"Good morning, Ana," Gail Jones greets me as I step into the kitchen. Her Atlantic-ocean-colored eyes are scanning mine, her expression edged with concern.

"Morning, Gail," I reply, reaching over the counter to grab a handful of berries and popping them into my mouth.

"You look quite formal this morning. It's Saturday, darling," she notes, her tone gently curious.

I glance down at myself—black trousers, a pale blue button-up, and a tailored blazer. It's my usual attire, and definitely not the heels that Mia Grey insists I should wear, today, I've opted for flats.

"Oh, thanks. Have a good day, Gail. And send my regards to your sister."

"I will, Ana," she says, her voice tinged with surprise as I stride out of the kitchen.

As I head down the hall, I pass a few of the guys returning from their workouts or finishing late shifts, their sights set on raiding Gail's legendary morning spread. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods hangs in the air.

I can't help but wonder why they're here. Most of them don't even live in the building, so shouldn't they eat at home? But then again, Mrs. Jones's cooking could lure anyone.

Besides Gail and Jason, it's just Prescott, Ryan, and me who actually live here. Well, technically, I'm staying here temporarily—until Kate, my roommate, and best friend since university, gets back from Hawaii. She left for a family trip without leaving me a spare key. Typical Kate. This is my first time back in Washington in three years, and her oversight left me camping at Escala until further notice.

"Good morning, Taylor," I greet him as I enter the main apartment foyer.

"Steele," he acknowledges with his usual brevity. Oh boy.

"Mr. Grey wants to see you."

"Yes, sir." I nod and turn toward Christian's office, but Taylor's hand on my wrist halts me.

"Ana," he says, his deep voice softening as I look up at him. He towers over me now that I've abandoned the skyscraper heels Mia gifted me. It's a rare moment when I don't feel at eye level with his nose.

"Just relax," he says with an encouraging squeeze.

"I'll try," I reply with a small smile.

His features soften further, a paternal warmth in his gaze. Jason Taylor—my third dad. Raymond Steele has been my only real father figure, but Jason has unofficially joined that exclusive list.

"I don't think anything bad will happen," he reassures me. "I promise."

"Okay," I say, nodding, though his statement does little to settle the nerves twisting in my stomach.

"Alright, kiddo," he says, stepping away.

I watch him disappear down the hall, leaving me alone to face the gauntlet ahead.

Is it foolish to be intimidated by the man waiting for me just a few rooms away?
Absolutely.

But I'm Anastasia Rose Steele. I've proven my resilience before—boarding that plane in Afghanistan and coming home in one piece was no small feat.

I might be a little rusty now, worn down by circumstances, but it's time to remind myself of who I am. Time to oil the gears and face the storm.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders before making my way to Christian Grey's office. My flats tap softly against the polished wood floors, the sound almost drowned out by the whispers of activity in the penthouse.

The hallway feels longer than usual, every step amplifying my awareness of the inevitable conversation waiting at the other end.

When I finally reach the large double doors, I pause to steady myself. The smooth, dark wood reflects my faint silhouette, a reminder of the composure I need to maintain.

Knocking twice, I wait.

"Come in," his voice calls out, sharp and efficient.

I push the door open, stepping into the sanctuary of Christian's workspace. His office is as imposing as the man himself—sleek, modern, and intimidatingly tidy. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with natural light, casting shadows across the minimalist decor.

Christian is seated at his desk, his focus fixed on a document. His sharp features are set in a neutral expression, but there's an intensity about him that never wavers.

"Mr. Grey," I greet him, keeping my voice steady.

"Anastasia," he says, his voice firm, without sparing me a glance.

I remain standing, acutely aware of his commanding presence as he finishes reading. The sound of the paper folding is sharp in the quiet room, and when he finally sets it aside and looks up, the intensity in his eyes steals the air from my lungs.

"You're prompt," he says, leaning back in his chair. His tone is clipped, but there's something else beneath it—something I can't quite place.

"Of course," I reply, clasping my hands behind my back.

"Good." He gestures toward the chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

I comply, lowering myself into the seat, the leather creaking softly as I shift to sit upright. His eyes linger on me, sharp and assessing, like he's searching for cracks in my armor.

Christian leans forward, clasping his hands on the desk. "Do you know why I've called you here?"

"No, sir," I reply, my voice steady despite the dryness in my throat.

"Then let me enlighten you," he says, his tone cutting through the room like a blade.

I brace myself as he continues, his voice cool but laced with something restrained. "Mia has been more difficult than usual. And it hasn't escaped my notice that this behavior aligns with your assignment to her."

The words sting, but I refuse to look away.

"Sir, with all due respect, Miss Grey's behavior—"

"Stop." His hand cuts through the air, silencing me. His gaze sharpens, irritation flickering across his face. "Spare me the excuses, Steele. I'm not interested in hearing why things are falling apart. I'm interested in fixing it."

I clench my jaw, holding back the retort that rises in my chest.

He studies me for a long moment, his silence more cutting than his words. "You're capable. That much is obvious. But I'm beginning to wonder if capability alone is enough."

"I understand," I say firmly, though my pulse quickens under his scrutiny.

"Do you?" His tone is a challenge, and his gaze pierces through me as if daring me to falter.

"Yes, sir."

He leans back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observes me. For a moment, something flashes in his expression—irritation, yes, but also something deeper. Something conflicted.

"You frustrate me, Steele," he says abruptly, his tone shifting to something more personal. "Not because of Mia, but because I can't afford distractions in my staff. And yet..." He pauses, his jaw tightening.

"And yet what, sir?" I ask cautiously.

"And yet I find myself reluctant to dismiss you." His admission hangs in the air, heavy and charged. His fingers drum once against the desk before he stills them, as though regretting the slip. "Your performance is lacking, but the idea of replacing you... doesn't sit well with me."

I blink, his words sinking in, though I'm unsure how to respond.

"Don't misunderstand me," he adds quickly, his tone hardening again. "This isn't charity. It's pragmatism. I need results, Steele. If you can't deliver them, I'll have no choice but to reassign you—regardless of my feelings on the matter."

"Understood, sir," I reply, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions his words ignite.

"Good," he says, though the word feels like a dismissal of more than just the conversation. "Because I'm giving you one last chance."

"One last chance?"

"Yes." His gaze locks onto mine, the tension between us crackling. "Prove to me that you can handle Mia. Otherwise..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but the weight of his threat is clear.

"I can handle it," I say, my voice resolute.

He leans back, his expression unreadable, though the slight tension in his jaw betrays him. "We'll see."

I rise to leave, but his voice stops me mid-step.

"Sit."

The command is sharp, and I hesitate before complying.

His gaze sharpens, studying me with a mixture of irritation and something softer. "You've been running yourself into the ground," he says. "Mia, the chaos, this environment—it's too much. Even for someone like you."

"I'm handling it," I say, though I know it sounds defensive.

He raises a brow, his tone dipping into something dangerously soft. "Are you?"

I press my lips together, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Don't be stubborn," he says, though there's a hint of something almost fond in his voice. "You're no good to me if you burn out."

I blink, thrown by the unexpected concern in his words.

"So," he says, his tone firm again, "I'm giving you the rest of the day off."

"The day off?"

"Yes," he replies, his gaze steady, though his jaw tightens again, betraying his frustration. "Take it. That's not a suggestion."

"Thank you, sir," I say, rising again.

He watches me for a beat longer, his eyes narrowing slightly as though deliberating something. "Steele," he says, his voice lower, almost hesitant. "Don't make me regret keeping you."

His words linger as I leave, the tension between us simmering just below the surface.

I nod, turning on my heel to leave. His gaze lingers on my back as I move toward the door, the weight of it pressing against my shoulders. I don't look back—I can't.

As I step out of his office, a strange mix of relief and unease washes over me, clashing like waves in a storm. Relief that I've been granted a reprieve, however temporary. Unease at the stark reminder that I'm walking a tightrope, and one misstep could send me plummeting.

A day off. A chance to breathe. To regroup. Yet, I can't shake the sense that this isn't a gift—it's a test. A test of my resilience, my focus, my ability to rise to the impossible standards Christian Grey demands.

The echo of his words—sharp, cutting, yet laced with something unspoken—follows me as I make my way down the corridor. One last chance. His admission, that keeping me was more than mere pragmatism, tugs at the edges of my mind, unsettling me in ways I can't quite name.

I push the thought aside, focusing instead on what I can control. Prove myself. That's all that matters now.

When I finally reach my quarters, I pause before opening the door, inhaling deeply. The quiet of the space inside offers no comfort, only the promise of time to reflect—on Mia, on Christian, and on the mounting pressure to deliver results.

The day stretches ahead, uncharted and unfamiliar. But instead of succumbing to the weight of my doubts, I square my shoulders. This isn't the end. It's a chance to regroup, to recalibrate, and to show Christian Grey exactly who I am.

I will not fail.

The drive to Montesano Hospital is a familiar one, the winding roads lined with towering evergreens offering a strange sense of comfort despite the gnawing worry in my chest. The rhythmic drone of the tires against the asphalt and the faint strains of a country station on the radio are my only companions.

I glance at the passenger seat where a small white paper bag sits, the faint smell of cinnamon and caramelized sugar wafting through the car. I'd stopped by a local bakery on the way—a quaint little place with cheerful staff and a counter lined with fresh pastries. It had been an impulse decision, but when I spotted the apple pecan danish in the display case, I couldn't resist.

Ray has a soft spot for anything with pecans. Growing up, he'd often sneak one from the batch my mom used to bake, even before they had cooled. "Quality control," he'd joke, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

The memory makes me smile as I pull into the hospital parking lot. The sprawling building looms ahead, its stark white facade softened by the gentle morning light. I park the car and take a deep breath, clutching the paper bag as I step out.

Inside, the hospital is its usual blend of sterility and subdued bustle. I pass a nurse pushing a cart of medications and a family huddled in the waiting area, their whispered conversation barely audible.

When I reach Ray's room, I knock softly on the doorframe, peeking inside.

"Hey, Dad," I say as I enter, holding up the bag like a trophy.

Ray looks up from the television, his face lighting up when he sees me. "Annie! You didn't have to—"

"Yes, yes, I know," I cut him off, placing the bag on the small table beside his bed. "But I figured you'd appreciate a little treat. Apple pecan Danish. Your favorite."

His smile widens, the weariness in his features momentarily lifting. "You remembered."

"Of course I did," I reply, pulling up a chair. "You think I'd forget something as important as your love for pecans?"

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar, as he reaches for the bag. "You're too good to me, kiddo."

As Ray takes a bite of the Danish, he lets out a satisfied hum, nodding his approval. "Still warm," he says through a mouthful, grinning like a kid.

I laugh softly, leaning back in the chair, letting the comfort of the moment settle over us. It feels good to see him smile, even if it's just for a little while.

"You know, Annie," he says after a pause, setting the half-eaten danish on a napkin. "I was thinking the other day… life doesn't always give you the time to say what matters. I don't want to make that mistake anymore."

I tilt my head, sensing a shift in his tone. "What are you trying to say, Dad?"

He looks at me, his expression earnest, his weathered face etched with a kind of wisdom that only comes from living through both joys and hardships. "I just want you to know how proud I am of you. You've been through more than most people could handle, and you've done it with your head held high. You've always had this fire in you, Annie, even when you were just a little girl. I see it now more than ever."

His words hit me harder than I expect. A lump rises in my throat, and I glance away, blinking quickly to keep my emotions in check. "I don't always feel like I have it together," I admit, my voice quieter than I intended.

Ray shakes his head, his gaze steady. "That's the thing, kid. None of us do. But it's about showing up anyway. And you? You always show up."

His words echo in my mind, settling into a place I didn't know needed filling. I've spent so much time second-guessing myself, questioning my decisions, and feeling the weight of everything I carry. But hearing him say that—hearing it from him—feels like a lifeline.

"Thanks, Dad," I manage to say, my voice thick. "That… means a lot."

He reaches over, placing a hand on mine. "I mean every word."

We sit in silence for a moment, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound in the room. I realize then how much I needed to hear this, to feel seen and understood by someone who knows me so deeply.

"Now," he says, his tone lightening as he picks up the Danish again, "tell me more about this job of yours. What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into these days?"

I laugh, the tension easing as I start to recount the latest chaos. But his words stay with me, a quiet reminder that even when the world feels heavy, I have a foundation to lean on.