Christian's Point of View:
I walked away from her, each step heavier than the last. The polished floors of the penthouse gleamed beneath the dim light, reflecting my stoic expression—a facade I could barely maintain.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The elevator replayed in my mind in vivid detail—the press of her body against mine, the heat of her lips, the quiet gasp she made when I kissed her. A moment of pure recklessness.
"Fuck it," I had said, and in that second, I truly meant it. To hell with self-control, to hell with the carefully maintained boundaries. I wanted her, needed her, more than I cared to admit.
But now, as I retreated to the sanctuary of my office, doubt began to creep in. I ran a hand through my hair, pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. The view offered no clarity, only the distance of Seattle's life, indifferent to my turmoil.
She looked shaken when I left her—beautifully flustered, with those wide blue eyes that seemed to peer straight through me. Did I push too far? Too fast?
I sank into the leather chair behind my desk, elbows resting on the surface as I rubbed my temples. This wasn't part of the plan. Anastasia Steele was supposed to be Mia's protector, a skilled and disciplined professional, someone I could rely on to keep my sister safe.
Not someone I would lose myself over in a damn elevator.
I reached for my phone, the impulse to check on her nearly overwhelming. My thumb hovered over her contact, but I stopped myself. No. She needs space. She needs me to show restraint, something I clearly failed to do tonight.
Closing my eyes, I leaned back in the chair, the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall the only sound in the room. Yet, I couldn't stop seeing her—standing there in that elevator, her defenses crumbling as I kissed her. The feel of her warm skin under my touch, the way she kept her hands steady against the wall, careful not to touch me.
What was it about her? The quiet strength? The sharp mind she tried to hide behind her humility? Or the way she carried herself, like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders but refused to let it break her?
I let out a frustrated sigh. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. For both of us.
Tomorrow, I would need to find a way to address this—talk to her, establish boundaries, ensure this wouldn't interfere with her job.
But even as I told myself that, a part of me knew it was a lie.
Because boundaries didn't exist anymore.
I sat in my office long after the city below had begun to settle into the quietness of night. The room was dark, only the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the glass. My fingers drummed against the desk, restless, as my thoughts cycled back to her.
Anastasia.
I couldn't shake the way her lips felt against mine, the way she'd trembled under my touch yet didn't pull away. She wasn't indifferent to me—her response had been as unrestrained as my own.
But what did it mean?
Should I introduce her to my world? Will she stay?
That is a risk that I cannot take.
I wasn't a man prone to impulsivity. Every decision I made was calculated, and deliberate. Yet with her, it was as though all logic dissolved. Anastasia unraveled me in ways I couldn't comprehend. And that scared the hell out of me.
I grabbed a glass from the corner bar, pouring a measure of Scotch to steady my nerves. The amber liquid burned its way down my throat, but it did little to silence the storm raging inside me.
I had made a mistake. Kissing her crossed a line I couldn't uncross, and yet I couldn't bring myself to regret it. If anything, I craved more.
A soft knock at the door broke my thoughts.
"Come in," I called, my voice sharper than I intended.
Taylor stepped inside, his expression neutral as always. "Everything secure for the night, sir."
"Good," I said, a tad disappointed that it wasn't Miss Steele rushing back for more.
He lingered, as though debating whether to speak.
"Something else?" I prompted, more curtly than necessary.
He hesitated, his gaze steady but unreadable. "Is there anything you'd like me to do about Steele, sir?"
His words hit like a punch to the gut. Of course, Taylor noticed. He noticed everything.
For a moment, I studied him, piecing together the fragments of his words. It wasn't just Anastasia he was referring to—it was her father.
"You knew her father was in the hospital?" I asked, my voice low but sharp enough to cut.
Taylor nodded, his stance unwavering. "Raymond mentioned it to me last week. Said it was a routine procedure, nothing to worry about."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. Still, frustration simmered beneath the surface.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He met my gaze, calm and steady. "With respect, sir, it wasn't my place. Miss Steele didn't bring it up, and I assumed she had her reasons."
I clenched my jaw, torn between annoyance and understanding. Taylor was right—it wasn't his place. But the idea of Anastasia dealing with this alone left a sour taste in my mouth.
"Understood," I said finally, my tone clipped. "That'll be all for tonight, Taylor."
"Yes, sir." With a slight nod, he turned and left, leaving me alone with the unsettling realization that there was more to her than I'd ever cared to admit.
As the door clicked shut behind him, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the now-empty glass in my hand.
Anastasia wasn't just doing her job well. She was exceptional. Smart, capable, determined. She had more strength than she gave herself credit for, and it drew me to her, like nothing else ever had.
But this… whatever this was between us—this was a complication. The rational side of me will not win this fight.
I stood abruptly, the chair rolling back against the floor. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in.
I crossed to the windows, pressing a hand against the cool glass. Below, Seattle sprawled in its usual chaos, oblivious to the battle inside of me.
I needed to keep my distance for her sake and mine.
And yet, as I stood there staring into the night, I knew I wouldn't.
I glanced at the clock—nearly midnight. Andrea wouldn't appreciate the late call, but this couldn't wait. I picked up my phone, dialing her number.
She answered on the second ring, her voice slightly groggy but still professional. "Mr. Grey?"
"Andrea," I began, my tone brisk, cutting through the lateness of the hour.
"I need you to make arrangements to have Raymond Steele transferred to Seattle Grace Hospital first thing tomorrow. Coordinate with the hospital in Montesano to ensure everything is in order."
There was a brief pause, the faint sound of rustling papers on her end.
"Understood, sir. Do you have a specific doctor in mind for his care?"
"Dr. Lambert. Reach out to him —he owes me a favor." I began pacing the office, the echo of my footsteps filling the silence. "I want the best team waiting for him when he arrives. Cost isn't a concern."
"Yes, Mr. Grey. I'll handle it and confirm the arrangements within the hour," she assured me, her usual efficiency breaking through her sleep-heavy tone.
"Good. And Andrea—thank you."
I ended the call, letting the phone fall onto my desk with a soft thud. Midnight or not, this couldn't wait. Mr Steele needed to be closer, for Anastasia's sake as much as his. I couldn't bear the thought of her driving those desolate roads at all hours, alone and vulnerable. She deserved to focus on her father's recovery, not the logistics of hospital visits.
The memory of her earlier tonight lingered, vivid and consuming. The way she looked at me in the elevator, that spark of something raw and unguarded. It had been enough to break my restraint. Enough to make me realize just how tightly she was entwined in my thoughts.
Tonight had made one thing glaringly clear: she wasn't just another part of my world. She was quickly becoming the center of it.
