E L James is a TV executive, wife and mother of two, based in
　　West London. Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing stories
　　that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold
　　to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the
　　courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of
　　Grey.
　　E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades
　　Darker and a new romantic thriller with a supernatural twist.
　　I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Sarah, Kay, and Jada.
　　Thank you for all that you have done for me.
　　Also HUGE thanks to Kathleen and Kristi who stepped
　　into the breach and sorted stuff out.
　　Thank you too to Niall, my husband, my lover, and my
　　best friend (most of the time).
　　And a big shout out to all the wonderful, wonderful women
　　from all over the world whom I have had the pleasure of
　　meeting since I started all this, and whom I now consider
　　meeting since I started all this, and whom I now consider
　　friends, including: Ale, Alex, Amy, Andrea, Angela,
　　Azucena, Babs, Bee, Belinda, Betsy, Brandy, Britt,
　　Caroline, Catherine, Dawn, Gwen, Hannah, Janet, Jen,
　　Jenn, Jill, Kathy, Katie, Kellie, Kelly, Liz, Mandy,
　　Margaret, Natalia, Nicole, Nora, Olga, Pam, Pauline,
　　Raina, Raizie, Rajka, Rhian, Ruth, Steph, Susi, Tasha,
　　Taylor and Una. And also to the many, many talented,
　　funny, warm women (and men) I have met online. You
　　know who you are.
　　Thanks to Morgan and Jenn for all things Heathman.
　　And finally, thank you to Janine, my editor. You rock.
　　That is all.
　　He’s come back. Mommy’s asleep or she’s sick again.
　　I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen.
　　Through my fingers I can see Mommy. She is asleep on
　　the couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he’s
　　wearing his big boots with the shiny buckle and standing
　　over Mommy shouting.
　　He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are
　　one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
　　You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up
　　bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one
　　bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one
　　fucked-up bitch.
　　Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop.
　　Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy curls up small.
　　I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The
　　sound stops.
　　He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the
　　kitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.
　　He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of
　　cigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.
　　A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched in
　　sweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits
　　bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck.
　　They’re back. The noise was me. He takes a deep
　　steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the
　　smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
　　I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day
　　at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has
　　flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack
　　Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blue
　　eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.
　　“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a
　　great team.”
　　Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a
　　semblance of a smile.
　　“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.
　　“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
　　“Goodnight, Jack.”
　　“Goodnight, Ana.”
　　Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for
　　the door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a
　　deep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a
　　void that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painful
　　hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop
　　with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating
　　being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle . . . or
　　the Audi.
　　I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t
　　think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice,
　　new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his
　　payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth,
　　but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as
　　blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to
　　start crying again—not out on the street.
　　The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her
　　lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn
　　on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the
　　vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I
　　don’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick
　　wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long
　　must I endure this?
　　The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my
　　heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the
　　intercom.
　　“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied
　　voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I
　　listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man
　　noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and
　　leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and
　　take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light.
　　Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a
　　card.
　　Congratulations on your first day at work.
　　I hope it went well.
　　And thank you for the glider. That was very
　　thoughtful.
　　It has pride of place on my desk.
　　Christian
　　I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest
　　expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian
　　probably had very little to do with it. It’s too painful to
　　think about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I
　　can’t bring myself to throw them in the trash. Dutifully, I
　　make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.
　　And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep.
　　Well, try to sleep. I can’t even escape him in my dreams.
　　Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and
　　bright all haunt me. And the music . . . so much music—I
　　cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at
　　all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me
　　shudder.
　　I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I
　　don’t have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none
　　of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, wartorn
　　land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak.
　　Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, but
　　that’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further
　　—and I have nothing left to break.
　　I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime,
　　I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten
　　I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten
　　since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for
　　lattes and Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going,
　　but it’s making me anxious.
　　Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking
　　me personal questions. What does he want? I’m polite,
　　but I need to keep him at arm’s length.
　　I sit and begin trawling through a pile of
　　correspondence addressed to him, and I’m pleased with
　　the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I
　　quickly check to see who it’s from.
　　Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not
　　here . . . not at work.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Tomorrow
　　Date: June 8, 2011 14:05
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Dear Anastasia
　　Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you
　　get my flowers?
　　I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show,
　　and I’m sure you’ve not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a long
　　drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.
　　Let me know.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to
　　the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. José’s show.
　　Crap. I’d forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go.
　　Shit, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?
　　I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Come
　　to think of it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been so
　　absentminded, I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has
　　been silent.
　　Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the
　　Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian’s been getting my calls—
　　unless he’s just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he
　　get my e-mail address?
　　He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly
　　going to present him with many problems.
　　Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see
　　him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and
　　longing lance through me. Of course I do.
　　Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my
　　mind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes
　　pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t love
　　me.
　　Torturous memories flash through my mind—the
　　gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness,
　　his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him.
　　It’s been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an
　　eternity.
　　I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself
　　tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss
　　him . . . I love him. Simple.
　　I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walked
　　out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we
　　were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming
　　feeling last? I am in purgatory.
　　Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong,
　　but I want to go to José’s show, and deep down, the
　　masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep
　　breath, I head back to my desk.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Tomorrow
　　Date: June 8, 2011 14:25
　　To: Christian Grey
　　Hi Christian
　　Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.
　　Yes, I would appreciate a lift.
　　Thank you.
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert.
　　Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call José.
　　“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”
　　“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcoming
　　it’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.
　　it’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.
　　“I can’t talk long. What time should I be there
　　tomorrow for your show?”
　　“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.
　　“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five
　　days as I picture his broad grin.
　　“Seven thirty.”
　　“See you then. Good-bye, José.”
　　“Bye, Ana.”
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Tomorrow
　　Date: June 8, 2011 14:27
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Dear Anastasia
　　What time shall I collect you?
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Tomorrow
　　Date: June 8, 2011 14:32
　　To: Christian Grey
　　José’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Tomorrow
　　Date: June 8, 2011 14:34
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Dear Anastasia
　　Portland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.
　　I look forward to seeing you.
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Tomorrow
　　Date: June 8, 2011 14:38
　　To: Christian Grey
　　See you then.
　　Anastasia Steele
　　Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
　　Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in
　　five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to
　　five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to
　　wonder how he’s been.
　　Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him.
　　Has he found a new submissive from wherever they come
　　from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it
　　immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to
　　sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out of
　　my mind once more.
　　That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is
　　the first time in a while I haven’t cried myself to sleep.
　　In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the last
　　time I saw him as I left his apartment. His tortured
　　expression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me to
　　go, which was odd. Why would I stay when things had
　　reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around
　　our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . .

　　what? Love?
　　Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an
　　overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be
　　loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do
　　with his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? My
　　thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I
　　fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.
　　The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I
　　suspect it’s Kate’s plum dress and the black high-heeled
　　boots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on the
　　thought. I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first
　　paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it was, but I
　　pretend not to notice.
　　Finally, it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket and
　　purse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m going to see him!
　　“Do you have a date tonight?” Jack asks as he strolls
　　past my desk on his way out.
　　“Yes. No. Not really.”
　　He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearly
　　piqued. “Boyfriend?”
　　I flush. “No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend.”
　　“Maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drink after
　　work. You’ve had a stellar first week, Ana. We should
　　celebrate.” He smiles and some unknown emotion flits
　　across his face, making me uneasy.
　　Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through
　　the double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinks
　　with the boss, is that a good idea?
　　I shake my head. I have an evening of Christian Grey
　　to get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry into
　　the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.
　　In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look
　　at my face. I am my usual pale self, dark circles round my
　　too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.
　　Jeez, I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply some
　　mascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping to
　　bring some color their way. Tidying my hair so that it hangs
　　artfully down my back, I take a deep breath. This will have
　　to do.
　　Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a
　　wave to Claire at reception. I think she and I could
　　become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for
　　the doors. Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open them
　　for me.
　　“After you, Ana,” he murmurs.
　　“Thank you.” I smile, embarrassed.
　　Outside on the curb, Taylor is waiting. He opens the
　　rear door of the car. I glance hesitantly at Jack who has
　　followed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV in
　　dismay.
　　I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—
　　Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, no tie, his white
　　shirt open at the collar. His gray eyes are glowing.
　　My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’s
　　scowling at me. Oh no!
　　“When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes the
　　door behind me.
　　Crap. “Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”
　　“I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” His
　　eyes blaze.
　　Holy shit. “Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—
　　and a banana.”
　　“When did you last have a proper meal?” he asks
　　acidly.
　　Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and
　　pulls out into the traffic.
　　I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he
　　can see me through the dark glass, I don’t know. I wave
　　back.
　　“Who’s that?” Christian snaps.
　　“My boss.” I peek up at the beautiful man beside me,
　　and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.
　　“Well? Your last meal?”
　　“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” I
　　murmur, feeling extraordinarily brave.
　　“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”
　　No, it doesn’t. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes
　　heavenward, and Christian narrows his eyes. And for the
　　first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle
　　the giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s face
　　softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and I see a
　　trace of a smile kiss his beautifully sculptured lips.
　　“Well?” he asks, his voice softer.
　　“Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” I whisper.
　　He closes his eyes as fury and possibly regret, sweeps
　　across his face. “I see,” he says, his voice expressionless.
　　“You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly
　　more since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.
　　I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why
　　does he always make me feel like an errant child?
　　He shifts and turns toward me. “How are you?” he
　　asks, his voice still soft.
　　Well, I’m shit really . . . I swallow. “If I told you I
　　was fine, I’d be lying.”
　　He inhales sharply. “Me, too,” he murmurs and
　　reaches over and clasps my hand. “I miss you,” he adds.
　　Oh no. Skin against skin.
　　“Christian, I—”
　　“Christian, I—”
　　“Ana, please. We need to talk.”
　　I’m going to cry. No. “Christian, I . . . please . . . I’ve
　　cried so much,” I whisper, trying to keep my emotions in
　　check
　　“Oh, baby, no.” He tugs my hand, and before I know
　　it I’m on his lap. He has his arms around me, and his nose
　　is in my hair. “I’ve missed you so much, Anastasia,” he
　　breathes.
　　I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain some
　　distance, but his arms are wrapped around me. He’s
　　pressing me to his chest. I melt. Oh, this is where I want to
　　be.
　　I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hair
　　repeatedly. This is home. He smells of linen, fabric
　　softener, body wash, and my favorite smell—Christian.
　　For a moment, I allow myself the illusion that all will be
　　well, and it soothes my ravaged soul.
　　A few minutes later Taylor pulls to a stop at the curb,
　　even though we’re still in the city.
　　“Come”—Christian shifts me off his lap—“we’re
　　here.”
　　What?
　　“Helipad—on the top of this building.” Christian
　　glances toward the building by way of explanation.
　　Of course. Charlie Tango. Taylor opens the door and I
　　slide out. He gives me a warm, avuncular smile that makes
　　me feel safe. I smile back.
　　“I should give you back your handkerchief.”
　　“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”
　　“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”
　　I flush as Christian comes around the car and takes my
　　hand. He looks quizzically at Taylor who stares
　　impassively back at him, revealing nothing.
　　“Nine?” Christian says to him.
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　Christian nods as he turns and leads me through the
　　double doors into the grandiose foyer. I revel in the feel of
　　his large hand and his long, skilled fingers curled around
　　mine. I feel the familiar pull—I am drawn, Icarus to his
　　sun. I have been burned already, and yet here I am again.
　　Reaching the elevators, he presses the call button. I
　　peek up at him, and he’s wearing his enigmatic half smile.
　　As the doors open, he releases my hand and ushers me in.
　　The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glances
　　down at me, gray eyes alive, and it’s there in the air
　　between us, that electricity. It’s palpable. I can almost
　　taste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together.
　　“Oh my,” I gasp as I bask briefly in the intensity of this
　　visceral, primal attraction.
　　“I feel it, too,” he says, his eyes clouded and intense.
　　Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He clasps
　　my hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and all
　　my muscles clench tightly, deliciously, deep inside me.
　　Holy cow. How can he still do this to me?
　　“Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia,” he whispers.
　　I gaze up at him, releasing my lip. I want him. Here,
　　now, in the elevator. How could I not?
　　“You know what it does to me,” he murmurs.
　　Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from her
　　Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from her
　　five-day sulk.
　　Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we’re
　　on the roof. It’s windy, and despite my black jacket, I’m
　　cold. Christian puts his arm around me, pulling me into his
　　side, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango stands
　　in the center of the helipad with its rotor blades slowly
　　spinning.
　　A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leaps
　　out and, ducking low, runs toward us. Shaking hands with
　　Christian, he shouts above the noise of the rotors.
　　“Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!”
　　“All checks done?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“You’ll collect her around eight thirty?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“Taylor’s waiting for you out front.”
　　“Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland.
　　Ma’am.” He salutes me. Without releasing me, Christian
　　nods, ducks down, and leads me to the helicopter door.
　　Once inside he buckles me firmly into my harness,
　　cinching the straps tight. He gives me a knowing look and
　　his secret smile.
　　“This should keep you in your place,” he murmurs. “I
　　must say I do like this harness on you. Don’t touch
　　anything.”
　　I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger
　　down my cheek before handing me the headphones. I’d
　　like to touch you, too, but you won’t let me. I scowl at
　　him. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely
　　him. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely
　　move.
　　He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts
　　running through all his preflight checks. He’s just so
　　competent. It’s very alluring. He puts on his headphones
　　and flips a switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me.
　　Turning, he gazes at me. “Ready, baby?” His voice
　　echoes through the headphones.
　　“Yes.”
　　He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I’ve not seen it for so
　　long.
　　“Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango—Tango Echo
　　Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please
　　confirm, over.”
　　The disembodied voice of the air traffic controller
　　answers, issuing instructions.
　　“Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out.”
　　Christian flips two switches, grasps the stick, and the
　　helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.
　　Seattle and my stomach drop away from us, and
　　there’s so much to see.
　　“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk,”
　　his voice comes through on the headphones. I turn to gape
　　at him in surprise.
　　What does this mean? How is it that he can say the
　　most romantic things? He smiles, and I can’t help but smile
　　shyly back at him.
　　“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this
　　time,” he says.
　　The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this
　　The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this
　　evening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world.
　　We’re up among the tallest buildings, going higher and
　　higher.
　　“Escala’s over there.” He points toward the building.
　　“Boeing there, and you can just see the Space Needle.”
　　I crane my head. “I’ve never been.”
　　“I’ll take you—we can eat there.”
　　What? “Christian, we broke up.”
　　“I know. I can still take you there and feed you.” He
　　glares at me.
　　I shake my head and flush before taking a less
　　confrontational approach. “It’s very beautiful up here,
　　thank you.”
　　“Impressive, isn’t it?”
　　“Impressive that you can do this.”
　　“Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man of
　　many talents.”
　　“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey.”
　　He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in five
　　days, I relax a little. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.
　　“How’s the new job?”
　　“Good, thank you. Interesting.”
　　“What’s your boss like?”
　　“Oh, he’s okay.” How can I tell Christian that Jack
　　makes me uncomfortable? Christian turns and gazes at me.
　　“What’s wrong?” he asks.
　　“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”
　　“The obvious?”
　　“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”
　　“Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”
　　“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone,
　　Miss Steele.”
　　“Well, don’t then.”

　　His lips twitch into a smile. “I have missed your smart
　　mouth.”
　　I gasp and I want to shout, I’ve missed you—all of
　　you—not just your mouth! But I keep quiet and gaze out
　　the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as we
　　continue south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the
　　horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus
　　again, flying far too close.
　　The dusk has followed us from Seattle, and the sky is
　　awash with opal, pinks, and aquamarines woven
　　seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how.
　　It’s a clear, crisp evening, and the lights of Portland
　　twinkle and wink, welcoming us as Christian sets the
　　helicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of the
　　strange brown brick building in Portland we left less than
　　three weeks ago.
　　Jeez, it’s been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I’ve
　　known Christian for a lifetime. He powers down Charlie
　　Tango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and
　　eventually all I hear is my own breathing through the
　　headphones. Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of the Thomas
　　Tallis experience. I blanch. I so don’t want to go there
　　right now.
　　Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across to
　　undo mine.
　　“Good trip, Miss Steele?” he asks, his voice mild, his
　　gray eyes glowing.
　　“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey,” I reply politely.
　　“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds his
　　hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.
　　A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet
　　us, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer
　　from the last time we were here.
　　“Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake
　　Joe’s warmly.
　　“Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around
　　eight or nine.”
　　“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me.
　　“Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s
　　out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”
　　“Thank you, Joe.”
　　Christian takes my hand, and we head to the
　　emergency stairs.
　　“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those
　　heels,” he mutters to me in disapproval.
　　No kidding.
　　“Don’t you like the boots?”
　　“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens
　　and I think he might say something else, but he stops.
　　“Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and
　　breaking your neck.”
　　We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My
　　anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in
　　Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is
　　quiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lighter
　　mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I want
　　to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares
　　pensively out the window.
　　“José is just a friend,” I murmur.
　　Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and
　　guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is
　　distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—
　　everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and
　　frowns.
　　“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face,
　　Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
　　“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a
　　platitude.
　　“I mean it.”
　　“Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my
　　voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who
　　has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s
　　wrong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake
　　my head, confused.
　　“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you
　　back, and I want you healthy,” he says softly.
　　What? What does that mean? “But nothing’s
　　changed.” You’re still fifty shades.
　　“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
　　The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian
　　climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door
　　climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door
　　for me, and I clamber out.
　　“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I
　　expected.
　　“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.
　　“Say something like that and then just stop.”
　　“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s
　　do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in
　　the street.”
　　I flush and glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I
　　press my lips together as he glares down at me.
　　“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me
　　into the building.
　　We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark
　　wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It’s airy
　　and modern, and there are several people wandering
　　across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’s
　　work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp
　　that José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!
　　“Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’s
　　show.” A young woman dressed in black with very short
　　brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings
　　greets us. She glances briefly at me, then much longer than
　　is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me,
　　blinking as she blushes.
　　My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard not
　　to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks
　　again.
　　“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this,
　　too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to
　　too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to
　　a table laden with drinks and snacks.
　　How does she know my name?
　　“You know her?” Christian frowns.
　　I shake my head, equally puzzled.
　　He shrugs, distracted. “What would you like to
　　drink?”
　　“I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”
　　His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads
　　for the open bar.
　　“Ana!”
　　José comes barreling through a throng of people.
　　Holy cow! He’s wearing a suit. He looks good and
　　he’s beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me
　　hard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. My
　　friend, my only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool in
　　my eyes.
　　“Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear,
　　then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm’s length, staring
　　at me.
　　“What?”
　　“Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio,
　　have you lost weight?”
　　I blink back my tears. “José, I’m fine. I’m just so
　　happy for you.” Crap—not him, too. “Congratulations on
　　the show.” My voice wavers as I see his concern etched
　　on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself
　　together.
　　“How did you get here?” he asks.
　　“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.
　　“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.
　　“Oh.” José’s face falls and he releases me. “Where is
　　he?” His expression darkens.
　　“Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s
　　direction and see he’s exchanging pleasantries with
　　someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look
　　his way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’m
　　paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who
　　gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze
　　hot, burning into me, and we’re lost for a moment staring
　　at each other.
　　Holy cow . . . This beautiful man wants me back, and
　　deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a
　　morning glory in the early dawn.
　　“Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the
　　here and now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I should
　　warn you—”
　　Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts
　　him off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is
　　here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.
　　“How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t
　　help but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later,
　　Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to
　　a young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.
　　José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some
　　cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both
　　monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to
　　many of the landscapes. In one taken out near the lake at
　　Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected
　　in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the
　　in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the
　　tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.
　　Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath and
　　swallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium.
　　He hands me my glass of white wine.
　　“Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more
　　normal.
　　He looks quizzically at me.
　　“The wine.”
　　“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s
　　quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake
　　photo.
　　“Why else do you think I asked him to take your
　　portrait?” I can’t help the pride in my voice. His eyes glide
　　impassively from the photograph to me.
　　“Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland
　　Printz approaches Christian. “Can I have a picture, sir?”
　　“Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he
　　grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer
　　looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.
　　“Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos.
　　“Miss . . . ?” he asks.
　　“Steele,” I reply.
　　“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.
　　“I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet.
　　There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”
　　Christian’s mouth twitches with a smile. “That explains
　　your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates,
　　Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His eyes
　　burn with sincerity.
　　burn with sincerity.
　　“So you never took your”—I glance around nervously
　　to check no one can overhear us—“subs out?”
　　“Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He
　　shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.
　　Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain
　　and his apartment. I don’t know what to feel about that.
　　“Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
　　I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way,
　　he does care about me.
　　“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not
　　portraits. Let’s look round.” He holds his hand out to me,
　　and I take it.
　　We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a
　　couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me.
　　It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man
　　is blatantly staring. Odd.
　　We turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been
　　getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven
　　huge portraits—of me.
　　I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining
　　from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious,
　　amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.
　　Holy crap! I remember José messing with the camera
　　on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when
　　I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s
　　assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these
　　invasive candids.
　　I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfixed, at
　　each of the pictures in turn.
　　each of the pictures in turn.
　　“Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically,
　　his mouth settling into a hard line.
　　I think he’s angry. Oh no.
　　“Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright gray
　　gaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the reception
　　desk.
　　What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he
　　talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red
　　Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit
　　card.
　　Shit. He must have bought one of them.
　　“Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs are
　　terrific.” A young man with a shock of bright blond hair
　　startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is

　　back.
　　“You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock smirks at
　　Christian, who gives him a cold stare.
　　“That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to
　　one side.
　　“Did you just buy one of these?”
　　“One of these?” he snorts, not taking his eyes off them.
　　“You bought more than one?”
　　He rolls his eyes. “I bought them all, Anastasia. I don’t
　　want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their
　　home.”
　　My first inclination is to laugh. “You’d rather it was
　　you?” I scoff.
　　He glares down at me, caught off guard by my
　　audacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide his amusement.
　　“Frankly, yes.”
　　“Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to
　　prevent my smile.
　　His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is
　　obvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.
　　“Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” He
　　shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.
　　“I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an
　　NDA.”
　　He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’d
　　like to do to your smart mouth,” he murmurs.
　　I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re very
　　rude.” I try to sound shocked and succeed. Does he have
　　no boundaries?
　　He smirks at me, amused, and then he frowns.
　　“You look very relaxed in these photographs,
　　Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very often.”
　　What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about non
　　sequitur—from playful to serious.
　　I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head
　　back, and I inhale sharply at the contact with his long
　　fingers.
　　“I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. All
　　trace of humor has gone.
　　Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this
　　be? We have issues.
　　“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” I
　　snap.
　　“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how
　　you feel,” he snaps back, eyes blazing.
　　I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as a
　　submissive. That’s where the problem lies. It’s in the
　　definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” I
　　pause, trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonyms
　　were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive,
　　tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I
　　wasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless
　　you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?” I
　　hiss at him.
　　He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.
　　“It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t want
　　me to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.’ You
　　want obedience, except when you don’t, so you can
　　punish me. I just don’t know which way is up when I’m
　　with you.”
　　He narrows his eyes. “Good point well made, as usual,
　　Miss Steele.” His voice is frigid. “Come, let’s go eat.”
　　“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”
　　“You’ve seen the photos; you’ve spoken to the boy.”
　　“His name is José.”
　　“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, the last time I
　　met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant
　　mouth while you were drunk and ill,” he snarls.
　　“He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.
　　Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from every
　　pore. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia,” he whispers
　　menacingly.
　　I flush, and Christian runs his hands through his hair,
　　bristling with barely contained anger. I glare back at him.
　　“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading
　　away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye.”
　　“Please, can we stay longer?”
　　“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.”
　　I glare at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned Control
　　Freak. Angry is good. Angry is better than tearful.
　　I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for
　　José. He’s talking to a group of young women. I stalk off
　　toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought
　　me here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he
　　think he is?
　　The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One of
　　them gasps as I approach, no doubt recognizing me from
　　the portraits.
　　“José.”
　　“Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and puts
　　his arm around me, and on some level I’m amused—José
　　all smooth, impressing the ladies.
　　“You look mad,” he says.
　　“I have to go,” I mutter mulishly.
　　“You just got here.”
　　“I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures
　　are fantastic, José—you’re very talented.”
　　He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.”
　　Jose sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I
　　can see Christian across the gallery. He’s scowling, and I
　　realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very
　　realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very
　　calculating move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I
　　think Christian is going to expire. His glare darkens to
　　something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way
　　toward us.
　　“Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I
　　mumble.
　　“Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like
　　them?”
　　“Um . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully,
　　momentarily knocked off balance by his question.
　　“Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How
　　cool is that? You’re a poster girl.” He hugs me tighter still
　　as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though
　　fortunately José doesn’t see.
　　José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr.
　　Grey, good evening.”
　　“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian sounds
　　icily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to
　　head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He subtly stresses we
　　and takes my hand as he does so.
　　“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quick
　　kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian is
　　dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with
　　silent wrath, but so am I.
　　He looks quickly up and down the street then heads
　　left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly
　　pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between
　　his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determined
　　eyes.
　　eyes.
　　I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me,
　　violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my
　　mouth.
　　Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my
　　body, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, my
　　hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low
　　sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates
　　through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top
　　of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the
　　plum dress.
　　I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days
　　into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this
　　moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels
　　the same.
　　He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous
　　with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding
　　through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag
　　precious air into my lungs.
　　“You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word.
　　He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees
　　as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.”
　　I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the
　　riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium
　　again.
　　“I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.
　　“You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you
　　want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has
　　feelings for you.”
　　I flush and shake my head.
　　I flush and shake my head.
　　“No. He’s just a friend.”
　　“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any
　　extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in me
　　that are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns,
　　grasping for the word. “Unsettling.
　　“I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—he
　　stands, his gaze intense—“evaporates.” He waves his hand
　　vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep
　　breath. He clasps my hand.
　　“Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.”
　　He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.
　　“This place will have to do,” Christian grumbles. “We
　　don’t have much time.”
　　The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen
　　tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian’s
　　playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors
　　randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white
　　roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background
　　about this thing called love. It’s very romantic.
　　The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove,
　　and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he’s going to
　　say.
　　“We don’t have long,” Christian says to the waiter as
　　we sit. “So we’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium,
　　béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables,
　　whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list.”
　　“Certainly, sir.” The waiter, taken aback by Christian’s
　　cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his
　　Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don’t I get a choice?
　　“And if I don’t like steak?”
　　He sighs. “Don’t start, Anastasia.”
　　“I am not a child, Christian.”
　　“Well, stop acting like one.”
　　It’s as if he’s slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how
　　it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very
　　romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.
　　“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” I mutter trying
　　to conceal my hurt.
　　“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish
　　thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend’s feelings,
　　leading him on like that?” Christian presses his lips together
　　in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine
　　list.
　　I blush—I hadn’t thought of that. Poor José—I
　　certainly don’t want to encourage him. Suddenly, I’m
　　mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing
　　to do. He glances at the wine list.
　　“Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raising
　　his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He
　　knows I know nothing about wine.
　　“You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.
　　“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.”
　　“Er . . . we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”
　　“A bottle then,” Christian snaps.
　　“Sir.” He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. I
　　frown at Fifty. What’s eating him? Oh, me probably, and
　　somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess
　　rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for
　　rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for
　　a while.
　　“You’re very grumpy.”
　　He gazes at me impassively. “I wonder why that is?”
　　“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and
　　honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” I
　　smile at him sweetly.
　　His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost
　　reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he’s trying to stifle his
　　smile.
　　“I’m sorry,” he says.
　　“Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you I
　　haven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate.”
　　“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a
　　moot point.”
　　“There’s that word again, moot.”
　　“Moot,” he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He
　　runs his hand through his hair, and he’s serious again.
　　“Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little
　　nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve
　　said . . . nothing.” His gaze is intense and expectant while
　　his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?