Date: July 6 2011 14:32
To: Anastasia Steele
I’m fine.
Busy.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I press send and hope my response will alleviate her worries. Andrea eyes me warily when I exit the elevator into the outer office.
“Yes?” I snap.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Grey. I just wanted to know if you wanted any coffee?”
“Where’s Sarah?”
“She’s photocopying the reports you requested.”
“Good. And no thanks to coffee,” I add in a softer tone. Why am I being an asshole to my staff? “Get me Welch on the line.”
She nods and picks up the phone.
“Thanks,” I mumble, and head into my office. I slouch into my chair and stare despondently out of the window. The day is bright, unlike my mood.
My phone buzzes. “Grey.”
“I have Anastasia Steele on the line for you.”
Shit. Is she okay?
“Put her through.”
“Hi.” Her voice wavers, soft and breathy. She sounds uncertain and sad, and a chill grips my heart.
“What is it? Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
My relief turns to irritation. My worry is misplaced. “I’m fine, but busy.”
“Let’s talk when you get home.”
“Okay,” I reply, knowing that I’m being abrupt.
She doesn’t respond, but I hear her breathing on the other end of the line. She sounds, unsettled, and the chill I felt a moment earlier is replaced by a familiar homesickness.
What is it, Ana? What do you want to say? Silence stretches between us, full of recrimination and unspoken truths.
“Christian,” she says eventually.
“Anastasia, I have things to do. I have to go.”
“Tonight,” she whispers.
“Tonight.” I hang up and scowl at the phone.
It’s not too much to ask, Anastasia.
“Home?” Taylor asks as he takes the wheel of the Audi.
“Sure,” I murmur, distracted. Part of me doesn’t want to go home. I still don’t have a coherent argument to persuade Ana to change her mind. And I have work to do this evening. A reading project—two weighty reports from the Environmental Sciences Department at WSU—results from the test sites in Africa and Professor Gravett’s paper on the microbe responsible for nitrogen fixation in soils. Apparently, microbes are essential to soil regeneration and regeneration holds the key to carbon sequestration. Later this week, I’ll be reviewing my funding to her department.
Perhaps I should take Ana out, and we can discuss her vows at dinner. Maybe I can sway her over a glass of wine. I’m reminded of our dinner to discuss the D/s contract.
Hell. That didn’t go to plan.
Feeling glum, I stare through the privacy glass at the jostling tourists and commuters, and a sense of righteous indignation settles over me. I’m not asking for much, for fuck’s sake. It’s the only thing that I want. She can have whatever she likes. Knowing that she’ll obey me will give me a sense of security. Does she not understand?
On the sidewalk a young man in shades and loud, flowery shorts is arguing with a woman in an equally loud dress. Their fight is attracting disconcerted looks from passersby.
That will be Ana and me tonight. I know it. And the thought depresses me even more.
I’ll just have to tell her what it means to me. I need to keep her safe.
Yes. She’ll see.
The woman turns, and in a dramatic gesture raises her arms and storms off, leaving the man alone and bewildered on the sidewalk. I think he’s drunk.
Asshole.
Maybe I could fuck Ana into agreeing. That might work. The thought gives me a modicum of hope, and I settle back into my seat for the rest of the drive to Escala.
“Good evening, Mr. Grey,” Mrs. Jones chimes as I enter the living room. From the enticing aroma I know there’s a pot of her delicious Bolognese sauce bubbling on the stove. My mouth waters.
“Hello, Gail. Smells good. Where’s Ana?”
“I believe she’s in the library, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Dinner in half an hour?”
“Works for me. Thanks.” I’ll have time for a quick run on the treadmill, since I missed my workout this morning.
I head to the bedroom to change, avoiding the library.
The Boss blares in my ears as I push my body to its limits. I run three miles in twenty minutes, and I’m a panting hot mess when I come off the treadmill. Dragging air into my lungs and using the back of my hand to wipe the sweat that’s pouring off my brow, I bend over to catch my breath and stretch my hamstrings.
It feels good.
When I stand, Anastasia is leaning against the frame in the doorway, watching me, eyes wide and wary. She’s wearing a pale gray sleeveless shirt and a tight gray skirt. She looks every bit the publishing executive. But young. So young. And miserable.
Shit.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I respond between breaths.
“You didn’t say hello when you came in. Are you avoiding me?”
Ana does not beat around the bush. And in that moment, I want to banish the look of misery on her face and her wariness. “I needed to exercise,” I pant. “I can say hello now.” I open my arms and step toward her, knowing full well I’m soaked with sweat.