NOTE FROM RIOTTORI: WOW, YOU GUYS ARE REALLY DIVIDED ABOUT THIS STORY. SOME OF YOU WANT A AND C BACK TOGETHER, OTHERS DON'T. THANK YOU FOR READING AND CARING. PLEASE KEEP THE REVIEWS COMING. IT'S WHAT MAKES THIS ALL THE MORE ENJOYABLE.

ONE LAST THING: SOME OF YOU HAVE COMMENTED ON CHAPTER SIZES. I REALISE THAT THEY ARE VERY SHORT (AND A LOT OF FANFIC HAS MUCH LONGER CHAPTERS) BUT I AM PUBLISHING AS I'M GOING. I'M AVERAGING AROUND 2500-3000 WORDS A DAY. I CAN'T WAIT TIL THE END OF THE DAY TO PUBLISH, I CRAVE YOUR COMMENTS TOO MUCH! (I THINK I HAVE INSTANT GRATIFICATION ISSUES, BUT THAT'S ANOTHER STORY!) ANYWAY, ENJOY AND REMEMBER, REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW...

I have had her followed. I couldn't stand it anymore: the not knowing what she was up to, not having any control. My guy is discreet (and expensive). I'm waiting for him now. He says he has photos of her. I'm going crazy, torturing myself, imagining the worst, imagining her with other men. I need to know the content of his photos, what they will reveal. I was the only one who had been with her, been in her heart. I can't stand a competitor, an intruder following in my footsteps.

I can see him on the street now, scurrying, head down, inconspicuous. He enters the hotel. He will be with me in less than two minutes. I may combust in that time, become a mound of dust where a man once stood.

He enters the suite, bringing the smell of the street with him. He throws the manilla envelope down on the desk in front of me. It thuds, heavy with its contents. I look at it, sitting there, blankly. I'm desperate to rip it open.

"You ain't gonna like this," he says, provocatively. His words make my heart hammer even harder in my chest. I wonder if he can hear it.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now get out." I want to be alone, I cannot stand his presence. It's better for him, too. I don't know how I'll react if the nightmare pictures I've been imagining prove to be true.

He scuttles out, all false bravado disintegrating at the strength of my command. I take a gulp at the air, try to fill my lungs a final time and reach for the envelope.

I haven't had any face-to-face contact with Christian in weeks. It's better this way – it keeps me stronger. I worry that if I see him, the wall I have managed to build – from bricks of pain, bricks of anger, bricks of hurt – will come tumbling down. I can't let him get a foot-hold, a hand in the crack or he'll scale the wall and find a way back. The king of the castle. Omnipotent. I don't want that. Not yet. He needs to reach a nadir, to go as low as he can, as low as I have been. I need to punish my husband. Look at the masochist go! She's taken the path to sadist in one graceful leap. The voice is my coach. It knows me better than I know myself. Fuck Flynn, Fuck Black. The voice has taught me how to swear, too. Oh, what the voice has taught me.

Touch him. The voice puts thoughts in my mind, makes me act in a way I never thought I would. I thought I'd find Old Ana, regress back to who she was, fit back neatly inside her skin, but I haven't. I'm someone else, another facet, another shade. She scares and surprises me. I don't know if I like her. Time will tell.

I look up at the stranger, the man who has just come over to my table to ask in a sexy, deep voice, if he can borrow some sugar. I nod and pluck a sachet out of the overflowing box. I want to make contact with him, want to see a spark jump like fire in front of my eyes. I suddenly have an urgent thirst for pyromania. I deliberately make skin-on-skin contact with him, allow my thumb to gently brush his finger as I hand him the packet.

He looks down at me, unsmiling yet seemingly charged by the contact. See the effect you have on men? I want to believe the voice, want it to instill a confidence in me that I don't really feel.

He turns to leave. Yeah, I'm irresistible. I reach for my tea when he turns again.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

What do I do? What do I say? The voice is silent. I'm on my own.

"Sure," I say, a small smile breaking across my lips as I speak.

I watch him assess me, trail his gaze over my face. I am rewarded with a nod, as he eases into the chair opposite me, as if his assessment is over and he is satisfied. I feel myself begin to blush. Stop it! You're not twenty anymore. Talk to him. He's obviously here for a reason. Look, there's an empty table over there where he could have sat. The voice is right, I notice with a rush of delight.

"I'm Anastasia," I say, allowing myself a minute to brazenly assess his face, and give my own little nod of approval.

"James."

"Nice to meet you, James."

"You too, Anastasia." My name is drawn out by his mouth, rolled round and enjoyed. I find my heart beating a little quicker. Well you certainly have a type: tall, dark and brooding, the voice teases.

"So, James. Are you on your lunch-break?"

"Yes. Taking a much needed break from a very boring day at my office. What about you?"

"The same." I feel nervous. I'm normally a great conversationalist, I don't know why I'm having so much trouble. Because he's gorgeous. And looking at you like he'd like to lay you over the table, right here, right now.

I take a small gulp as I picture it. Could I do it? Would it feel right? All I'd ever known was Christian. My ragged heart takes another slap.

Ask him out, the voice purrs, catching me at a vulnerable ebb.

I've never asked anyone out before, you know that, I tell the voice.

There's a first time for everything. The voice sometimes sounds like Christian. It's then that I'm sad.

I have a date: Friday Night with James. The first date I've had in 20 years. I don't know how I feel about this. I'm attracted to him, very attracted to him. We stayed in the coffee shop for over an hour. My tea had grown cold so he ordered me another one. He is 35 – the voice refers to him as my boy toy – a lawyer, divorced, no kids. He's confident, reserved in a self-assured way. It just serves to make him even sexier. Intense green eyes, the colour of moss. Jet-black hair. The whole package. So why did I feel a thud in my gut when he asked me out?