Chapter One:
He's going to have my head on a silver platter! My subconscious screams, the words echoing in my mind like a relentless war cry as I force my way through the stifling sea of bodies. The air is heavy with sweat, perfume, and alcohol—a cloying mix that clings to my skin and suffocates my lungs. Every pulse of the bass shakes my chest, mixing with the adrenaline flooding my veins. My focus splinters between the brunette cutting through the crowd ahead of me and the gnawing anxiety clawing at my insides.
Mia Grey is on a mission—a mission to drive me utterly insane. Her long legs glide effortlessly through the chaos, the clicking of her heels drowned by the thunderous music. I can barely keep up, wobbling on these damn stilettos she insisted I wear, my ankles threatening mutiny with every step. She's heading for the bar—again. I don't need to check my watch to know it's the fourth or fifth time tonight, but the clock in my mind is ticking down ominously.
And then there's the added stress: my phone is gone. Somewhere between Mia convincing me to trade my loafers for these death traps and her third trip to the bar, she managed to swipe it. I don't know how or when—she's deceptively clever like that—but now, I'm cut off. No communication with Mr. Grey. No updates for Taylor. If Christian calls, if Taylor needs to reach me, they'll get silence. And I'll get the blame.
Each second is a tightening screw, drilling into my resolve. The crowd presses in on all sides, their laughter and shouts a disorienting cacophony. Someone spills their drink on me—something sticky and sour-smelling—and mutters a half-hearted apology before vanishing into the throng.
The liquid soaks into my blouse, clinging uncomfortably to my skin, and the sour stench is enough to turn my stomach. My patience, already worn thin, frays further.
Gritting my teeth, I glance at Mia, who is already halfway to the bar, her laughter cutting through the music. I have no choice but to grab her later—I can't follow her like this. A quick stop in the restroom, and I'm peeling the sticky fabric off my skin.
The club's dimly lit bathroom is a sensory overload of cheap perfume and muffled bass. I grab a handful of paper towels and scrub furiously, muttering under my breath about the perils of stilettos, spilled drinks, and stubborn socialites. My reflection stares back at me, the dark circles under my eyes a testament to the night's madness.
With no time to change completely, I shrug on the black blazer I brought as a backup, thankful it's long enough to cover most of the mess. It'll have to do. I take one last steadying breath and step out of the restroom, ready to face the battlefield again.
I spot Mia leaning against the bar, laughing brightly at some guy's joke, her hand resting on his arm like she doesn't have a care in the world. It's like the lie she told me about a stalker—a stalker, for God's sake—was just some passing whim, a game to get her way.
Meanwhile, I'm drowning in stress, scanning the room for threats that don't exist, my stomach twisted into knots so tight I'm certain I'll be gifting myself an ulcer by the end of the night. Every step I take sends another jolt of pain through my poor toes, screaming in agony from these heels I stupidly wore because I thought blending in might actually matter.
And there she is, flirting like she's living in a rom-com, while I've been stuck in a damn action thriller she directed. Fury bubbles up, hot and sharp. I clench my fists, forcing myself to take a steadying breath before I storm over there and let her know exactly what I think of her little charade.
If Mr. Grey doesn't fire me after tonight, I might quit for my sanity's sake. Three months into this job, and though I've grown to care for Mia, moments like this make me question every life choice that led me here. I was trained to endure physical challenges, handle high-pressure situations, and protect lives. Babysitting a drunken whirlwind in a club was not exactly in the training manual.
A burst of shrill laughter slices through the music, drawing my attention back to Mia. She's practically draped over a guy now, her cocktail glass tilting precariously in her hand. I clench my fists, the sharp bite of my nails against my palms grounding me.
"Ana!" Mia's voice pierces the racket of laughter, music, and chatter, forcing me to halt mid-step. My heart drops like a stone into the pit of my stomach, the word stalker flashing in my mind like a warning sign.
What if it's him? What if he's here?
"Mia! I'm coming!" I shout back, my voice strained with effort as I fight my way through the throng of bodies. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the beat of the music. Every face I pass becomes a threat, every shadow a potential danger.
Sharp glares from strangers sting my skin like daggers, especially from 'Miss Legs' and the guy she's pressed up against, but I don't care. My eyes are locked on Mia. If he's here, if this is real, I have to get to her.
The strobe lights flash, painting the scene in disorienting bursts of color, and I weave through the swaying bodies with determination. My chest tightens with every step, my breath quick and shallow. I scan the room, searching for signs of danger, even as my mind screams, Why didn't you see this coming? Why weren't you faster?
She turns, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, relax, Ana. You're such a buzzkill." She giggles, raising her glass in a mock toast. "See? All's well." My headache, which has been creeping up on me since the second drink she ordered, flares into something sharper.
Her nonchalance grates against every nerve I have left. "All's well?" I repeat, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through her giggles. My fists tighten at my sides as I fight the urge to do something—anything—that would wipe that smug smile off her face.
She twirls her glass lazily, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Yes, Ana. All's well. You're wound up way too tight. You need to let loose a little."
Let loose? Let loose? My jaw aches from clenching so hard. "Do you have any idea what you've put me through tonight?" I hiss, leaning in so only she can hear. "You lied about a stalker, Mia. A stalker. Do you know how serious that is? I've been ready to take a bullet for you all night, and you're here playing games."
She rolls her eyes, taking a sip from her drink. "Oh, come on. It's not like I asked you to overreact."
I feel my restraint crack, just a little. My voice drops further, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Overreact? You put me on high alert for hours, had me scouring every corner of this damn club for a threat you invented, and you think this is funny?"
Mia blinks, her smirk faltering for just a second before she shrugs. "It's not like anything happened. Chill, Ana."
I force another exhale, trying to keep the rage from spilling over. "Chill? You don't understand what it's like to live with the consequences of your actions, Mia. I do. And I won't let your recklessness put either of us in real danger."
She pouts, clearly unimpressed by my outburst. "You're being so dramatic."
My headache sharpens, and for a fleeting second, I think maybe dragging her out by her designer heels wouldn't be such a bad idea. Instead, I straighten, force my breathing to steady, and say, "We're leaving. Now."
Her eyes narrow, her playful demeanor vanishing. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. "This night is over."
"Here," she says, thrusting a fluorescent-pink cocktail at me with the flair of a magician revealing their trick. "For you, darling. Consider it a peace offering." She thrusts the glass toward me, the liquid inside practically screams headache waiting to happen. The sugary scent wafts up, sickly sweet and cloying, making my stomach churn.
I stare at the drink as if it's a grenade, ticking down to detonation. My tongue presses hard against the roof of my mouth, holding back the flood of words that threaten to spill out. It's a cocktail of frustration, exhaustion, and a desperate need to maintain some semblance of control over this disaster of a night.
"Sure," I manage, my tone carefully measured, the single word carrying the weight of my fraying patience. "But this is the last one, and then we're leaving."
"Mm, deal," she replies breezily, a sly grin tugging at her lips as she presses the glass into my hand.
For a moment, I just hold it, the condensation dripping onto my fingers as I weigh my options. She's watching me expectantly, her mischievous eyes glittering under the neon lights. You can't drink it, Ana, my rational side warns. You're supposed to be alert, not playing into her games.
Without hesitation, I make my choice. I step forward, casually tipping the contents of the glass into the ice bucket housing a half-empty wine bottle. The bright pink liquid swirls into the melting ice, mixing with the dregs of melted cubes and creating a slushy, unappetizing mess.
The sound of the empty glass hitting the bar rings louder than I intend, drawing the bartender's raised eyebrows. His expression is a mix of amusement and judgment, but I ignore it, my gaze fixed firmly on Mia.
She's staring at me like I've lost my mind. Her jaw drops.
"Wait. Did you just—" her brow furrowing in disbelief.
"Dump it out?" I finish, matching her incredulous tone. "Absolutely."
Her pout is instant. "Wow. Rude."
"We're leaving. Now." My voice as sharp as the clinking of the ice cubes in the bucket.
Her shock quickly melts into indignation. She folds her arms across her chest, the pout forming on her lips a testament to her growing irritation. "You're no fun, Ana," she huffs, her tone dripping with accusation.
I take a deep breath, the music pounding in my ears and the tension in my chest threatening to snap. "Mia," I begin, leaning closer so she can hear me over the blaring bass. "You've had enough. you're reckless, and I'm going to have to explain to your brother why I let it happen."
Her eyes narrow, the defiance in her gaze a clear warning that she's not done arguing. But I'm done. Done with the drinks, the dancing, the cat-and-mouse game she seems to enjoy so much.
The bartender's voice breaks the moment. "Everything okay here?"
"Just peachy," I reply, forcing a tight smile. He nods, his expression unreadable, and moves to another customer.
Mia's lips press into a thin line, but she doesn't argue further. Instead, she grabs her purse with a dramatic flourish and steps away from the bar. "Fine," she mutters, her tone heavy with irritation. "Let's go."
Relief washes over me, but it's short-lived. Her stormy expression promises that this night isn't over yet.
She stops dead and stares at me as though I've just insulted her entire existence, her eyes narrowing with exaggerated offense. Her defiance falters momentarily, but she quickly rallies with a dramatic huff. "Ana, the fun police," she declares, her words dripping with the disdain of someone thoroughly unimpressed.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say a word, her face lights up like a sparkler. A new song erupts from the speakers, the heavy bass shaking the room.
"Oh, I love this song! Ana! Let's dance!" she squeals. With surprising agility for someone who's been drinking sugary cocktails nonstop, she pivots and makes a break for the center of the dance floor.
No. Absolutely not.
Another line has been crossed, and I've officially had enough. No more chasing, no more pandering, no more letting her call the shots.
"That's it," I mutter under my breath, my patience snapping like a taut wire.
I lunge forward and grab her arm, my grip firm but careful. She gasps, turning to me with wide, incredulous eyes, but I don't give her the chance to protest. I start moving—no, marching—in the opposite direction. The exit is my destination, and I'm not letting go until we're out of here.
"Let me go, Ana!" she protests, her voice rising to a pitch that could probably shatter glass. She twists and struggles against my hold, but I've faced far worse in basic training than the squirming resistance of a tipsy socialite.
Her theatrics draw attention, curious stares and murmurs rippling through the crowd. My face burns with embarrassment, the judgmental gazes of strangers cutting through me like knives. Still, I grit my teeth and keep moving, my focus locked on the glowing red "EXIT" sign like it's the promised land.
"Ana! This is embarrassing! Stop!" Mia whines, digging her heels into the sticky floor.
I don't stop. If anything, I quicken my pace, dragging her along like a wayward child mid-tantrum.
When we finally break free from the suffocating heat and pulsating chaos of the club, the night air hits me like a blessing. The cool breeze carries the faint scent of rain, washing over my overheated skin and soothing the pounding in my temples.
Mia, however, is far from grateful.
She yanks her arm free the moment we're outside, stumbling slightly on the uneven pavement. Her cheeks are flushed, whether from exertion, alcohol, or fury, I can't tell. She spins to face me, her expression a volatile mix of indignation and disbelief.
"How dare you!" she shrieks, her voice cutting through the quiet of the street. "You work for me! You can't just drag me out like that!"
I take a deep, steadying breath, the cool air filling my lungs and grounding me. "I work for your brother," I reply, my voice calm but laced with steel. "And my job is to keep you safe, not let you turn yourself into a public spectacle."
Her jaw drops, and for a moment, she looks genuinely stunned. But the defiance quickly returns, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could probably rival her brother's infamous look.
"You're a Bitch," she mutters, slurring her words, crossing her arms like a petulant teenager.
"Call me whatever you want, Mia," I say, gesturing toward the waiting car. "But we're leaving."
Her response is a dramatic huff, but she stomps toward the car, muttering continuously under her breath. I follow close behind, feeling the weight of the night settle on my shoulders
As she slides into the backseat, I close the door behind her with a sigh. The hardest part is over, but I know the fallout is just beginning.
The question is, will I have a job when it's all said and done?
She glares at me through the rearview mirror, her jaw clenched tight. I pause, letting the tension drain from my body, and take a deep, grounding breath. It's going to be a long night.
The drive to Bellevue feels interminable. The city lights streak past the windows, their glow muted by the silence inside the car. Mia sits slouched in her seat, arms crossed and lips pursed in a sulk that would be almost endearing if it weren't for the emotional landmine she'd just dragged me through.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white against the leather, as my mind churns through potential explanations for Mr. Grey. The more I think about it, the more the knot in my stomach twists painfully.
Mia breaks the silence with a dramatic sigh, her head lolling to the side to look at me.
"You're no fun, Ana. I just wanted to dance and have a little fun." Her voice is a slurry mix of petulance and exhaustion, and I clench my jaw to keep from snapping at her. Fun. The word tastes bitter. Fun doesn't matter when you've been trained to see every shadow as a threat, every stranger as a potential danger.
"This isn't about fun, Mia," I reply, my tone sharper than I intended. "It's about responsibility—something you seem to think you can avoid every time you get bored."
She huffs, rolling her eyes, and turns away to stare out the window. The quiet stretches thin, filled only by the purr of the engine.
When we finally pull up to the Grey's estate, the house looms in the darkness, its grand structure bathed in moonlight. The stillness is almost eerie, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears.
I park the car and glance over at Mia, who's now slumped against the door, her breathing slow and steady. She's asleep.
Suppressing a groan, I step out of the car and circle around to her side. Opening the door carefully, I shake her shoulder. "Mia, we're here. Wake up."
She doesn't budge, I unbuckle her seatbelt and slip off the torturous stilettos she pleaded me to wear. Placing them neatly beside her, I haul her out of the car. Her weight presses heavily against me, and I can't help but thank my stars for my military training.
Carrying her to the front door, I find it locked. With a frustrated sigh, I lay her down on a nearby sun lounger and rifle through her purse. The keys jingle under my fingers, my fingers brushed against something else, something familiar —my phone.
Mia has always been quick, both in her words and her actions, even if she's not exactly tactical. She knows how to exploit a moment of distraction, and tonight, she was sharper than I gave her credit for.
"unbelievable " I mutter, shaking my head, I pocket it and unlock the door. Once inside, I haul her upstairs and deposit her onto her bed. She looks peaceful, her face free of the mischief and chaos she's caused tonight.
Pulling off her jacket and covering her with a blanket, I step back and let out a heavy sigh.
"Gray hair or baldness—your choice, Mia," I mutter, rubbing my temples.
Leaving her room, I head downstairs and pour myself a glass of water. As the cool liquid soothes my parched throat, a sharp sound cuts through the silence.
A throat clears behind me.
"Care to explain where the hell you've been, Miss Steele?" The voice is cold, sharp, and unmistakable. I freeze, turning slowly to face Christian Grey. His piercing gray eyes bore into me, simmering with barely contained anger.
Gray eyes pierce me, full of unspoken questions and simmering frustration. My stomach twists into knots. My pulse hammering in my ears. My carefully rehearsed excuses scatter like leaves in a storm, leaving me with nothing but the raw truth and a sinking feeling in my stomach.
"I can explain," I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.
