He answers on the second ring. “Anastasia. You
　　okay?” he asks concerned.
　　“They’ve just given me Jack’s job to mind,
　　temporarily,” I blurt out.
　　“You’re kidding,” he whispers, shocked.
　　“Did you have anything to do with this?” My voice is
　　sharper than I mean it to be.
　　“No—no, not at all. I mean, with all due respect,
　　“No—no, not at all. I mean, with all due respect,
　　Anastasia, you’ve only been there for a week or so—and
　　I don’t mean that unkindly.”
　　“I know.” I frown. “Apparently Jack really rated me.”
　　“Did he now?” Christian’s tone is frosty and then he
　　sighs.
　　“Well, baby, if they think you can do it, I’m sure you
　　can. Congratulations. Perhaps we should celebrate after
　　we’ve seen Flynn.”
　　“Hmm. Are you sure you had nothing to do with this?”
　　He is silent for a moment, and then he says in a low
　　menacing voice. “Do you doubt me? It angers me that you
　　do.”
　　I swallow. Boy, he gets mad so easily. “I’m sorry,” I
　　breathe, chastened.
　　“If you need anything, let me know. I’ll be here. And
　　Anastasia?”
　　“What?”
　　“Use your Blackberry,” he adds tersely.
　　“Yes, Christian.”
　　He doesn’t hang up as I expect him to but takes a
　　deep breath.
　　“I mean it. If you need me, I’m here.” His words are
　　much softer, conciliatory. Oh, he’s so mercurial . . . his
　　mood swings are like a metronome set at presto.
　　“Okay,” I murmur. “I’d better go. I have to move
　　offices.”
　　“If you need me. I mean it,” he murmurs.
　　“I know, thank you, Christian. I love you.”
　　I sense his grin at the other end of the phone. I’ve won
　　I sense his grin at the other end of the phone. I’ve won
　　him back.
　　“I love you, too, baby.” Oh, will I ever tire of him
　　saying those words to me?
　　“I’ll talk to you later.”
　　“Laters, baby.”
　　I hang up and glance at Jack’s office. My office. Holy
　　cow—Anastasia Steele, Acting Commissioning Editor.
　　Who would have thought? I should ask for more money.
　　What would Jack think if he knew? I shudder at the
　　thought and wonder idly how he’s spent his morning, not in
　　New York as he expected. I stroll into his—my office—sit
　　down at the desk, and start reading the job description.
　　At twelve thirty, Elizabeth buzzes me.
　　“Ana, we need you in a meeting at one o’clock in the
　　boardroom. Jerry Roach and Kay Bestie will be there—
　　you know, the company president and vice president? All
　　the commissioning editors will be attending.”
　　Shit!
　　“Do I need to prepare anything?”
　　“No, this is just an informal gathering we do once a
　　month. Lunch will be provided.”
　　“I’ll be there.” I hang up.
　　Holy shit! I check through the current roster of Jack’s
　　authors. Yes, I’ve pretty much got those nailed. I have the
　　five manuscripts he’s championing, plus two more, which
　　should really be considered for publication. I take a deep
　　breath—I cannot believe it’s lunchtime already. The day
　　has flown by, and I’m loving it. There has been so much to
　　absorb this morning. A ping from my calendar announces
　　absorb this morning. A ping from my calendar announces
　　an appointment.
　　Oh no—Mia! In all the excitement I have forgotten
　　about our lunch. I fish out my Blackberry and try frantically
　　to find her phone number.
　　My phone buzzes.
　　“It’s him, in reception.” Claire’s voice is hushed.
　　“Who?” For a moment, I think it might be Christian.
　　“The blond god.”
　　“Ethan?”
　　Oh, what does he want? I immediately feel guilty for
　　not having called him.
　　Ethan, dressed in a checked blue shirt, white T-shirt,
　　and jeans, beams at me when I appear.
　　“Wow! You look hot, Steele,” he says, nodding
　　appreciatively. He gives me a quick hug.
　　“Is everything okay?” I ask.
　　He frowns. “Everything’s fine, Ana. I just wanted to
　　see you. I’ve not heard from you in a while, and I wanted
　　to check how Mr. Mogul was treating you.”
　　I flush and can’t help my smile.
　　“Okay!” Ethan exclaims, holding up his hands. “I can
　　tell by the secret smile. I don’t want to know any more. I
　　came by on the off chance you could do lunch. I’m
　　enrolling at Seattle for psych courses in September. For
　　my master’s.”
　　“Oh Ethan. So much has happened. I have a ton to tell
　　you, but right now, I can’t. I have a meeting.” An idea hits
　　me hard. “And I wonder if you can do me a really, really,
　　really big favor?” I clasp my hands together in supplication.
　　“Sure,” he says, bemused by my pleading.
　　“I’m supposed to be having lunch with Christian and
　　Elliot’s sister—but I can’t get hold of her, and this
　　meeting’s just been sprung on me. Please will you take her
　　for lunch? Please?”
　　“Aw, Ana! I don’t want to babysit some brat.”
　　“Please, Ethan.” I give him the biggest-bluest-longesteye-
　　lashed look that I can manage. He rolls his eyes and I
　　know I’ve got him.
　　“You’ll cook me something?” he mutters.
　　“Sure, whatever, whenever.”
　　“So where is she?”
　　“She’s due here now.” And as if on cue, I hear her
　　voice.
　　“Ana!” she calls from the front door.
　　We both turn, and there she is—all curvaceous and tall
　　with her sleek black bob—wearing a short mint-green
　　minidress and matching high-heeled pumps with straps
　　around her slim ankles. She looks stunning.
　　“The brat?” he whispers, gaping at her.
　　“Yes. The brat that needs babysitting,” I whisper back.
　　“Hi, Mia.” I give her a quick hug as she stares rather
　　blatantly at Ethan.
　　“Mia—this is Ethan, Kate’s brother.”
　　He nods, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Mia blinks
　　several times as she gives him her hand.
　　“Delighted to meet you,” Ethan murmurs smoothly and
　　Mia blinks again—silent for once. She blushes.
　　Holy cow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush.
　　“I can’t make lunch,” I say lamely. “Ethan has agreed
　　to take you, if that’s okay? Can we have a rain check?”
　　“Sure,” she says quietly. Mia quiet, this is novel.
　　“Yeah, I’ll take it from here. Laters, Ana,” Ethan says,
　　offering Mia his arm. She accepts it with a shy smile.
　　“Bye, Ana.” Mia turns to me and mouths, “Oh. My.
　　God!” giving me an exaggerated wink.
　　Jeez . . . she likes him! I wave at them as they leave
　　the building. I wonder what Christian’s attitude is about his
　　sister dating? The thought makes me uneasy. She’s my
　　age, so he can’t object, can he?
　　This is Christian we’re dealing with. My snarky
　　subconscious is back, hatchet-mouthed, cardigan and
　　purse in the crook of her arm. I shake off the image. Mia is
　　a grown woman and Christian can be reasonable, can’t
　　he? I dismiss the thought and head back to Jack’s . . .
　　er . . . my office to prep for the meeting.
　　It’s three thirty when I return. The meeting went well. I
　　have even secured approval to progress the two
　　manuscripts I was championing. It’s a heady feeling.
　　On my desk is an enormous wicker basket crammed
　　with stunning white and pale pink roses. Wow—the
　　fragrance alone is heavenly. I smile as I pick up the card. I
　　know who sent them.
　　Congratulations, Miss Steele
　　And all on your own!
　　No help from your overfriendly, neighborhood,
　　megalomaniac CEO
　　Love
　　Christian
　　I pick up my Blackberry to e-mail him.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Megalomaniac . . .
　　Date: June 16, 2011 15:43
　　To: Christian Grey
　　. . . is my favorite type of maniac. Thank you for the beautiful
　　flowers. They’ve arrived in a huge wicker basket that makes me
　　think of picnics and blankets.
　　x
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: Fresh Air
　　Date: June 16, 2011 15:55
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　Maniac, eh? Dr. Flynn may have something to say about that.
　　You want to go on a picnic?
　　We could have fun in the great outdoors, Anastasia . . .
　　We could have fun in the great outdoors, Anastasia . . .
　　How is your day going, baby?
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　Oh my. I flush reading his response.
　　From: Anastasia Steele
　　Subject: Hectic
　　Date: June 16, 2011 16:00
　　To: Christian Grey
　　The day has flown by. I have hardly had a moment to myself to
　　think about anything other than work. I think I can do this! I’ll tell
　　you more when I’m home.
　　Outdoors sounds . . . interesting.
　　Love you.
　　A x
　　PS: Don’t worry about Dr. Flynn.
　　My phone buzzes. It’s Claire from reception, desperate to
　　know who sent the flowers and what happened to Jack.
　　Holed up in the office all day, I have missed the gossip. I
　　tell her quickly that the flowers are from my boyfriend and
　　that I know very little about Jack’s departure. My
　　that I know very little about Jack’s departure. My
　　Blackberry buzzes and I have another e-mail from
　　Christian.
　　From: Christian Grey
　　Subject: I’ll try . . .
　　Date: June 16, 2011 16:09
　　To: Anastasia Steele
　　. . . not to worry.
　　Laters, baby. x
　　Christian Grey
　　CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
　　At five thirty, I pack up my desk. I can’t believe how
　　quickly the day has gone. I have to get back to Escala and
　　prepare to meet Dr. Flynn. I haven’t even had time to
　　think of questions. Perhaps today we can have an initial
　　meeting, and maybe Christian will let me see him again. I
　　shrug off the thought as I dash out of the office, waving a
　　quick good-bye to Claire.
　　I’ve also got Christian’s birthday to think about. I
　　know what I’m going to give him. I’d like him to have it
　　tonight before we meet Flynn, but how? Beside the
　　parking lot is a small store selling touristy trinkets.
　　Inspiration hits me and I duck inside.
　　Christian is on his Blackberry, standing and staring out the
　　glass wall as I enter the great room half an hour later.
　　Turning, he beams at me and wraps up his call.
　　“Ros, that’s great. Tell Barney and we’ll go from
　　there . . . Good-bye.”
　　He strides over to me as I stand shyly in the entryway.
　　He’s changed now into a white T-shirt and jeans, all bad
　　boy and smoldering. Whoa.
　　“Good evening, Miss Steele,” he murmurs and he
　　bends to kiss me. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
　　He wraps his arms around me. He smells delicious.
　　“You’ve showered.”
　　“I’ve just had a work-out with Claude.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“Managed to knock him on his ass twice.” Christian
　　beams, boyish and pleased with himself. His grin is
　　infectious.
　　“That doesn’t happen often?”
　　“No. Very satisfying when it does. Hungry?”
　　I shake my head.
　　“What?” He frowns at me.
　　“I’m nervous. About Dr. Flynn.”
　　“Me, too. How was your day?” He releases me, and I
　　him give a brief summary. He listens attentively.
　　“Oh—there’s one more thing I should tell you,” I add.
　　“I was supposed to have lunch with Mia.”
　　He raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You never
　　mentioned that.”
　　“I know, I forgot. I couldn’t make it because of the
　　meeting, and Ethan took her out to lunch instead.”
　　His face darkens. “I see. Stop biting your lip.”
　　“I’m going to freshen up,” I say changing the subject
　　and turning to leave before he can react any further.
　　Dr. Flynn’s office is a short drive from Christian’s
　　apartment. Very handy, I muse, for emergency sessions.
　　“I usually run here from home,” Christian says as he
　　parks my Saab. “This is a great car.” He smiles at me.
　　“I think so, too.” I smile back at him. “Christian . . . I
　　—” I gaze anxiously at him.
　　“What is it, Ana?”

　　“Here.” I pull the small black gift box from my purse.
　　“This is for you for your birthday. I wanted to give it to
　　you now—but only if you promise not to open it until
　　Saturday, okay?”
　　He blinks at me in surprise and swallows. “Okay,” he
　　murmurs cautiously.
　　Taking a deep breath, I hand it to him, ignoring his
　　bemused expression. He shakes the box, and it produces
　　a very satisfactory rattle. He frowns. I know he’s
　　desperate to see what it contains. Then he grins, his eyes
　　alight with youthful, carefree excitement. Oh boy . . . he
　　looks his age—and so beautiful.
　　“You can’t open it until Saturday,” I warn him.
　　“You can’t open it until Saturday,” I warn him.
　　“I get it,” he says. “Why are you giving this to me
　　now?” He pops the box into the inside pocket of his blue
　　pinstriped jacket, close to his heart.
　　How apt, I muse. I smirk at him.
　　“Because I can, Mr. Grey.”
　　His mouth twists with wry amusement.
　　“Why, Miss Steele, you stole my line.”
　　We are ushered into Dr. Flynn’s palatial office by a
　　brisk and friendly receptionist. She greets Christian
　　warmly, a little too warmly for my taste—jeez, she’s old
　　enough to be his mother—and he knows her name.
　　The room is understated: pale green with two dark
　　green couches facing two leather winged chairs, and it has
　　the atmosphere of a gentlemen’s club. Dr. Flynn is seated
　　at a desk at the far end of the room.
　　As we enter, he stands and walks over to join us in the
　　seating area. He wears black pants and a pale-blue opennecked
　　shirt—no tie. His bright blue eyes seem to miss
　　nothing.
　　“Christian.” He smiles amicably.
　　“John.” Christian shakes John’s hand. “You remember
　　Anastasia?”
　　“How could I forget? Anastasia, welcome.”
　　“Ana, please,” I mumble as he shakes my hand firmly.
　　I do love his English accent.
　　“Ana,” he says kindly, ushering us toward the
　　couches.
　　Christian gestures to one of them for me. I sit, trying to
　　look relaxed, resting my hand on the couch rest, and he
　　look relaxed, resting my hand on the couch rest, and he
　　sprawls on the other couch beside me so that we’re at
　　right angles to each other. A small table with a simple lamp
　　is between us. I note with interest a box of tissues beside
　　the lamp.
　　This isn’t what I expected. I had in my mind’s eye a
　　stark white room with a black leather chaise longue; my
　　inner goddess might have felt more at home then.
　　Looking relaxed and in control, Dr. Flynn takes a seat
　　in one of the winged chairs and picks up a leather notepad.
　　Christian crosses his legs, his ankle resting on his knee,
　　and stretches one arm along the back of the couch.
　　Reaching across with his other hand, he finds my hand on
　　the couch rest and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
　　“Christian has requested that you accompany him to
　　one of our sessions,” Dr. Flynn begins gently. “Just so you
　　know, we treat these sessions with absolute confidentiality
　　—”
　　I raise my eyebrow at Flynn, halting him mid-speech.
　　“Oh—um . . . I’ve signed an NDA,” I murmur,
　　embarrassed that he’s stopped. Both Flynn and Christian
　　stare at me, and Christian releases my hand.
　　“A non-disclosure agreement?” Dr. Flynn’s brow
　　furrows, and he glances quizzically at Christian.
　　Christian shrugs.
　　“You start all your relationships with women with an
　　NDA?” Dr. Flynn asks him.
　　“The contractual ones, I do.”
　　Dr. Flynn’s lip twitches. “You’ve had other types of
　　relationships with women?” he asks, and he looks amused.
　　relationships with women?” he asks, and he looks amused.
　　“No,” Christian answers after a beat, and he looks
　　amused, too.
　　“As I thought.” Dr. Flynn turns his attention back to
　　me. “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about
　　confidentiality, but may I suggest that the two of you
　　discuss this at some point? As I understand, you’re no
　　longer entering into that kind of contractual relationship.”
　　“Different kind of contract, hopefully,” says Christian
　　softly, glancing at me. I flush and Dr. Flynn narrows his
　　eyes.
　　“Ana. You’ll have to forgive me, but I probably know
　　a lot more about you than you think. Christian has been
　　very forthcoming.”
　　I glance nervously at Christian. What has he said?
　　“An NDA?” he continues. “That must have shocked
　　you.”
　　I blink at him. “Oh, I think the shock of that has paled
　　into insignificance, given Christian’s most recent
　　revelations,” I answer, my voice soft and hesitant. I sound
　　so nervous.
　　“I’m sure.” Dr. Flynn smiles kindly at me. “So,
　　Christian, what would you like to discuss?”
　　Christian shrugs like a surly teen. “Anastasia wanted to
　　see you. Perhaps you should ask her.”
　　Dr. Flynn’s face registers his surprise once more, and
　　he gazes shrewdly at me.
　　Holy shit. This is mortifying. I gaze down at my
　　fingers.
　　“Would you be more comfortable if Christian left us for
　　“Would you be more comfortable if Christian left us for
　　a while?”
　　My eyes dart to Christian and he’s gazing at me
　　expectantly.
　　“Yes,” I whisper.
　　Christian frowns and opens his mouth but closes it
　　again quickly and stands in one swift graceful movement.
　　“I’ll be in the waiting room,” he says, his mouth a flat,
　　grumpy line.
　　Oh no.
　　“Thank you, Christian,” Dr. Flynn says impassively.
　　Christian gives me one long, searching look then stalks
　　out of the room—but he doesn’t slam the door. Phew. I
　　immediately relax.
　　“He intimidates you?”
　　“Yes. But not as much as he used to.” I feel disloyal
　　but it’s the truth.
　　“That doesn’t surprise me, Ana. What can I help you
　　with?”
　　I stare down at my knotted fingers. What can I ask?
　　“Dr. Flynn, I’ve never been in a relationship before,
　　and Christian is . . . well, he’s Christian. And over the last
　　week or so, a great deal has happened. I haven’t had a
　　chance to think things through.”
　　“What do you need to think through?”
　　I glance up at him, and his head is cocked to one side
　　as he gazes at me with compassion, I think.
　　“Well . . . Christian tells me that he’s happy to give
　　up . . . er—” I stumble and pause. This is so much more
　　difficult to discuss than I’d imagined.
　　difficult to discuss than I’d imagined.
　　Dr. Flynn sighs. “Ana, in the very limited time that
　　you’ve known him, you’ve made more progress with my
　　patient than I have in the last two years. You have had a
　　profound effect on him. You must see that.”
　　“He’s had a profound effect on me, too. I just don’t
　　know if I’m enough. To fulfill his needs,” I whisper.
　　“Is that what you need from me? Reassurance?”
　　I nod.
　　“Needs change,” he says simply. “Christian has found
　　himself in a situation where his methods of coping are no
　　longer effective. Very simply, you’ve forced him to
　　confront some of his demons and rethink.”
　　I blink at him. This echoes what Christian has told me.
　　“Yes, his demons,” I murmur.
　　“We don’t dwell on them—they’re in the past.
　　Christian knows what his demons are, as do I—and now
　　I’m sure you do, too. I’m much more concerned with the
　　future and getting Christian to a place where he wants to
　　be.”
　　I frown and he raises an eyebrow.
　　“The technical term is SFBT—sorry.” He smiles. “That
　　stands for Solution-Focused Brief Therapy. Essentially, it’s
　　goal oriented. We concentrate on where Christian wants
　　to be and how to get him there. It’s a dialectical approach.
　　There’s no point in breast-beating about the past—all
　　that’s been picked over by every physician, psychologist,
　　and psychiatrist Christian’s ever seen. We know why he’s
　　the way he is, but it’s the future that’s important. Where
　　Christian envisages himself, where he wants to be. It took
　　you walking out on him to make him take this form of
　　therapy seriously. He realizes that his goal is a loving
　　relationship with you. It’s that simple, and that’s what
　　we’re working on now. Of course there are obstacles—
　　his haphephobia for one.”
　　Oh jeez . . . his what? I gasp.
　　“I’m sorry. I mean his fear of being touched,” Dr.
　　Flynn says, shaking his head as if scolding himself. “Which
　　I’m sure you’re aware of.”
　　I flush and nod. Oh that!
　　“He has a morbid self-abhorrence. I’m sure that comes
　　as no surprise to you. And of course there’s the
　　parasomnia . . . um—night terrors, sorry, to the
　　layperson.”
　　I blink at him, trying to absorb all these long words. I
　　know about all of this. But Flynn hasn’t mentioned my
　　central concern.
　　“But he’s a sadist. Surely, as such, he has needs which
　　I can’t fulfill.”
　　Dr. Flynn actually rolls his eyes, and his mouth presses
　　into a hard line. “That’s no longer recognized as a
　　psychiatric term. I don’t know how many times I have told
　　him that. It’s not even classified as a paraphilia any more,
　　not since the nineties.”
　　Dr. Flynn has lost me again. I blink at him. He smiles
　　kindly at me.
　　“This is a pet peeve of mine.” He shakes his head.
　　“Christian just thinks the worst of any given situation. It’s
　　part of his self-abhorrence. Of course, there’s such a thing
　　as sexual sadism, but it’s not a disease; it’s a lifestyle
　　choice. And if it’s practiced in a safe, sane relationship
　　between consenting adults, then it’s a nonissue. My
　　understanding is that Christian has conducted all of his
　　BDSM relationships in this manner. You’re the first lover
　　who hasn’t consented, so he’s not willing to do it.”
　　Lover!
　　“But surely it’s not that simple.”
　　“Why not?” Dr. Flynn shrugs good-naturedly.
　　“Well . . . the reasons he does it.”
　　“Ana, that’s the point. In terms of solution-focused
　　therapy, it is that simple. Christian wants to be with you. In
　　order to do that, he needs to forego the more extreme
　　aspects of that kind of relationship. After all, what you’re
　　asking for is not unreasonable . . . is it?”
　　I flush. No, it’s not unreasonable, is it?
　　“I don’t think so. But I worry that he does.”
　　“Christian recognizes that and has acted accordingly.
　　He’s not insane.” Dr. Flynn sighs. “In a nutshell, he’s not a
　　sadist, Ana. He’s an angry, frightened, brilliant young man,
　　who was dealt a shit hand of cards when he was born. We
　　can all beat our breasts about it, and analyze the who, the
　　how and the why to death—or Christian can move on and
　　decide how he wants to live. He’d found something that
　　worked for him for a few years, more or less, but since he
　　met you, it no longer works. And as a consequence, he’s
　　changing his modus operandi. You and I have to respect
　　his choice and support him in it.”
　　I gape at him. “That’s my reassurance?”
　　“As good as it gets, Ana. There are no guarantees in
　　this life.” He smiles. “And that is my professional opinion.”
　　I smile, too, weakly. Doctor jokes . . . jeez.
　　“But he thinks of himself as a recovering alcoholic.”
　　“Christian will always think the worst of himself. As I
　　said, it’s part of his self-abhorrence. It’s in his makeup, no
　　matter what. Naturally he’s anxious about making this
　　change in his life. He’s potentially exposing himself to a
　　whole world of emotional pain, which, incidentally, he had
　　a taste of when you left him. Naturally he’s apprehensive.”
　　Dr. Flynn pauses. “I don’t mean to stress how important a
　　role you have in his Damascene conversion—his road to
　　Damascus. But you have. Christian would not be in this

　　place if he had not met you. Personally I don’t think that
　　an alcoholic is a very good analogy, but if it works for him
　　for now, then I think we should give him the benefit of the
　　doubt.”
　　Give Christian the benefit of the doubt. I frown at the
　　thought.
　　“Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He
　　bypassed that phase in his life totally. He’s channeled all
　　his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he
　　has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to
　　play catch-up.”
　　“So how do I help?”
　　Dr. Flynn laughs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing,”
　　he grins at me. “Christian is head over heels. It’s a delight
　　to see.”
　　to see.”
　　I flush, and my inner goddess is hugging herself with
　　glee, but something bothers me.
　　“Can I ask you one more thing?”
　　“Of course.”
　　I take a deep breath. “Part of me thinks that if he
　　wasn’t this broken he wouldn’t . . . want me.”
　　Dr. Flynn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s a
　　very negative thing to say about yourself, Ana. And frankly
　　it says more about you than it does about Christian. It’s
　　not quite up there with his self-loathing, but I’m surprised
　　by it.”
　　“Well, look at him . . . and then look at me.”
　　Dr. Flynn frowns. “I have. I see an attractive young
　　man, and I see an attractive young woman. Ana, why
　　don’t you think of yourself as attractive?”
　　Oh no . . . I don’t want this to be about me. I stare
　　down at my fingers. There’s a sharp knock on the door
　　that makes me jump. Christian comes back into the room,
　　glaring at both of us. I flush and glance quickly at Flynn,
　　who is smiling benignly at Christian.
　　“Welcome back, Christian,” he says.
　　“I think time is up, John.”
　　“Nearly, Christian. Join us.”
　　Christian sits down, beside me this time, and places his
　　hand possessively on my knee. His action does not go
　　unnoticed by Dr. Flynn.
　　“Did you have any other questions, Ana?” Dr. Flynn
　　asks and his concern is obvious. Shit . . . I should not have
　　asked that question. I shake my head.
　　asked that question. I shake my head.
　　“Christian?”
　　“Not today, John.”
　　Flynn nods.
　　“It may be beneficial if you both come again. I’m sure
　　Ana will have more questions.”
　　Christian nods, reluctantly.
　　I flush. Shit . . . he wants to delve. Christian clasps my
　　hand and regards me intently.
　　“Okay?” he asks softly.
　　I smile at him, nodding. Yes, we’re going for the
　　benefit of the doubt, courtesy of the good doctor from
　　England.
　　Christian squeezes my hand and turns to Flynn.
　　“How is she?” he asks softly.
　　Me?
　　“She’ll get there,” he says reassuringly.
　　“Good. Keep me updated of her progress.”
　　“I will.”
　　Holy fuck. They’re talking about Leila.
　　“Shall we go and celebrate your promotion?” Christian
　　asks me pointedly.
　　I nod shyly as Christian stands.
　　We say our quick good-byes to Dr. Flynn, and
　　Christian ushers me out with unseemly haste.
　　In the street, he turns to me. “How was that?” his voice is
　　anxious.
　　“It was good.”
　　“It was good.”
　　He regards me suspiciously. I cock my head to one
　　side.
　　“Mr. Grey, please don’t look at me that way. Under
　　doctor’s orders I am going to give you the benefit of the
　　doubt.”
　　“What does that mean?”
　　“You’ll see.”
　　His mouth twists and his eyes narrow. “Get in the car,”
　　he orders while opening the passenger door of the Saab.
　　Oh, change of direction. My Blackberry buzzes. I haul
　　it out of my purse.
　　Shit, José!
　　“Hi!”
　　“Ana, hi . . .”
　　I stare at Fifty, who is eyeing me suspiciously. “José,” I
　　mouth at him. He stares impassively at me, but his eyes
　　harden. Does he think I don’t notice? I turn my attention
　　back to José.
　　“Sorry I haven’t called you. Is it about tomorrow?” I
　　ask José, but stare up at Christian.
　　“Yeah, listen—I spoke with some guy at Grey’s place,
　　so I know where I’m delivering the photos, and I should
　　get there between five and six . . . after that, I’m free.”
　　Oh.
　　“Well, I’m actually staying with Christian at the
　　moment, and if you want to, he says you can stay at his
　　place.”
　　Christian presses his mouth in a hard line. Hmm—
　　some host he is.
　　some host he is.
　　José is silent for a moment, absorbing this news. I
　　cringe. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about
　　Christian.
　　“Okay,” he says eventually. “This thing with Grey, it’s
　　serious?”
　　I turn away from the car and pace to the other side of
　　the sidewalk.
　　“Yes.”
　　“How serious?”
　　I roll my eyes and pause. Why does Christian have to
　　be listening?
　　“Serious.”
　　“Is he with you now? That why you’re speaking in
　　monosyllables?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Okay. So are you allowed out tomorrow?”
　　“Of course I am.” I hope. I automatically cross my
　　fingers.
　　“So where shall I meet you?”
　　“You could collect me from work,” I offer.
　　“Okay.”
　　“I’ll text you the address.”
　　“What time?”
　　“Say six?”
　　“Sure. I’ll see you then, Ana. Looking forward to it. I
　　miss you.”
　　I grin. “Cool. I’ll see you then.” I switch the phone off
　　and turn.
　　Christian is leaning against the car watching me
　　Christian is leaning against the car watching me
　　carefully, his expression impossible to read.
　　“How’s your friend?” he asks coolly.
　　“He’s well. He’ll pick me up from work, and I think
　　we’ll go for a drink. Would you like to join us?”
　　Christian hesitates, his gray eyes cool. “You don’t
　　think he’ll try anything?”
　　“No!” My tone is exasperated—but I refrain from
　　rolling my eyes.
　　“Okay,” Christian holds his hands up in defeat. “You
　　hang out with your friend, and I’ll see you later in the
　　evening.”
　　I was expecting a fight, and his easy acquiescence
　　throws me off balance.
　　“See? I can be reasonable.” He smirks.
　　My mouth twists. We’ll see about that.
　　“Can I drive?”
　　Christian blinks at me, surprised by my request.
　　“I’d rather you didn’t.”
　　“Why, exactly?”
　　“Because I don’t like to be driven.”
　　“You managed this morning, and you seem to tolerate
　　Taylor driving you.”
　　“I trust Taylor’s driving implicitly.”
　　“And not mine?” I put my hands on my hips. “Honestly
　　—your control freakery knows no bounds. I’ve been
　　driving since I was fifteen.”
　　He shrugs in response, as if this is of no consequence
　　whatsoever. Oh—he’s so exasperating! Benefit of the
　　doubt? Well, screw that.
　　“Is this my car?” I demand.
　　He frowns at me. “Of course it’s your car.”
　　“Then give me the keys, please. I’ve driven it twice,
　　and only to and from work. Now you’re having all the
　　fun.” I am in full-on pout mode. Christian’s lips twitch with
　　a repressed smile.
　　“But you don’t know where we’re going.”
　　“I’m sure you can enlighten me, Mr. Grey. You’ve
　　done a great job of it so far.”
　　He gazes at me stunned then smiles, his new shy smile
　　that totally disarms me and takes my breath away.
　　“Great job, eh?” he murmurs.
　　I blush. “Mostly, yes.”
　　“Well, in that case.” He hands me the keys, walks
　　round to the driver’s door, and opens it for me.
　　“Left here,” Christian orders, and we head north toward
　　the I-5. “Hell—gently, Ana.” He grabs hold of the
　　dashboard.
　　Oh, for heaven’s sake. I roll my eyes, but don’t turn to
　　look at him. Van Morrison croons in the background over
　　the car sound system.
　　“Slow down!”
　　“I am slowing down!”
　　Christian sighs. “What did Flynn say?” I hear his
　　anxiety leaching into his voice.
　　“I told you. He says I should give you the benefit of the
　　doubt.” Damn—maybe I should have let Christian drive.
　　Then I could watch him. In fact . . . I signal to pull over.
　　“What are you doing?” he snaps, alarmed.
　　“Letting you drive.”
　　“Why?”
　　“So I can look at you.”
　　He laughs. “No, no—you wanted to drive. So, you
　　drive, and I’ll look at you.”
　　I scowl at him. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he
　　shouts.
　　My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just
　　before a stoplight and storm out of the car, slamming the
　　door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms folded, I glare at
　　him. He climbs out of the car.
　　“What are you doing?” he asks angrily, staring down at
　　me.
　　“No. What are you doing?”
　　“You can’t park here.”
　　“I know that.”
　　“So why have you?”
　　“Because I’ve had it with you barking orders. Either
　　you drive or you shut up about my driving!”
　　“Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket.”
　　“No.”
　　He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands
　　through his hair, and his anger becomes bewilderment. He
　　looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can’t help but smile
　　at him. He frowns.
　　“What?” he snaps once more.
　　“What?” he snaps once more.
　　“You.”
　　“Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on
　　the planet.” He throws his hands in the air. “Fine—I’ll
　　drive.” I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.
　　“No—you are the most frustrating man on the planet,
　　Mr. Grey.”
　　He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, he
　　snakes his arms around my waist and embraces me,
　　holding me close.
　　“Maybe we’re meant for each other, then,” he says
　　softly and inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. I wrap my
　　arms around him and close my eyes. For the first time
　　since this morning, I feel myself relax.
　　“Oh . . . Ana, Ana, Ana,” he breathes, his lips pressed
　　against my hair. I tighten my arms around him, and we
　　stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected
　　tranquility, on the street. Releasing me, he opens the
　　passenger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watching him
　　walk around the car.
　　Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffic,
　　absentmindedly humming along to Van Morrison.
　　Whoa. I’ve never heard him sing, not even in the
　　shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely voice—of course.
　　Hmm . . . has he heard me sing?
　　He wouldn’t be asking you to marry him if he had!
　　My subconscious has her arms crossed and is wearing
　　Burberry check . . . jeez. The song finishes and Christian
　　smirks.
　　“You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this
　　“You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this
　　car is in your name.”
　　“Well, good thing I’ve been promoted—I can afford
　　the fine,” I say smugly, staring at his lovely profile. His lips
　　twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he
　　takes the on-ramp to I-5, heading north.
　　“Where are we going?”
　　“It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”
　　I sigh. “He talked about FFFSTB or something.”
　　“SFBT. The latest therapy option,” he mutters.
　　“You’ve tried others?”
　　Christian snorts. “Baby, I’ve been subjected to them
　　all. Cognitivism, Freud, functionalism, Gestalt,
　　behaviorism . . . You name it, over the years I’ve done it,”
　　he says and his tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in
　　his voice is distressing.
　　“Do you think this latest approach will help?”
　　“What did Flynn say?”

　　“He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future
　　—on where you want to be.”
　　Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his
　　expression cautious.
　　“What else?” he persists.
　　“He talked about your fear of being touched, although
　　he called it something else. And about your nightmares and
　　your self-abhorrence.” I glance at him, and in the evening
　　light, he’s pensive, chewing on his thumbnail as he drives.
　　He glances quickly at me.
　　“Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey,” I admonish, my
　　eyebrow cocked at him.
　　eyebrow cocked at him.
　　He looks amused, and slightly exasperated. “You were
　　talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?”
　　I swallow. “He doesn’t think you’re a sadist,” I
　　whisper.
　　“Really?” Christian says quietly and frowns. The
　　atmosphere in the car takes a nosedive.
　　“He says that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not
　　since the nineties,” I mutter, quickly trying to rescue the
　　mood between us.
　　Christian’s face darkens, and he exhales slowly.
　　“Flynn and I have differing opinions on this,” he says
　　quietly.
　　“He said you always think the worst of yourself. I
　　know that’s true,” I murmur. “He also mentioned sexual
　　sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a
　　psychiatric condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking
　　about.”
　　His gray eyes flash toward me again, and his mouth
　　sets in a grim line.
　　“So—one talk with the good doctor and you’re an
　　expert,” he says acidly and turns his eyes front.
　　Oh dear . . . I sigh.
　　“Look—if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t
　　ask me,” I mutter softly.
　　I don’t want to argue. Anyway he’s right—what the
　　hell do I know about all his shit? Do I even want to know?
　　I can list the salient points—his control freakery, his
　　possessiveness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness—and
　　I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can
　　I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can
　　even understand why he doesn’t like to be touched—I’ve
　　seen the physical scars. I can only imagine the mental ones,
　　and I’ve only glimpsed his nightmares once. And Dr. Flynn
　　said—
　　“I want to know what you discussed.” Christian
　　interrupts my thoughts as he heads off I-5 on exit 172,
　　heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.
　　“He called me your lover.”
　　“Did he now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s
　　nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an
　　accurate description. Don’t you?”
　　“Did you think of your subs as lovers?”
　　Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s
　　thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again.
　　Where are we going?
　　“No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his
　　voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want
　　you to be more.”
　　Oh . . . there’s that magical word again, brimming with
　　possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, my
　　inner goddess radiating joy.
　　“I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement.
　　“I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around
　　these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed,
　　his head inclined to one side.
　　After a beat, the stoplight we’re stationed at turns
　　green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion
　　is over.
　　Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now
　　Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now
　　—about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I
　　gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold
　　by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching
　　across the road. Christian has turned into a more
　　residential street, and we’re heading west toward the
　　Sound.
　　“Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn into a
　　road. I catch a road sign—9TH AVE NW. I am baffled.
　　“Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.
　　Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept,
　　clapboard houses where kids play either clustered around
　　their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running
　　around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome
　　with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re
　　going to visit someone? Who?
　　A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re
　　confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a sixfoot-
　　high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his
　　door handle and the electric window hums quietly down
　　into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad
　　and the gates swing open in welcome.
　　He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He
　　looks uncertain, nervous even.
　　“What is it?” I ask, and I can’t mask the concern in my
　　voice.
　　“An idea,” he says quietly and eases the Saab through
　　the gates.
　　We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two
　　We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two
　　cars. On one side, the trees ring a densely wooded area,
　　and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a
　　once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grasses and
　　wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll—a
　　meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples
　　through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers.
　　It’s lovely—utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself
　　lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky.
　　The thought is tantalizing yet makes me feel homesick for
　　some strange reason. How odd.
　　The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping
　　driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style
　　house of soft pink sandstone. It’s palatial. All the lights are
　　on, each window brightly illuminated in the dusk. There’s a
　　smart, black BMW parked in front of the four-car garage,
　　but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.
　　Hmm . . . I wonder who lives here? Why are we
　　visiting?
　　Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the
　　car engine.
　　“Will you keep an open mind?” he asks.
　　I frown.
　　“Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I
　　met you.”
　　He smiles ironically and nods. “Fair point well made,
　　Miss Steele. Let’s go.”
　　The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark
　　brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands
　　waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift
　　waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift
　　dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer
　　heels like her—but still, I’m not in jeans.
　　“Mr. Grey.” She smiles warmly and they shake hands.
　　“Miss Kelly,” he says politely.
　　She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I
　　shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-was-mine
　　flush does not go unnoticed.
　　“Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.
　　“Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this
　　woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house.
　　It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty—
　　completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance
　　hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with
　　scuffmarks where pictures must once have hung. All that
　　remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The
　　floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either
　　side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate
　　what’s happening.
　　“Come,” he says, and taking my hand, he leads me
　　through the archway in front of us into a larger inner
　　vestibule. It’s dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase
　　with an intricate iron balustrade but still he doesn’t stop.
　　He takes me through to the main living area, which is
　　empty, save for a large faded gold rug—the biggest rug I
　　have ever seen. Oh—and there are four crystal
　　chandeliers.
　　But Christian’s intention is now clear as we head
　　across the room and outside through open French doors
　　to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football
　　to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football
　　field of manicured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.
　　The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking—
　　staggering even: twilight over the Sound. Oh my.
　　In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still
　　on this crystal clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly,
　　glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic
　　National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky—opals,
　　aquamarines, ceruleans—melding with the darker purples
　　of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound.
　　It is nature’s best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the
　　sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I
　　am lost to the view—staring, trying to absorb such
　　beauty.
　　I realize I’m holding my breath in awe, and Christian is
　　still holding my hand. As I reluctantly turn my eyes away
　　from the view, he’s gazing anxiously at me.
　　“You brought me here to admire the view?” I whisper.
　　He nods, his expression serious.
　　“It’s staggering, Christian. Thank you,” I murmur,
　　letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my
　　hand.
　　“How would you like to look at it for the rest of your
　　life?” he breathes.
　　What? I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes
　　to pensive gray. I think my mouth drops open, and I gape
　　at him blankly.
　　“I’ve always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and
　　down the Sound coveting these houses. This place hasn’t
　　been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and
　　been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and
　　build a new house—for us,” he whispers, and his eyes
　　glow, translucent with his hopes and dreams.
　　Holy cow. Somehow I remain upright. I’m reeling.
　　Live, here! In this beautiful haven! For the rest of my
　　life . . .
　　“It’s just an idea,” he adds, cautiously.
　　I glance back to assess the interior of the house. How
　　much is it worth? It must be, what—five, ten million
　　dollars? I have no idea. Holy shit.
　　“Why do you want to demolish it?” I ask, looking back
　　at him. His face falls slightly. Oh no.
　　“I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the
　　latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it.”
　　I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on
　　the far side, hovering by the entrance. She’s the realtor, of
　　course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little
　　like the great room at Escala. There’s a balcony above—
　　that must be the landing on the second floor. There’s a
　　huge fireplace and a whole line of French doors opening
　　onto the terrace. It has an old-world charm.
　　“Can we look around the house?”
　　He blinks at me. “Sure,” he shrugs, puzzled.
　　Miss Kelly’s face lights up like Christmas when we
　　head back in. She’s delighted to take us on a tour and
　　gives us the spiel.
　　The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on
　　six acres of land. As well as this main living room, there’s
　　the eat-in—no, banquet-in—kitchen with family room
　　attached—Family!—a music room, a library, a study and,
　　attached—Family!—a music room, a library, a study and,
　　much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite
　　with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the
　　basement there’s a cinema—Jeez—and game room.
　　Hmm . . . what sort of games could we play in here?
　　Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically
　　the house is beautiful and was obviously at one time a
　　happy family home. It’s a little shabby now, but nothing
　　that some TLC couldn’t cure.
　　As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnificent main stairs
　　to the second floor, I can hardly contain my excitement . . .
　　this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.
　　“Couldn’t you make the existing house more ecological
　　and self-sustaining?”
　　Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. “I’d have to ask
　　Elliot. He’s the expert in all this.”