NOTE FROM RIOTTORI: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEWS AND COMMENTS. IT'S GREAT THAT SO MANY OF YOU ARE INVESTED IN THIS STORY (NOT JUST ME!) HANDS UP WHO LIKES ALICE. ANYBODY? NO? I PROMISE THAT MORE WILL BE REVEALED ABOUT HER SOON. UNTIL THEN, ENJOY...

C'S POV:

I go back to the hotel suite, my throbbing knuckles punishing me, reminding me of my wife's words. You're free. I don't want to be free, I never wanted to be free. I will never be free.

I open the freezer, take out some perfectly square ice cubes. I throw two in a glass and pour some Scotch over them. The others I wrap in a towel I find in the bathroom. I check my swollen face in the mirror, the physical pain paling in comparison to her words. It's over.

I put the ice-pack up to my face. She should be doing this, looking after me, like she always has. Her unwavering nurture of me had helped me to forget my neglect in my formative years. And I'd given that up. For what? For something new, something different.

In no way was I tempted for 'more' with the Subs after Ana and before Alice. I didn't even care what they ate or wore. I had removed those clauses from the contract. The new contract just included 'soft' and 'hard' limits. They were only 'mine' in The Red Room. When the month was up, they left my life, no trace that they had even been in it. They inspired no emotion in me other than sexual arousal. I liked imagining what they would look like naked when they sat in my office, pen in hand to sign the contract, agree to the rules I had written, what they would feel like, how they would react to my touch. But the thrill of fresh skin soon wore off. Not one of them could match Ana. Not one of them could keep me interested. I didn't even want them to. I had Ana at home and I had these Subs in the playroom. I had my cake and I was eating it, too.

Look how much a life can change in a few weeks. I stare in the mirror at my disfigured face. You deserve this, the reflection says. I nod my agreement.

A'S POV:

I expected him to be at home when I got back after sending James home in a cab but he wasn't. I went to the answering machine to check for a flashing light, flashing hope into the dark room, but no light greeted me.

I thought he'd call the next day, demand to see me, maybe barge into my office. He didn't. I found myself checking my mail, anticipating the satisfying ping of a new message. None came from him.

I thought he'd ambush me when I left my office for a quick lunch-break or that he'd have me followed at the very least. As I walked to my regular coffee-shop where I normally bought my lunch, I found myself looking around, trying to catch his hired PI out. But all I saw was a sea of indifferent faces, swelling behind me, trying to grab lunch and get back to work.

I waited for the phone-call I was sure would come after lunch when he woke late, bruised and sore, hurt and angry. It didn't come.

I put my key in the door, expecting him to be back, to be sitting quietly, confidently, in our house. Regaining the things that belonged to him. The house was empty.

He'll call me tonight, I thought as I settled down to a movie I didn't really watch, with a bottle of wine that I drank. He'll be furious, desperate.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll come for you. These were my last thoughts, last words in my head when I drifted off into a troubled sleep.

You told him it was over. The voice wakes me, has been hovering around all night, annoying as a fly and just as distracting.

I turn my cell on, key my password in with a slightly trembling hand. Who are you hoping has called? James? The voice is sarcastic this morning.

My heart sinks at the mention of his name. He called me yesterday, wanting to meet. I made an excuse. I would feel too guilty staring at his beautiful, damaged face, bruised by my damaged husband. I didn't want him getting hurt anymore than he had been. It wasn't fair. I would keep my distance for a little while, until things calmed down. I was bad news for him, a danger.

Oh, Ana. That's not the real reason, is it? I move to the kitchen for coffee and work on blocking the voice out. I grab a cup. James is nice but he's not Christian. I spoon instant coffee into it. Unlike your husband, you don't crave the new. You love the old, the familiar. Sugar follows the coffee, spills neatly into the cup. And you don't want to hurt James seeing as you're going to get back with your husband. I slam the cup down on the kitchen counter. Because you can't live without him. I open the fridge, violently, grab for the milk. I don't blame you. I stop, shocked into stasis. You must try to walk the dark path to get back to him and who you were together. You can do it. You can do it. And just like that, my voice and the voice become one.

I hear nothing from him for another day. I spend another day under his sweet control, waiting and waiting. Fight for me, Christian. I implore. You promised you would. When I think that I may have finally freed him with my words at the restaurant, cut the tether that ties, that he might have been released from me to belong to Alice, it's almost more than I can bear.