Chapter Two:

Friday, January 13, 2012 – Earlier That Day

Christian's POV

Welcome to the life of Christian Grey, I think, my eyes fixed on the pretty brunette sitting across from me. Her gaze flits over the contract I've placed before her, pausing occasionally, widening at certain terms. She bites the end of her pen thoughtfully and glances up at me. Her brown eyes meet mine—a mistake that pisses me off.

"Miss Summers, that's the second rule you've broken so far," I say coolly, my tone sharp and matter-of-fact.

Her eyes dart back to the contract. "Which was the first rule, sir?" she purrs, her voice laced with defiance.

Where the hell did Elena find her? Is she even a proper sub? I study her, skeptical. Rising from the chair in my office—my corporate sanctuary at Grey House, not Escala—I suppress the urge to dismiss her outright.

Ideally, this discussion would've taken place at Escala, far from prying eyes. But with my new CPO still oblivious to the nuances of my private life, here we are. Anastasia Steele. Just thinking her name sends a spark of arousal through me. She's the reason I need a new submissive.

My mind flickers back to the first time I saw Miss Steele. She stumbled into my office, flanked by Taylor, my trusted head of security, declaring herself the new CPO for my baby sister, Mia. The memory distracts me until a deliberate clearing of the throat drags me back to the present, further souring my mood.

Miss Summers fidgets, her hands twisting in her lap as her eyes dart around my office. I watch her in silence, the air growing heavier with each passing second. Does she think avoiding my gaze will make me forget she's here? It's already painfully clear: Elena got this one wrong.

Submission isn't about cowering. It's about strength—the kind of quiet, unshakable resolve that Anastasia has in spades. Ana… Even in her most vulnerable moments, she challenged me. Her eyes, those wide, impossibly blue eyes, always met mine, questioning, defying, pulling me in. Submission was her choice, not her nature. That made it powerful.

Miss Summers is the opposite. She reeks of insecurity, her body language practically begging for mercy before I've said a word. Her shallow breathing, her trembling hands, the way she can't sit still—it's all too much. If she can't handle sitting in my presence, how the fuck would she manage anything more?

I clear my throat, and she flinches. That's it. This isn't just disappointing; it's insulting.

"Miss Summers," I say, my voice clipped. Her head jerks up, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. She looks like a startled rabbit—terrified, frozen, and utterly unfit for what I need.

"This isn't going to work." I stand, buttoning my jacket with deliberate precision. Her mouth opens like she might argue, but nothing comes out. Smart.

She nods quickly, rising on shaky legs.

"Mister Grey, please give me a chance," she pleads, a hint of desperation seeping into her voice.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Summers," I reply, standing to escort her out. "Do remember you signed an NDA."

Taylor waits just outside. One shake of my head, and he knows what to do. He stiffens, broadening his already imposing frame—a silent signal that it's time for business.

I watch as Taylor guides her to the elevator. My mind idly wonders if I have a similar transformation when things turn serious. Probably not. I operate in two modes: CEO and Dom.

I retreat to my desk and dial Elena Lincoln. "Dearest" Elena. The sarcasm is thick in my mind. She's been testing my patience lately with her unsolicited advice and comments about my staff—particularly Anastasia.

Anastasia. Her name invades my thoughts before I can stop it. She's the reason no one else measures up. The defiance in her eyes, the strength in her silence, the way she's completely unaware of her power over me. Damn her.

"Christian, darling!" Elena chirps as she picks up on the first ring. "What did you think of the latest one?"

"No, Elena. Just. Fucking. No," I hiss, my irritation spilling over.

She sighs theatrically. "Darling, what was wrong with her? That's the third one this week. Maybe you've—"

"Don't," I cut her off. "I'm perfectly capable of handling this myself. Stop sending them. If I have to deal with one more submissive wannabe, I might actually choke someone."

Her laughter rings through the line, but I end the call before she can retort.

Before I can gather my thoughts, Taylor and Reynolds burst into my office unannounced. Alarm bells go off in my head.

"Sir, there's been another threat," Reynolds announces.

"Does Steele know?" I demand.

"Not yet, sir. We wanted to inform you first."

"What is it?" My voice is hard, demanding.

"A letter addressed to you, pinned to your windshield."

Shit. I snatch the paper from his hand.

Christian Grey,

It should've been me.

And you'll pay for it. Dearly.

Starting with your loved ones. Those you keep close.

"Do we have a lead?" I ask, scanning their faces.

"No, sir," Taylor replies. "But we suspect it might be a former sub."

A former sub? For fuck's sake. My mind briefly flashes to Leila Williams and her spiral into madness last year.

"Have Barney dig into their every move since last contact," I order, dismissing them. "And Reynolds," I add sharply as he hesitates at the door.

"Y-yes, sir?" he stammers.

"Keep Steele informed about threats like this. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Alone again, I reread the letter, shaking my head. The lengths people go to when driven by greed or obsession never cease to fascinate me.

Just as I settle back into my emails, Reynolds interrupts again.

"Sir, it's Steele. We can't reach her. Her phone's off, and her number goes straight to voicemail," he blurts out.

I'm out of my chair in seconds, storming down the hall to Taylor's office.

"HOW THE FUCK CAN'T YOU GET AHOLD OF STEELE?" I roar.

Taylor meets my fury head-on, already getting behind it. "Her phone's off. Gail said Mia and Steele left Escala about an hour ago. Something about Mia needing to pick something up."

"Send the team out. Find them. Now." My tone brooks no argument.

Moments later, I bark orders to Andrea, my P.A., to clear my schedule as I head to the private elevator with Taylor and Reynolds in tow.

The tension thickens as the elevator doors slide shut, pressing against my chest like a vice. The confined space feels suffocating, amplifying my simmering rage.

The hum of the elevator motor is deafening in the silence. My fists clench and unclench at my sides, the frustration boiling beneath the surface. Each passing second feels like an eternity, every vibration of the car mocking my inability to control the situation.

"Taylor," I finally say, my voice low and lethal. "How the hell does my head of security lose track of Steele and Mia in broad daylight?"

Taylor stiffens beside me, his jaw tightening. "Sir, we'll find them. The team is already mobilizing."

"Not good enough," I snap. My pulse pounds in my ears, the rhythmic thrum matching the restless tapping of my shoe against the elevator floor.

Reynolds shifts uncomfortably in the corner, clearly aware of my growing fury. I catch his nervous glance, and it only infuriates me further.

When the elevator dings and the doors open to the dimly lit garage, I'm the first to step out. My stride is purposeful, and my thoughts are a storm of worry and rage.

"Let's go," I bark, heading toward my car. Taylor and Reynolds trail close behind, their silence an acknowledgment of the urgency pulsing through the air.

We step into the garage, the fluorescent lights casting cold, stark shadows across the polished floor. I head straight for the Audi Q7, its black paint gleaming under the overhead lights. Taylor slides into the passenger seat without a word, while Reynolds takes the back, his unease practically radiating.

The engine purrs to life as I press the start button, the deep, resonant hum filling the tense silence in the car. My fingers grip the steering wheel tightly, the leather creaking under the pressure. I glance at Taylor.

"Where did Gail say they were heading?" I demand, already reversing out of the parking space.

"She mentioned Mia needed to stop somewhere, but she wasn't specific," Taylor replies evenly, though I can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Not specific?" I snap. "In your line of work, not knowing specifics gets people killed, Taylor."

I don't give him a chance to respond before I shift into drive, the SUV surging forward with power. The tires grip the concrete as I take the corner sharply, but I barely notice. My mind is already racing faster than the vehicle.

The city streets blur past in shades of gray, the sleek glass and steel of downtown Seattle reflecting the weak afternoon light. I weave through traffic with precision, each maneuver sharp and deliberate.

"Reynolds, update me," I bark, my eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Sir, the team is checking surveillance cameras near Escala and nearby areas. No sightings yet," he stammers from the back seat.

"Not good enough," I growl, my hands tightening on the wheel. The thought of my sister and Anastasia in danger claws at my mind, a mixture of fury and fear coursing through me.

The tension in the SUV is suffocating. Even Taylor, usually calm and composed, seems unsettled. He clears his throat.

"Sir, we'll find Mia. Steele knows how to handle herself."

"Does she?" I fire back. "She doesn't even know there's a goddamn threat hanging over their heads because you didn't tell her."

Taylor's silence speaks volumes, but I don't care. The words need to be said.

The radio crackles as one of the team reports in. "No sign of Miss Grey or Miss Steele at any of the usual locations. Expanding the search radius."

"Useless," I mutter under my breath, my jaw tightening.

My mind races through every possible scenario. Mia and Ana together—two vulnerabilities in one. If anything happens to either of them… I can't even finish the thought.

The dashboard clock ticks relentlessly, each minute lost fueling my frustration. I press harder on the accelerator, weaving through slower vehicles like they're obstacles standing between me and the one person I can't afford to lose.

"Taylor," I say, my voice a low growl. "If anything has happened to them, you and I will have a very serious problem."

"I understand, sir," he replies, his tone clipped but calm.

The silence stretches, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. My thoughts are dark and unforgiving, fueled by the dread coiling tighter around my chest.

Anastasia. Where the hell are you?

The search stretched on into the evening, the tension in my chest growing heavier with each passing hour. My team scoured the boutique district and the surrounding areas, turning up nothing. No leads, no sightings—just a black hole of uncertainty.

I drove aimlessly through the city for hours, my phone buzzing with updates that all said the same thing: no progress. The headlights of the SUV cut through the encroaching darkness, but they did little to clear the shadow of dread hovering over me.

When my phone buzzed again, I snatched it up, hoping for news. Instead, my mother's voice filled the line, her tone tight with worry.

"Christian, have you heard from Mia?" Grace's words hit me like a slap. "I've been calling her for hours, and she's not answering."

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "No, Mom. I haven't."

There was a pause, the silence crackling with her unease. "This isn't like her, Christian. She always calls me back. Please tell me you're looking for her."

"I am." My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn't help it. The weight of the day was pressing down on me, suffocating. "I've got my team combing the city. I'll find her."

Grace exhaled shakily. "Come to the house. Please. Your father is worried, too."

I hesitated. Going to Bellevue felt like admitting defeat, like accepting that I couldn't find them on my own. But I couldn't ignore the fear in my mother's voice, and the thought of her pacing the house, wringing her hands, was enough to sway me.

"Fine," I said, ending the call before she could say more.

The drive to my parent's house felt agonizingly slow, the darkness outside matching the storm inside me. Every worst-case scenario played out in my mind, each one more unbearable than the last.

What if Mia's carefree nature had put her in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if Anastasia's training hadn't been enough to protect them?

When I pulled into the long driveway of my parent's estate, the sight of the warmly lit house did little to ease my nerves. Grace was already at the door, her face pale and drawn.

"Christian," she said as I stepped inside, her voice trembling. "What's going on? Where is Mia?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted, my voice low. "But I'll find her. I promise."

My father appeared behind her, his expression grim. "We need answers, son. And we need them now."

"I'm working on it," I snapped, regretting my tone immediately.

Grace reached for my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "She's my baby, Christian. She's your sister. Please, find her."

Her words only added to the crushing weight on my shoulders. I nodded tightly and stepped away, pulling out my phone to call Taylor.

"Any updates?" I asked as soon as he picked up.

"None yet, sir," he replied. "We've expanded the search to the outskirts of the city. Still nothing."

"Keep looking," I said, my jaw tightening. "And keep me updated."

I ended the call and sank into one of the chairs in the living room, my head in my hands. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the faint ticking of the grandfather clock.

Grace sat beside me, her hand on my forearm. "You'll find her," she said softly. "You always do."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. Because for the first time in years, I wasn't sure if I could.

The grandfather clock chimed softly in the corner as I sat in the Greys' living room, my head in my hands. Grace hovered nearby, her worry practically radiating off her. Her coffee remained untouched, whereas Carrick and I have already had our third glass of aged scotch.

"You've always been the one Mia turns to when she's in trouble," Grace said quietly, breaking the silence. "Your sister trusts you, Christian. You'll find her."

Her words felt like both a comfort and a dagger. I lifted my head, meeting her pleading gaze. "I can't find her if I don't know where to start, Mom."

Carrick leaned against the mantle, his arms crossed, his expression grim. "What's the last thing you know for sure?" he asked, his lawyerly pragmatism cutting through the emotion in the room.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus. "Mia left Escala with Ana around lunchtime. Miss Jones said that she needed to pick something up. That's all I've got."

"Does Mia have any... new friends we don't know about?" Grace asked hesitantly.

"She has plenty of people she calls friends," I muttered. "Most of them wouldn't know trouble if it slapped them in the face. Anastasia keeps her grounded—she's the only reason I don't lock Mia in a tower."

Carrick's frown deepened. "Anastasia's the bodyguard, right? Military background?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "She's trained for situations like this."

"Then why hasn't she called?" Grace whispered. Her voice was so soft I almost missed it, but the weight of her words slammed into me like a freight train.

I clenched my fists, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Because obviously something's gone wrong!" I snapped. "If Anastasia could call, she would have."

Grace flinched, and guilt twisted in my gut. "I'm sorry," I said quickly, my voice softer. "I just... I don't know what to do."

For a moment, none of us spoke. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant ticking of the clock.

"Mia's strong," Grace said finally, her voice trembling but resolute. "She might act carefree, but she's a fighter. And Ana—Anastasia won't let anything happen to her. You said it yourself, Christian. She's trained for this."

"Training only goes so far," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "And Mia's... Mia. She doesn't think anything bad can happen to her."

Carrick straightened, his tone firm. "That's why Ana's with her. And why you need to focus, not panic. Use your resources. Your people. You have the tools to find them, Christian."

I nodded stiffly, appreciating his words even as they stung. He wasn't wrong—but knowing what I needed to do didn't make it any easier.

The sound of Grace's phone buzzing startled us all. She snatched it from the table, her face lighting up with hope before quickly darkening.

"It's just a friend asking about Mia," she said, setting it aside.

The tension in the room thickened again. I stood abruptly, pacing to the window and staring out into the dark yard.

"I'll find them," I said, more to myself than to them. "I have to."

Grace came to stand beside me, her hand brushing against my arm. "We believe in you," she said softly. "You always find a way."

I didn't have the heart to tell her I wasn't sure if that was true anymore.

Grace's hand lingered on my arm as if she could will her strength into me. "You've done so much already, Christian," she said softly. Her words were meant to reassure me, but they only added to the pressure crushing my chest.

I turned to face her, seeing the exhaustion etched in her features. Carrick wasn't much better; his stern demeanor was faltering, his concern for Mia weighing heavily on him.

"Mom, Dad," I said, my voice firmer than I felt, "you need to get some rest."

"Rest?" Grace blinked at me, her brows knitting together. "How can you expect us to rest when Mia's—"

"I know," I interrupted gently but firmly. "I know you're worried. I am too. But sitting here, torturing yourselves, won't help Mia."

Carrick stepped forward, his arms still crossed but his expression softening slightly. "You don't need to handle this alone, Christian."

"I'm not," I assured him. "Taylor's out there. Reynolds is out there. My entire team is working on this. But you—both of you—need to take care of yourselves. Mia wouldn't want you to make yourselves sick over this."

Grace hesitated, glancing at Carrick. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Christian's right," he said quietly. "We'll only get in the way if we're running on fumes."

"I'll wake you the second I hear anything," I promised, meeting Grace's gaze.

Her eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. But then she sighed, the fight draining out of her. "Fine," she said, her voice trembling. "But you'll come get us immediately if there's news. Promise me."

"I promise," I said.

She nodded, letting Carrick guide her toward the stairs. Before they disappeared from view, she turned back to me. "Be careful, Christian. Please."

I didn't respond, just gave her a tight nod. Once they were out of sight, I collapsed onto the couch, my head in my hands. The silence of the house pressed down on me, amplifying the thoughts racing through my mind.

I don't know when I fell asleep, but the sound of footsteps on the stairs jolts me awake. My eyes snap open, and I instinctively reach for my phone. 2:30 a.m. I've barely had an hour of restless sleep. Groaning, I rub a hand over my face, trying to push away the fog in my brain. Who the hell is moving around at this hour?

I crane my neck toward the stairs, my frustration mounting. And then I see her. Anastasia Steele. The brunette who's been the cause of my seething anger—and other, less welcome feelings—lately.

She's walking down the stairs with a calm, almost indifferent air, as if she hasn't kept everyone waiting for hours. Her hair is loose, framing her face, and her body moves with an unintentional grace that makes my breath hitch despite myself. She's wearing a tight pink stained, white dress shirt, paired with tight black trousers that hugs every infuriating curve of her long legs.

Damn her. Even now, when my blood is boiling, I can't help but let my gaze trail down her figure. There's something about her—this maddening mix of defiance and allure—that pulls me in despite my better judgment. I continue my ogling, my eyes traveling down her mile-long legs, and what I see next stops me cold. Her feet.

Bare.

No shoes, no socks—just bare feet padding silently across the hardwood floor. My frustration momentarily takes a backseat to confusion, curiosity burning in its place. Where the hell are her shoes? It's like a game of Where's Waldo, except with footwear. Did she lose them? Forget them? Or, knowing her, is there some ridiculous explanation I'll have to drag out of her?

As she reaches the bottom of the stairs, She rounds the corner and slips into the kitchen, her movements quiet but purposeful.

Relief washes over me—she's safe. I hadn't realized how much tension I'd been holding onto until now. But the relief is quickly replaced by anger.

My jaw tightens and I push myself up from the chair, every muscle in my body aching from the hours I've spent stewing. Stretching does little to ease the tension—tension she's responsible for. My patience is gone, replaced by a simmering rage. I follow her into the kitchen.

She's at the sink when I step inside, pouring water into a glass. She takes a long sip, her throat working as she drinks, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing behind her.

My gaze lingers on her for a beat longer than I intended. The way the soft light catches her profile, the curve of her lips as she sets the glass down—damn her again. She has no right to look so unaffected. Not after the stunt she's pulled.

"Care to explain where the hell you've been, Miss Steele?" I bite out, my voice cold and sharp, slicing through the silence.

She freezes, slowly, she turns to face me, her blue eyes wide with surprise. For a fleeting moment, she looks uncertain, even guilty. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by that maddening composure of hers.

"I can explain," she blurts, her voice laced with panic.

"Well?" I take a step closer, my voice low and dangerous. "You've been gone all day. My mother's been worried sick. My father's been pacing. Half the security team has been out looking for you and Mia." My tone grows sharper with each word, my anger bubbling to the surface.

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms as my glare bores into her. "Do you have any idea the chaos you've caused tonight? My family has been up for hours because of you. And here you are, strolling in at 2:30 in the morning, without a care in the world."

I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. "Start talking, Anastasia. And whatever you have to say better be good."