As I cruise back toward Seattle in Wanda, my trusty pale blue Volkswagen Beetle, the roar of the engine is like an old lullaby. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting warm streaks of light across the dashboard. I glance at the empty passenger seat where the remnants of the bakery bag sit, the faint smell of apple and pecan still lingering.

Ray's words replay in my mind: "It's not about not falling; it's about what you do after you've hit the ground." I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. The truth in his sentiment is grounding. Life has thrown curveballs, but I'm still standing—or driving—onward.

Just as I start to relax into the drive, Wanda makes a sputtering noise, the engine lurching before falling silent. My heart sinks. "No, no, no. Come on, Wanda," I plead, coasting to the shoulder of the road. I pull the handbrake, the quiet of the countryside engulfing me.

I pop the hood and step out, taking in the long stretch of empty road. The engine smells like something burnt. I groan, reach for my phone, and dial the first number that comes to mind—Taylor. Straight to voicemail. I try Luke next. Same result. Prescott, Ryan…not a single answer.

"Perfect," I mutter, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat.

Leaning against Wanda, I take in the scenery. The fading sunlight casts golden hues on the evergreen trees, their tops swaying slightly in the breeze. Normally, I'd find this calming, but the anxiety of being stranded gnaws at me.

Options swirl in my mind—wait for someone to call back, or flag down a passing car. Either way, I'm not going anywhere fast.

I stare at my phone, the fading sunlight glinting off the screen. Wanda sits there silently, her usual charm now replaced by a stubborn defiance. With no other options, I scroll to the number I swore I wouldn't use unless it is absolutely necessary.

Him.

Taking a deep breath, I hit the call button. The dial tone rings out, steady and unyielding, amplifying my nerves. What if he doesn't answer? Or worse—what if he does?

"Anastasia." His voice is crisp, yet there's an undercurrent of curiosity. No hello, no preamble—just my name.

"Mr. Grey," I reply, my voice tight as I try to mask my discomfort. "I…need assistance. Wanda broke down."

"Wanda?" he asks, his tone lightening ever so slightly.

"My car," I clarify, glancing at the silent Beetle like a traitorous friend.

There's a pause, then a faint sigh. "Where are you?"

"About ten minutes outside Montesano, on the highway. I tried calling others, but no one's answering."

"Of course, they're not," he mutters, more to himself than to me. Then, in a sharper tone, "Stay where you are. I'll send someone."

I hesitate, unsure if I should express gratitude or frustration. "Thank you, sir."

"Be careful," he adds, softer now. The call ends before I can respond.

I lower the phone and lean against Wanda, the sinking sun casting long shadows over the road. Relief battles with apprehension. Help is on the way, but it's not just anyone—he's sent it. And somehow, that feels like the real complication.

I stare at my phone after the call ends, still processing the conversation. He's sending someone. Great. That should resolve this quickly.

But as I lean back against Wanda, letting the cool metal press against me, doubt creeps in. Why did he sound so…personal? Not just efficient, not just authoritative—there was something else in his voice.

I push the thought away and try to distract myself, pacing the empty shoulder of the road. The wind rustles the nearby trees, and the occasional car zooms past, kicking up a light spray of dust. Minutes stretch endlessly, and just as I begin to question how much longer this journey will take, the low growl of an approaching engine cuts through the stillness

I turn, expecting to see one of his security vehicles or maybe a tow truck. Instead, a sleek black Audi pulls up alongside me. The passenger window lowers, revealing him.

"Get in," Christian says, his voice steady but edged with irritation.

I blink. "You…came yourself?"

"Obviously," he replies, his eyes scanning my face briefly before flicking to Wanda. "This is Wanda?" His tone is laced with disbelief as he glances at the old Beetle, its pale blue paint slightly dulled by years of wear.

"Yes," I say, folding my arms defensively. "She's reliable. Usually."

His lips press into a thin line, as though he's holding back a comment. Instead, he exits the car and walks over to Wanda, inspecting her like he's about to buy her out of pity.

"What exactly happened?" he asks, crouching slightly to peer at the tires.

"She just…stopped. No warning. I tried restarting, but nothing."

He straightens, dusting off his hands. "Get in my car. I'll deal with this later."

"Wait—you'll deal with this? We can't just leave her here!" I protest, glancing at Wanda like she might overhear and take offense.

Christian raises an eyebrow. "And what do you suggest, Anastasia? That I magically fix her here on the side of the highway? Or would you prefer to camp out until someone else arrives?"

I hate that he's right, but the idea of abandoning Wanda stings. Still, the sun is now long gone, and the chill in the air is becoming more pronounced. Reluctantly, I grab my bag and walk over to the Audi.

Sliding into the passenger seat feels surreal—like stepping into another world. The interior is immaculate, the scent of leather faint but comforting.

As he pulls onto the road, silence fills the car. I sneak a glance at him, his profile sharp against the dimming light. There's an intensity in his focus, like the road itself has dared to challenge him.

"Thank you," I murmur finally, breaking the silence.

He doesn't look at me but nods, his grip on the wheel steady.

"Next time, call me first." There's no reprimand in his tone, just a quiet certainty that I can't quite challenge.

And somehow, sitting there beside him, I don't feel stranded anymore.

The sound of the engine fills the space between us as the Audi glides effortlessly down the highway. I steal a glance at him, his expression unreadable. Christian's focus remains fixed on the road, his hands are now relaxed but firm on the wheel.

I try to distract myself by looking out the window, but my thoughts keep circling back to the fact that he came himself. Not a driver, not Taylor—him.

"Why did you come?" The question slips out before I can stop it. I look at him examining his handsome Adonis-like face.

His jaw tightens briefly, and I brace for a curt response. Instead, he exhales through his nose, his voice measured. "You're in my employ, Anastasia. Your safety is my responsibility."

"That's not an answer," I say, turning in my seat to face him.

His lips press into a thin line. "You didn't sound okay on the phone," he admits, his tone softer. "I didn't want to leave this to anyone else."

I'm caught off guard by his honesty, unsure how to respond. My fingers toy with the strap of my bag, the weight of his words settling over me.

"Well…thank you," I say quietly, my voice almost lost in the purr of the car.

He glances at me briefly, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to thank me."

The silence that follows is thick with unspoken thoughts. The city lights of Seattle begin to appear on the horizon, their glow piercing through the encroaching darkness.

"What's going to happen to Wanda?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"I'll have her towed to a shop," he replies smoothly. "Or replaced."

"Replaced?" My voice rises in protest. "She's not some outdated piece of tech, Christian. Wanda is history." he looks at me when his name effortlessly rolls off my tongue, almost like a purr.

"She's unreliable," he counters, his tone firm but not unkind. "You need something safer."

I scoff, crossing my arms. "She's a classic. She just needs a little TLC."

He glances at me again, one brow arched. "TLC won't help if she leaves you stranded on the side of the road again."

I open my mouth to argue but stop. He's not wrong—Wanda is aging, and her quirks have been adding up. Still, the thought of giving her up feels like letting go of a piece of myself.

I've managed to shift my focus to the scenery as we continue the journey back to Seattle, but Christian's silence feels heavier now.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and curious. "Montesano isn't exactly a bustling destination. What were you doing there?"

I glance at him, unsure how much to share.

"Visiting someone," I reply vaguely, turning back to the window.

"That's a bit evasive, even for you," he presses, his tone not accusatory but insistent.

I sigh, knowing he won't let it go. "My dad's in the hospital there."

Christian's grip on the wheel tightens slightly, his knuckles paling. "Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

I shrug. "It's personal, and I don't like broadcasting my private life."

He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a hum and a scoff. "You're remarkably independent, Anastasia. Almost to a fault."

I bristle at the comment. "It's not about being independent. It's about boundaries."

"Boundaries are fine," he concedes, his voice steady, a ghost of a smile appears on his lips, like the word has a different meaning to him altogether.

"But if you're dealing with something like this, it might help to have support. You don't have to carry it all alone."

I gape at him, surprised by the gentle understanding in his tone. He doesn't glance over, his attention firmly on the road, but his words linger in the space between us.

"I appreciate the thought," I say finally, my voice softer than I intended. "But I'm used to it. My dad's strong—he's going to be fine."

Christian nods, though his expression remains contemplative. "And how are you holding up?"

The question catches me off guard. It's one thing for someone to ask about Ray, but asking about me feels...unexpected.

"I'm fine," I reply, almost automatically.

"You don't have to be," he says simply, his voice steady and calm.

Something about his words tugs at the walls I've carefully built. I look out the window, my reflection staring back at me in the glass. "I'll be fine," I amend, quieter this time.

The rest of the drive passes in relative silence, save for the occasional sound of the tires against the asphalt. By the time the city skyline comes into view, the weight of his question still lingers in my chest.

Maybe Christian Grey sees more than he lets on. And maybe, just maybe, I don't mind.

By the time we pull into the underground garage at Escala, I feel both exhausted and oddly at ease.

Christian shifts the car into park and turns to me. "You're sure you're okay?"

I nod. "I am. Really."

He studies me for a moment longer, then nods.

As I make my way to the elevator, I can't help but smile faintly. For all his control and composure, Christian Grey has a way of stepping in when I least expected it—and exactly when I needed it.

As the elevator doors slid shut, the tension in the air thickened. I could feel Christian's presence beside me, the heat radiating from him in waves. The quiet whirring of the elevator seemed louder than usual, amplifying the rapid thrum of my heartbeat in my ears.

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor indicator, willing myself to focus, to pretend the space between us wasn't charged with an unspoken intensity. But the longer we stood in silence, the harder it became to ignore the magnetic pull between us.

Then, without warning, he let out a sharp breath. "Fuck it," he muttered under his breath, the words low and forceful.

Before I could fully register what was happening, he moved. In one swift motion, Christian turned to me, his hands bracing against the elevator wall on either side of my shoulders. I barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed into mine.

The kiss was searing, demanding, yet surprisingly tender beneath the urgency. My back pressed against the cool metal of the elevator wall as his body closed the distance, his warmth enveloping me. For a moment, the world outside disappeared—there was no broken-down car, no questions about where I'd been, no complexities. Just him.

His hand moved to cradle my jaw, his thumb brushing against my cheek as if grounding the moment. The combination of his touch and the intensity of the kiss sent a rush of heat through me, igniting a fire that spread from my chest right to my core.

My mind screamed at me to stop, to pull away, to remember the lines we shouldn't be crossing. But my body betrayed me, leaning into him, responding to the kiss as if it had been waiting for this moment longer than I cared to admit.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His breath was unsteady, matching the rapid rise and fall of my chest. His eyes locked onto mine, darkened and intense, searching for something—an answer, a reaction, a sign of what came next.

"I've been holding back," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "But I can't anymore."

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words didn't come. My thoughts were a tangled mess, my resolve frayed by the undeniable truth of what had just happened.

Before I could gather myself, the elevator dinged, announcing our arrival. The doors slid open, and reality came crashing back in. Christian straightened, stepping back just enough to give me space but keeping his gaze fixed on me.

I stayed frozen for a moment, my back still against the wall, my lips tingling from the kiss. As we stepped out into the foyer, the charged air between us lingered. Whatever had just unfolded in the elevator—it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The silence stretched between us as we walked into the penthouse, the tension lingering like an unspoken secret. Christian kept a measured pace, his expression unreadable, though I could feel his gaze flicker toward me more than once.

My mind raced, trying to process what had just happened—the heat of his lips on mine, the way he had looked at me, as though the rest of the world didn't exist. It left me shaken and exhilarated in equal measure.

We reached the door splitting his penthouse from the staff quarters, Christian stopped, turning to face me. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the air crackling with the weight of everything unsaid.

"I'll see you later," he finally said, his voice lower than usual, as if he, too, were struggling to regain composure.

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze for long. "Goodnight, Mr. Grey." My voice betrayed me, softer than I intended, and I cursed the flutter in my chest as I hurried toward my room.

The familiar layout greeted me, but tonight it felt different—smaller, quieter, suffocating. As I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath.

What the hell just happened?

I replayed the moment in the elevator, every touch, every glance. My hand rose to my lips, brushing against them as if to confirm they were still warm from his kiss.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I was here to protect his sister, to do my job, to keep things professional. And yet, the boundaries I had worked so hard to maintain felt irreparably blurred.

I moved to the kitchen, needing something—anything—to steady myself. Filling a glass with water, I took a long sip, the cool liquid doing little to calm the storm inside me.

The quiet buzz of my phone on the counter caught my attention. A message from Luke:

Luke: Everything okay? You seemed... tense earlier.

I stared at the screen, debating how to respond. Did I tell him? Could I even put it into words?

Instead, I typed a quick reply: I'm fine. Just tired. See you tomorrow.

Hitting send, I sighed and set the phone down. The weight of what had transpired pressed heavily on me. Retreating to my room, I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring out at the city lights twinkling in the distance.

Christian Grey had just kissed me.

And despite every logical reason I could conjure to forget it, my traitorous heart knew one thing for certain.

I didn't want to.