me, Ms. Steele, I assure you, I'm not the devil incarnate."

"That isn't an answer to my question," I counter.

"What's the question?" he shoots back.

"What's essential to your character," I answer without missing a beat, "Something that has the utmost importance to you."

"Like the first thing I'd wish to have with me stranded on a deserted island?" he asks mockingly.

"Something like that," I mutter.

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't have anything like that," he answers, this time truly, as the mocking husk vanishes out of his voice without a trace, instead leaves its place to a hard cold reality, his words not harsh, but just—disturbing, like the truth itself, "I try not to get attached anything too much. I like owning things, not the other way around. And I don't give things to sentimental value. I judge them by their functionality, and when they fulfill their purposes I simply discard them."

I look at him coldly. "Like how you discarded five-hundred people after you bought Crane Tech?"

He fixes at me a look even colder. "I run a business, Ms. Steele," he snaps, "not a charity. I sacked them because they didn't give me any reason not to."

"But was it really necessary?" I ask back, remembering the report I did on the subject. Five-hundred people, all sacked over a night, his move as hostile as his take-over.

"I bought Crane Tech to pull it up on its feet and how do you suggest I'd do that with people already let it crumble into pieces?" he asks, and leans forward as if to hear my answer, but he doesn't let me speak, continues himself, "We live in different times now, Ms. Steele," he says, "Everything we do is connected to each other, every move, every breath. My business is like Voltron, do you remember the anime?" he asks, and slowly, in awe of his words, I nod. "I'm the black lion that forms the head. But if I let other lions stumble, we all fall together."

I let a breath out, as seeing how his mid work a bit clearer, "So you're the brain of your organization."

He nods, in a poise of self-reliance as he leans back. "Yes, I am." His eyes find mine again. "Like a brain I'm very good with assessments, assortment and classification. I recognize the potential of people I employee, and I know of their needs. It's a fair deal. They please me, and in return I give them what they need."

I stare at him, hearing the matter-of-fact value of his words, and vanity there, but that was what I asked for, when we made our deal, not some PR bullshit. I open my mouth but before I can form out a counter-attack, our waiter arrives to take our orders. "Mr. Grey, have you decided, sir?"

Grey nods, albeit tersely at the interruption. "Yes, Antonio," he replies, "I will have an Involtini with Pecorino Romano, and an insalad for starters, and white wine," he orders, and looks at me. "Ms. Steele?"

"Water is fine for me," I mutter dismissively.

He frowns. "It's lunch time." I narrow my eyes in confusion. "You must eat."

"I had a late breakfast," I counter, shaking my head. I don't want this to a real lunch date, when we finally start making—progress, "Mr. Grey, water is really fine," I reach out an olive branch, my voice now polite again.

But he doesn't take it. "I insist," he says, stressing each word, strongly.

Well, let's not upset him. I decide to indulge him and order an artichoke hearts salad for myself. For a second he looks like he would protest, then gives the menu back to Antonio. Taking of the advantage of the moment, I pull out my recorder of my bag. "Do you mind?" I ask, looking at him for his confirmation.

He shakes his head. "Not at all."

I take a sip from the water that Antonio has just filled before he left, to buy some time for the second round, then ask, turning on the machine, "so you're good at assessing people—"

"And situations," he interrupts, giving me an opening.

I smile a little. "Some says you've benefitted from the dot-com bubble."

"I've seized the opportunities in the dot-com bubble," he corrects, not unaffected even a bit by my retort, "Crisis makes some people poor, and some people rich."

"Like war," I say darkly.

"Exactly."

I lean over, "So, Your World Food Programme with UN is a result of that?" I ask, "That you're giving away as much you take?"

His eyes look at me so severely, with so much intensity that for a moment I feel a heat rising up from the back of my neck. "The world has been very generous to me, Ms. Steele," he responds, his eyes for a second looks ahead of me, before finding mine again, "I'm obliged to return the favor."

"Are you a religious person?"

"I religiously believe in—myself," he quips, then letting out a small sigh he leans back, "Do you believe in second chances, Anastasia," he asks, saying my name, slowly, as if to assess how it weights over his tongue, but again doesn't wait for my answer. "I don't. But the world still has given me a second chance," he says, "You asked what's essential to my character," he continues, "and this is. It's not about the money," he shakes his head, "money—isn't essential to me, but what it stands for is."

"And what does it stand for?" I ask, breathless.

"Being in control," he answers without hesitation, "holding the reign of your own destiny."

Before I think them, the words leave my mouth, "Do you have a God complex, Mr. Grey?"

His reaction isn't what I expect. He looks at me, and then starts laughing, "Among other things."

I think for a retort at that and get saved by the arrival of our food. I look at Antonio, quite gratefully. He serves us dishes, his old hands steady without tremor, experienced. He serves to Christian first, of course, placing delicately the big square plate in front of him then places my bowl of salad. I look at the green vegetables, eyeing the slime slices of Parmesan cheese dressing, and take a bit from the artichoke hearts, and hum appreciated, as soon as my taste buds burns with Balsamico Aceto. Grey nods at my reaction, pleased. "Well done, Ms. Steel," he says, "You chose one of the best dishes of the Chief."

I nod in agreement, taking another bit then use the window of opportunity to turn our conversation to more lighted topics. "May I say a few words and you say back to me the first thing that pop into your head?" I ask, looking for his approval.

He looks up from his plate and arches an eyebrow, "Word-association test?"

"Do you prefer me to ask your favorite movie?" I ask back challengingly.

He cringes, his mouth turning down. "That's sounded dreadful."

I laugh. "You really don't like interviews, do you?"

He shrugs, "I'm really a private person." He pauses for a second then nods again, "Very well. Let's—" a smirk appears over his lips, "play."

"Sky—" I start.

"Blue," he answers without missing a beat.

"Birds," I continue with the same fiber.

"Planes."

"Moon?"

"Dance," he says, his smirk pulling in a way terribly suggestive.

"Sunlight?"

He shrugs, "Swim."

"Reporters," I ask, smiling.

"Nuisances," he shoots back, smirking wider.

"Family—" I then say.

The smirk vanishes as his face closes off, more than anytime, devoid of any emotion, "Blood."

"People," I press further.

"Employment."

"Relations," I demand.

He looks at me in the eyes, "Multiple correlation."

"Love," I look back.

He doesn't run away his gaze, but stares at me, his eyes turning to that electrical blue, "Inconceivable," he whispers.

I let my breath out. I open my mouth, but he shakes his head. "No, that's all for today," he turns me down, "We'll eat now in peace then I'll ask my questions."

I check my wrist. "But I still have twenty minutes," I protest.

He cuts a slice from his meat. "Our deal is for one hour, but you didn't clarify the amount of the questions you will ask. So you will still have the rest of your hour," he says, and smirks, "by simply sharing the lunch with me." He shakes his head, fixes at me another look, this time his eyes are laughing at me. "You need to learn to run more strict bargains, Ms. Steel."

I remember how defined his conditions in the car when we made our deal. "Like you?" I snap.

"Like me," he confirms.

We eat the rest of our meals in silence, quickly, and when Antonio clears the table, he takes his refilled wine glass, and then he's looking at me again, with that look, the humor is lost, leaving its place to a daring curiosity. Then he asks bluntly, "Are you fucking Kavanagh, Anastasia?"

My mouth opens, in absolute wonder. For a moment I stay still, wondering if I hear him wrong, but I know I didn't. "Wh—what?" I manage to sputter after a while, then shake my head, "No—of course, not." I frown. "But what has made you say that?" Why someone asks something like that?

"Johathan has been making a strong case for you," he answers, with a causal shrug in his voice, "so I—"

I cut him off, "So you've assumed I'm banging him," I bite off, my frown going deeper, "Don't you think you're a bit quick with your—assessments, Mr. Grey?"

"Well, he was very persistence, Ms. Steele."

"Mr. Kavanagh has a spot for me."

"More than what's appropriate for a daughter's friend."

I didn't make a remark how he would know that, suddenly it seems rather pointless. He'd said himself He knows me. But apparently he doesn't know the whole story, quite understandably. Mr. Kavanagh didn't want the occurrence that Katherine and I had become best friends, fearing of detriments. "I helped Katherine out of a tight spot at our first year at the college," I explain, carefully choosing my words, "He's grateful."

The vagueness of my answer displeases him, I can see clearly. "That's not a straight answer," he states with a grimace.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I can't reveal more. It's not mine to say."

He looks at me, his eyes lighted on a challenge. "I can find more."

"Possibly," I shrug, "but then it'd be all on your shoulders, not mine."

He nods, as if he understands. "Very well."

Finishing with my salad, I set the fork aside, checking my watch. "So...?" I prompt for the second question. Our time is coming to an end, and I want it done now, too.

"Tell me the stupidest thing you've ever done," he demands.

I look at him, again stupefied. What's him and asking the most inappropriate questions...? He leans forward, "Tell me, Anastasia," he makes again that voice with my name, and I really wish him he stopped doing that. I really wish. I take my water, and gulp a sip to repress my suddenly increasing heat. My reaction is so clumsy, he notices it, and smirks wilder, and in that moment he really seems as perilous as they say about him, a man always gets what he desires, no matter what, a predator.

"At high school," I start, almost flushing, "There was this guy—someone I really like." I take a breath out, not knowing how to continue.

"And you couldn't open to him?" he does in my stead.

I shake my head, bowing it with another surge of embarrassment. "He wasn't seeing me, and I couldn't talk to him, so—one day, in the parking lot, I saw him, leaving the school, and I was in my car too, then I had a thought—" I lift my head up and look at him. "I took the car out of the park, and rear-ended him."

He shoots out a loud laugh, shattering the intensity between us. I laugh along with him, too, silently. "It seemed such a good idea at the moment," I mutter.

"See, inconceivable," he tells me. I laugh more. "What happened then?"

I shrug. "We hung around for a while then got separated. He went to Boston."

"And another fairytale has ended."

I purse my lips, "It was hardly one."

He nods, "Indeed." He stands up abruptly, "As pleasing as this hour was," he says, again smiling that not-smile, "I'm afraid, all good things have to come to an end."

I stand up, this time not bothering to check my wrist. "You have still one question left," I say.

He shakes his head. "Maybe another time, Ms. Steele." Then quickly he starts walking outside. We're in silence on our way out, as I wonder how I could decipher this hour. The experience seems so bizarre, even when I'm still together with him. I feel like I've managed to uncover a few personal traits out of him, but I don't what to make of them. He seems a bit closer, but still unattainable, still unreachable at the top of the totem pole whereas I struggle at the below. Outside, I blink at the sunlight, as my eyes dazzle after the gloomy interior of Cipriani, and of course, he takes his back after the sun, as he stands in front of me, consequently leaving me blinking at him. Cunning bastard.

Leaning over, he reaches toward the Bentley's door, and opens it for me. "James will drive you to wherever you wish," he says, his hand still decisively on the door's edge. I expect him to hold out his hand for a firm business shake as we close our deal, but he doesn't. I try not to take offense by the lack of gesture, but then realize suddenly he has never made any direct contact with me, nor with anyone I'd seen him together with. "I wish you a pleasant day, Ms. Steele," he ends the hour, his voice adequate and gentlemanlike, but like the most of things he does, it lacks sincerity. He turns around, and I start climbing inside then I hear the voice, the voice has already changed my life calling my name; a voice that would change my life once again, drastically and irrecoverably, and would turn it upside down like a hurricane.

A shiver runs through my spin. I spun on my heels, and look at José who stands at the corner, a few feet away from me. "Anastasia!" he shouts again, as I stare at the gun in his hand, pointed directly at me.

"José—" I whisper, as out of the corner of my eyes I see Grey approaching toward me, his eyebrows pulled into a frown. He follows my dreaded look, then launches forward as José screams, "You fucking ruined my life, bitch," José yells, as his gun trembles, "you fucking ruin it..."

I see his finger pull the trigger, and start closing my eyes as I hear the loud bang, but my view gets obscured before my eyelids close, then I'm looking at the eclectic blue...Stumbling on his steps, Grey takes a hesitant step toward me, his hand reaching out for me, and my mind buzz, hazy and misted, but I still see José running away from us, then Grey is within my arms.

My feet has given away or the ground has raised toward my knee, I don't know, I just stumble down, still holding him, tightly, so tightly, then I notice the blood in my hands... Funny things your mind decides to focus in the time of crisis. Bowing my head, I look down, over my chest, where blood blossoms over the white satin, in a delicate pattern.

Then I start screaming.

Dun, dun, dun, so the real story stars. I want to do this story to cover the idea how would Anastasia feel if she owns Christian her life. Evidently, my Ana and Christian are loosely based on the books, and I imagine Christian is more like Lex Luthor and a bit like Lucifer from Paradise Lost. As for Anastasia, I want her to be strong-willed girl, who is still naive, but clever as she tries to find her place at the totem pole.

There are still a few acknowledgement I need to make, but I'm running over a fever right now. (That's why you have to bear with more, because I couldn't proof-read it this time) So briefly;

"Let me introduce you myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste," is opening lyrics of Sympathy for the Devil.

Nosce te ipsum, in Latin, means "Know Thyself."

Deus solus me iudicare potest", in Latin, means "Only God can judge me."