Note from Riottori: Ok peeps. This is the last segment from me tonight. I've done over 5000 word today! If you like controversy, you've come to the right place. Enjoy...

I pull up to my office building and park expertly in my space: the sparkling chrome Mrs A Grey sign welcomes me, my usual greeting. It normally makes me feel successful as both a woman and a worker. Today it fails to make me smile. Look at what you sacrificed for him, begins a voice as I head inside and cross the shiny, modern lobby, a perfunctory greeting to the equally shiny receptionist, your name, your independence. I push the voice out as I enter the lift, not wanting to hear it. It's no use, it penetrates through. It's even his fucking company. You work for him. That comment makes me rear up. I catch the glint of anger that falls over my features in the elevator mirror. When did you become so weak? The voice – my voice? – continues full of disdain, practically spitting out the final epithet.

I round on myself in the mirror, my eyes flashing an Arctic blue. I'm not weak, I answer back. A laugh of derision. Who are you kidding, little Ana? I close my eyes. I don't have an answer.

The morning passes in a blur. I cancel my face-to-face meetings, send out for lunch, hide behind my desk. Like an animal licking its wounds. The voice has followed me, a constant companion critiquing my every move. Why not phone your loving hubby? it drawls. Find out what he's up to today?

I turn my computer on and a message glints wickedly at me, begging to be opened.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Your behaviour

To: Anastasia Grey aka My Wife

You were very naughty this morning. Do not think for one minute that it escaped my notice. At your behest, I've been thinking of you all day. It's got me into some trouble...

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I stare at the screen. His joviality, the playful side of my Fifty, makes his deception even harder to swallow. He's probably sent a message to her, too, the ugly voice states. The 'new and improved' Ana. I delete the message and cradle my head in my hands.

Snap out of it. The voice jolts me awake. Take the bull by the horns or rather, the cheater by the balls. Another cackle of laughter. I drag my head up from my arms, brush the stray hairs from my eyes and take a deep breath. OK, I say. No more little Ana. With a shaking hand I lift the receiver and dial the number.

I arrive first at the restaurant, just like I've planned. I've told Christian that I have a late meeting so will come straight from the office. He's agreed to it for a change. The young, handsome waiter escorts me to our table (their table from last night) and pulls out my chair. I smile brightly at him but allow my right eye to close in a suggestive wink. He looks at me with a hint of a smile and returns my wink. A thrill of desire surges through me. I'm not normally out alone. I ease myself gracefully into my chair, feline-like, arching my shoulders back to let the waiter get a view of my body. Would little Ana do this? I ask the voice. It's silent for once. The waiter's mouth drops open and I sit back, enjoying the reaction. Men occasionally give me appreciative glances but none as blatant as this and they normally stop when they see the angry man whose arm I'm on.

Lorenzo comes over in a flurry of hand gestures and greetings. I allow him to kiss my cheek and watch the waiter retreat. I order a bottle of champagne and wait.

I feel his presence before I see him. There's a buzz that runs through the restaurant: women sit up a little straighter, men square their shoulders, the wait staff run around like worker-ants. He strides over to me, waving the waiter away.

"You shouldn't be waiting for me," he says an edge to his voice as he leans down. I am enveloped in the smell of his crisp aftershave. His lips brush warm against my cheek.

"I haven't been here long," I say, in an attempt to mollify him. He sits opposite me, a click of his fingers to get the handsome waiter running.

"Champagne," he commands, his gaze never leaving mine.

I smile at him then turn my gaze to the waiter.

"It's OK. I've already ordered Champagne," I say, pouting as I carefully ennunicate each word.

Christian looks sharply at me. It just spurs me on.

"What would you suggest," I begin addressing the waiter, pushing an errant hair behind my ear and drawing my fingertip down my long neck, "we eat? I'm very hungry tonight."

From the corner of my eye I catch my husband stiffen. I continue to focus my gaze on the young waiter as if he is the only person in the room. I almost feel guilty for putting him on the spot like this, making him a pawn in our game.

"The Carpaccio is very good, Ma'am," he stutters.

"Hmm, I'm not really in the mood for Carpaccio." I pronounce it like it's a dirty word, fill my mouth up with it. "I fancy," I drawl, "oysters. We haven't had oysters in ages, have we?" I peel my gaze from the waiter and train it on Christian.

His mouth is set in a grim line, his jaw clenched. His eyes are the colour of the silver knife on my butter plate. The waiter, sensing a turning tide, backs away.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he snarls.

"Whatever do you mean?" I ask sweetly, my voice even, not betraying my thundering heart.

"You were flirting with him, Anastasia." He injects ice into every syllable.

I throw my head back in a full mocking laugh, my creamy neck exposed.

"Oh, Christian. Don't be so bossy!" I chide.

He blinks, a little stunned. I've managed to unbalance him. I'm not reacting as I normally do, as I should, as he has trained me to.

"I've just got a taste for oysters," I say, biting my lower lip. "Don't you?"