I just gaze at him unable to speak. Jeez, he's mad—really mad.
"Christ, Ana!" He bangs his fist on the table, making me jump, and stands so abruptly he almost knocks the dining chair over. "You have one thing, one thing to remember. Shit! I don't f*cking believe it. How could you be so stupid?"
Stupid! I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Sorry? F*ck!" he says again.
"I know the timing's not very good."
"Not very good!" he shouts. "We've known each other five f*cking minutes.
I wanted to show you the f*cking world and now . . . F*ck. Diapers and vomit and shit!" He closes his eyes. I think he's trying to contain his temper and losing the battle.
"Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?" His eyes blaze and anger emanates off him like a force field.
"No," I whisper. I can't tell him about Hannah—he'd fire her. I know.
"I thought we'd agreed on this!" he shouts.
"I know. We had. I'm sorry."
He ignores me. "This is why. This is why I like control. So shit like this doesn't come along and f*ck everything up."
No . . . Little Blip. "Christian, please don't shout at me." Tears start to slip down my face.
"Don't start with waterworks now," he snaps. "F*ck." He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it as he does. "You think I'm ready to be a father?" His voice catches, and it's a mixture of rage and panic.
And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent. Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It's a shock for me, too.
"I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you'll make a wonderful father," I choke. "We'll figure it out."
"How the f*ck do you know!" he shouts, louder this time. "Tell me how!"
His gray eyes burn, and so many emotions cross his face. It's fear that's most prominent.
"Oh f*ck this!" Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and he disappears through the double doors into the foyer, slamming the door behind him and making me jump once more.
I am alone with the silence—the still, silent emptiness of the great room. I shudder involuntarily as I gaze numbly at the closed doors. He's walked out on me. Shit! His reaction is far worse than I could ever have imagined. I push my plate away and fold my arms on the table, letting my head sink into them while I weep.
"Ana, dear." Mrs. Jones is hovering beside me.
I sit up quickly, dashing the tears from my face.
"I heard. I'm sorry," she says gently. "Would you like an herbal tea or something?"
"I'd like a glass of white wine."
Mrs. Jones pauses for a fraction of a second, and I remember Blip. Now I can't drink alcohol. Can I? I must study the dos and don'ts Dr. Greene gave me.
"I'll get you a glass."
"Actually, I'll have a cup of tea, please." I wipe my nose. She smiles kindly.
"Cup of tea coming up." She clears our plates and heads over to the kitchen area. I follow her and perch on a stool, watching her prepare my tea.
She places a steaming mug in front of me. "Is there anything else I can get for you, Ana?"
"No, this is fine, thank you."
"Are you sure? You didn't eat much."
I gaze up at her. "I'm just not hungry."
"Ana, you should eat. It's not just you anymore. Please let me fix you something. What would you like?" She looks so hopefully at me. But really, I can't face anything.
My husband has just walked out on me because I'm pregnant, my father has been in a major car accident, and there's Jack Hyde the nutcase trying to make out that I sexually harassed him. I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to giggle. See what you've done to me, Little Blip! I caress my belly.
Mrs. Jones smiles indulgently at me. "Do you know how far you are?" she asks softly.
"Very newly pregnant. Four or five weeks, the doctor isn't sure."
"If you won't eat, then at least you should rest."
I nod, and taking my tea, I head into the library. It's my refuge. I dig my BlackBerry out of my purse and contemplate calling Christian. I know it's a shock for him—but he really did overreact. When does he not overreact? My subconscious arches a finely plucked brow at me. I sigh. Fifty Shades of f*cked up.
"Yes, that's your daddy, Little Blip. Hopefully he'll cool off and come back . . . soon."
I pull out the leaflet of dos and don'ts and sit down to read.
I can't concentrate. Christian's never walked out on me before. He's been so thoughtful and kind over the last few days, so loving and now . . . Suppose he never comes back? Shit! Perhaps I should call Flynn. I don't know what to do.
I'm at a loss. He's so fragile in so many ways, and I knew he'd react badly to the news. He was so sweet this weekend. All those circumstances way beyond his control, yet he managed fine. But this news was too much.
Ever since I met him, my life has been complicated. Is it him? Is it the two of us together? Suppose he doesn't get past this? Suppose he wants a divorce? Bile rises in my throat. No. I mustn't think this way. He'll be back. He will. I know he will. I know regardless of the shouting and his harsh words he loves me . . . yes.
And he'll love you, too, Little Blip.
Leaning back in my chair, I start to doze.
I wake cold and disorientated. Shivering I check my watch; eleven in the evening.
Oh yes . . . You. I pat my belly. Where's Christian? Is he back? Stiffly I ease out of the armchair and go in search of my husband.
Five minutes later, I realize he's not home. I hope nothing's happened to him.
Memories of the long wait when Charlie Tango went missing flood back.
No, no, no. Stop thinking like this. He's probably gone to . . . where? Who would he go and see? Elliot? Or maybe he's with Flynn. I hope so. I find my BlackBerry back in the library, and I text him.
*Where are you?*
I head into the bathroom and run myself a bath. I am so cold.
He still hasn't returned when I climb out of the bath. I change into one of my 1930s-style satin nightdresses and my robe and head to the great room. On the way, I pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip's room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality. Will we paint it blue or pink? The sweet thought is soured by the fact that my errant husband is so pissed at the idea. Grabbing the duvet from the spare bed, I head in-to the great room to keep vigil.
Something wakes me. A sound.
"Shit!"
It's Christian in the foyer. I hear the table scrape across the floor again.
"Shit!" he repeats, more muffled this time.
I scramble up in time to see him stagger through the double doors. He's drunk. My scalp prickles. Shit, Christian drunk? I know how much he hates drunks. I leap up and run toward him.
"Christian, are you okay?"
He leans against the jamb of the foyer doors. "Mrs. Grey," he slurs.
Crap. He's very drunk. I don't know what to do.
"Oh . . . you look mighty fine, Anastasia."
"Where have you been?"
He puts his fingers to his lips and smiles crookedly at me. "Shh!"
"I think you'd better come to bed."
"With you . . ." He snickers.
Snickering! Frowning, I gently put my arm around his waist because he can hardly stand, let alone walk. Where has he been? How did he get home?
"Let me help you to bed. Lean on me."
"You are very beautiful, Ana." He leans onto me and sniffs my hair, almost knocking both of us over.
"Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed."
"Okay," he says as if he's trying to concentrate.
We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.
"Bed," he says, grinning.
"Yes, bed." I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.
"Join me," he says.
"Christian, I think you need some sleep."
"And so it begins. I've heard about this."
I frown. "Heard about what?"
"Babies mean no sex."
"I'm sure that's not true. Otherwise we'd all come from one-child families."
He gazes down at me. "You're funny."
"You're drunk."
"Yes." He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.
"Come on, Christian," I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid, ugly memories that no child should see. "Let's get you into bed." I push him gently, and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and grinning up at me, his haunted expression gone.
"Join me," he slurs.
"Let's get you undressed first."
He grins widely, drunkenly. "Now you're talking."
Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I'll take him over mad-as-hell Christian anytime.
"Sit up. Let me take your jacket off."
"The room is spinning."
Shit . . . is he going to throw up? "Christian, sit up!"
He smirks up at me. "Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing . . ."
"Yes. Do as you're told and sit up." I put my hands on my hips. He grins again, struggles up onto his elbows then sits up in a most unChristian-like, gawky fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.
"You smell good."
"You smell of hard liquor."
"Yes . . . bour-bon." He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I have to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a start on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.
"I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia," he says, slurring his words. "You should always be in satin or silk." He runs his hands up and down my hips then jerks me forward, pressing his mouth against my belly.
"And we have an invader in here."
I stop breathing. Holy cow. He's talking to Little Blip.
"You're going to keep me awake, aren't you?" he says to my belly.
Oh my. Christian looks up at me through his long dark lashes, gray eyes blurred and cloudy. My heart constricts.
"You'll choose him over me," he says sadly.
"Christian, you don't know what you're talking about. Don't be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she."
He frowns. "A she . . . Oh, God." He flops back down on to the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. I have managed to loosen his tie. I undo one shoelace and yank off his shoe and sock, then the other. When I stand, I see why I've met no resistance—Christian has passed out completely. He's sound asleep and snoring softly.
I stare at him. He's so goddamned beautiful, even drunk and snoring. His sculptured lips parted, one arm above his head, ruffling his messy hair, his face relaxed. He looks young—but then he is young; my young, stressed out, drunk, un-happy husband. The thought rests heavy in my heart.
Well, at least he's home. I wonder where he went. I'm not sure I have the energy or the strength to move him or undress him any further. He's on top of the duvet, too. Heading back into the great room, I pick up the duvet I was using and bring it back to our bedroom.
He's still fast asleep, still wearing his tie and his belt. I climb onto the bed beside him, remove his tie, and gently undo the top button of his shirt. He mumbles something incoherently in his sleep, but he doesn't wake. Carefully, I unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, and after some difficulty it's off. His shirt has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy trail. I can't resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.
I sit up and gaze at him again. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . what am I going to do with you? I brush my fingers through his hair. It's so soft and kiss his temple.
"I love you, Christian. Even when you're drunk and you've been out God knows where, I love you. I'll always love you."
"Hmm," he murmurs. I kiss his temple once more, then get off the bed, and cover him up with the spare duvet. I can sleep beside him, sideways across the bed . . . Yes, I'll do that.
First I'll sort out his clothes, though. I shake my head and pick up his socks and tie, and fold his jacket over my arm. As I do, his BlackBerry falls to the floor.
I pick it up and inadvertently unlock it. It opens on the texts screen. I can see my text, and above it, another.
F*ck. My scalp prickles.
*It was good to see you. I understand now.
Don't fret. You'll make a wonderful father.*
It's from her. Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson.
Shit. That's where he went. He's been to see her.
I gape at the text then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He's been out until one thirty in the morning drinking—with her! He snores softly, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent, oblivious drunk. He looks so serene.
Oh no, no, no. My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive—just. But this . . . this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and fro, weeping softly.
What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it—I knew it would come to this. Why. Why. Why? How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel about that woman. How could he turn to her? How? The knife twists slowly and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?
Through my tears, his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers. Oh, Christian. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.
For all our firsts on your first birthday as my beloved wife. I love you. C x No, no, no—I can't believe that it will always be this way, two steps forward and three steps back. But that's how it's always been with him. After each set-back, we move forward, inch by inch. He will come around . . . he will. But will I? Will I recover from this . . . from this treachery? I think about how he's been this last, horrible, wonderful weekend. His quiet strength while my stepdad lay broken and comatose in the ICU . . . my surprise party, bringing my family and friends together . . . dipping me down low outside the Heathman and kissing me in full public view. Oh, Christian, you strain all my trust, all my faith . . . and I love you.
But it's not just me now. I place my hand on my belly. No, I will not let him do this to me and our Blip. Dr. Flynn said I should give him the benefit of the doubt—well, not this time. I dash the tears from my eyes and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
Christian stirs and rolls over, pulling his legs up from the side of the bed, and curls up beneath the duvet. He stretches out a hand as if searching for something, then grumbles and frowns but settles back to sleep, his arm outstretched.
Oh, Fifty. What am I going to do with you? And what the hell were you doing with the Bitch Troll? I need to know.
I glance once more at the offending text and quickly hatch a plan. Taking a deep breath, I forward the text to my BlackBerry. Step one complete. I quickly check the other recent texts, but can only see messages from Elliot, Andrea, Taylor, Ros, and me. None from Elena. Good, I think. I exit the text screen, relieved that he hasn't been texting her, and my heart lurches into my throat. Oh my.
The wallpaper on his phone is photograph upon photograph of me, a patchwork of tiny Anastasias in various poses—our honeymoon, our recent weekend sailing and soaring, and a few of José's photos, too. When did he do this? It must have been recently.
I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I could read Christian's e-mails. See if he's been talking to her. Should I? Sheathed in jade-green silk, my inner goddess nods emphatically, her mouth set in a scowl.
Before I can stop myself, I invade his privacy.
There are hundreds and hundreds of e-mails. I spin down through them, and they look dull as ditchwater . . . mostly from Ros, Andrea and me, and various executives in his company. None from Bitch Troll. While I'm at it, I'm relieved to see there are none from Leila either.
One e-mail catches my eye. It's from Barney Sullivan, Christian's IT guy, and the subject line is: Jack Hyde. I glance guiltily at Christian, but he's still snoring gently. I've never heard him snore. I open the e-mail.
From: Barney Sullivan
Subject: Jack Hyde
Date: September 13, 2011 14:09
To: Christian Grey
CCTV around Seattle tracks the white van from South Irving Street. Before that I can find no trace, so Hyde must have been based in that area.
As Welch has told you the unsub car was rented with a false license by an unknown female, though nothing that ties it to the South Irving Street area.
Details of known GEH and SIP employees who live in the area are in the attached file, which I have forwarded to Welch, too.
There was nothing on Hyde's SIP computer about his former PAs.
As a reminder, here is a list of what was retrieved from Hyde's SIP computer.
Greys' Home Addresses:
Five properties in Seattle
Two properties in Detroit
Detailed Resumés for:
Carrick Grey
Elliot Grey
Christian Grey
Dr. Grace Trevelyan
Anastasia Steele
Mia Grey
Newspaper and online articles relating to:
Dr. Grace Trevelyan
Carrick Grey
Christian Grey
Elliot Grey
Photographs:
Carrick Grey
Dr. Grace Trevelyan
Christian Grey
Elliot Grey
Mia Grey
I'll continue my investigation, see what else I can find.
B Sullivan
Head of IT, GEH
This odd e-mail momentarily sidetracks me from my night of woe. I click on the attachment to check through the names on the list, but it's obviously huge, too big to open on the BlackBerry.
What am I doing? It's late. I've had a tiring day. There are no e-mails from the Bitch Troll or Leila Williams, and I take some cold comfort from that. I glance quickly at the alarm clock: it's just after two in the morning. Today has been a day of revelations. I am to be a mother, and my husband has been fraternizing with the enemy. Well, let him stew. I am not sleeping here with him. He can wake up alone tomorrow. After placing his BlackBerry on the bedside table, I retrieve my purse from beside the bed and, after one last look at my angelic, sleeping Judas, I leave the bedroom.
The spare playroom key is in its usual place in the cabinet in the utility room.
I grab it and scoot upstairs. From the linen closet, I retrieve a pillow, duvet and sheet, then unlock the playroom door and enter, switching the lights to dim. Odd that I find the smell and ambience of this room so comforting, considering I safe worded the last time we were in here. I lock the door behind me, leaving the key in the lock. I know that tomorrow morning Christian will be frantic to find me, and I don't think he'll look in here if the door's locked. Well, it will serve him right.
I curl up on the Chesterfield couch, wrap myself in the duvet and drag my BlackBerry from my purse. Checking my texts, I find the one from the evil Bitch Troll that I forwarded from Christian's phone. I press FORWARD and type:
*WOULD YOU LIKE MRS. LINCOLN TO JOIN US WHEN WE
EVENTUALLY DISCUSS THIS TEXT SHE SENT TO YOU? IT WILL
SAVE YOU RUNNING TO HER AFTERWARD. YOUR WIFE*
I press SEND and switch the volume to mute. I huddle under my duvet. For all my bravado, I'm overwhelmed by the enormity of Christian's deceit. This should be a happy time. Jeez, we're going to be parents. Briefly, I relive telling Christian that I'm pregnant and fantasize that he falls to his knees with joy in front of me, pulling me into his arms and telling me how much he loves me and our Little Blip.
Yet here I am, alone and cold in a BDSM fantasy playroom. Suddenly I feel old, older than my years. Taking on Christian was always going to be a challenge, but he really has surpassed himself this time. What was he thinking? Well, if he wants a fight, I'll give him a fight. No way am I going to let him get away with running off to see that monstrous woman whenever we have a problem. He's going to have to choose—her or me and our Little Blip. I sniffle softly, but because I'm so exhausted, I soon fall asleep.
I wake with a start, momentarily disorientated . . . Oh yes—I'm in the playroom.
Because there are no windows, I have no idea what time it is. The door handle rattles.
"Ana!" Christian shouts from outside the door. I freeze, but he doesn't come in. I hear muffled voices, but they move away. I exhale and check the time on my BlackBerry. It's seven fifty, and I have four missed calls and two voice messages.
The missed calls are mostly from Christian, but there's also one from Kate. Oh, no. He must have called her. I don't have time to listen to them. I don't want to be late for work.
I wrap the duvet around me and pick up my purse before making my way to the door. Unlocking it slowly, I peek outside. No sign of anyone. Oh shit . . . Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic. I roll my eyes at myself, take a deep breath, and head downstairs.
Taylor, Sawyer, Ryan, Mrs. Jones, and Christian are all standing in the entrance to the great room, and Christian is issuing rapid-fire instructions. As one they all turn and gape at me. Christian is still wearing the clothes he slept in last night. He looks disheveled, pale, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. His large gray eyes are wide, and I don't know if he's fearful or angry. It's difficult to tell.
"Sawyer, I'll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes," I mutter, wrapping the duvet tighter around me for protection.
He nods, and all eyes turn to Christian, who is still staring intensely at me.
"Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?" Mrs. Jones asks. I shake my head.
"I'm not hungry, thank you." She purses her lips but says nothing.
"Where were you?" Christian asks, his voice low and husky. Suddenly Sawyer, Taylor, Ryan and Mrs. Jones scatter, scurrying into Taylor's office, into the foyer, and into the kitchen like terrified rats from a sinking ship.
I ignore Christian and march toward our bedroom.
"Ana," he calls after me, "answer me." I hear his footsteps behind me as I walk into the bedroom and continue into our bathroom. Quickly, I lock the door.
"Ana!" Christian pounds on the door. I turn on the shower. The door rattles.
"Ana, open the damned door."
"Go away!"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Suit yourself."
"Ana, please."
I climb into the shower, effectively blocking him out. Oh, it's warm. The healing water cascades over me, cleansing the exhaustion of the night off my skin.
Oh my. This feels so good. For a moment, for one short moment, I can pretend all is well. I wash my hair and by the time I've finished, I feel better, stronger, ready to face the freight train that is Christian Grey. I wrap my hair in a towel, briskly dry myself with another towel, and wrap it around me.
I unlock the door and open it and find Christian is leaning against the wall opposite, his hands behind his back. His expression is wary, that of a hunted predator. I stride past him and into our walk-in closet.
"Are you ignoring me?" Christian asks in disbelief as he stands on the threshold of the closet.
"Perceptive, aren't you?" I murmur absentmindedly as I search for something to wear. Ah, yes—my plum dress. I slide it off the hanger, choose my high black stiletto boots, and head for the bedroom. I pause for Christian to step out of my way, which he does, eventually—his intrinsic good manners taking over. I sense his eyes boring into me as I walk over to my chest of drawers, and I peek at him in the mirror, standing motionless in the doorway, watching me. In an act worthy of an Oscar winner, I let my towel fall to the floor and pretend that I am oblivious to my naked body. I hear his restrained gasp and ignore it.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks. His voice is low.
"Why do you think?" My voice is velvet soft as I pull out a pretty pair of black lace La Perla panties.
"Ana—" He stops as I shimmy into them.
"Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I'm sure she'll have an explanation for you," I mutter as I search for the matching bra.
"Ana, I've told you before, she's not my—"
"I don't want to hear it, Christian." I wave my hand dismissively. "The time for talking was yesterday, but instead you decided to rant and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call. I am sure she'll be more than willing to listen to you now." I find the matching bra and slowly pull it on and fasten it. Christian walks further into the bedroom and places his hands on his hips.
"Why were you snooping on me?" he says.
In spite of my resolve I flush. "That's not the point, Christian," I snap at him.
"Fact is, going gets tough and you run to her."
His mouth settles into a grim line. "It wasn't like that."
"I'm not interested." Picking a pair of black thigh-highs with lacey tops, I retreat to the bed. I sit, point my toe, and gently ease the gossamer material up to my thigh.
"Where were you?" he asks, his eyes following my hands up my legs, but I continue to ignore him as I slowly roll on the other stocking. Standing, I bend to towel-dry my hair. Through my parted thighs, I can see his bare feet, and I sense his intense gaze. When I've finished, I stand and step back to the chest of drawers where I grab my hairdryer.
"Answer me." Christian's voice is low and husky.
I switch on the hairdryer so I can no longer hear him and watch him through my lashes in the mirror as I finger dry my hair. He glares at me, eyes narrow and cool, chilling even. I look away, focusing on the task at hand and trying to suppress the shiver that runs through me. I swallow hard and concentrate on drying my hair. He's still mad. He goes out with that damned woman, and he's mad at me? How dare he! When my hair looks wild and untamed, I stop. Yes . . . I like it.
I switch off the hairdryer.
"Where were you?" he whispers, his tone arctic.
"What do you care?"
"Ana, stop this. Now."