Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian (Fifty Shades 6)

She closes her eyes, then stares down at her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Sorry? Fuck!” A child. What do I do with a child?

“I know the timing’s not very good.”

“Not very good!” My bellow echoes around the room. “We’ve known each other five fucking minutes! I wanted to show you the fucking world and now… Fuck! Diapers and vomit and shit—!” I close my eyes.

You won’t love me anymore.

“Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?”

“No.” Her word is a quiet rush of denial.

“I thought we’d agreed on this!” And I don’t give a fuck who can hear me.

She cringes, folding in on herself. “I know. We had. I’m sorry.”

“This is why! This is why I like control—so shit like this doesn’t come along and fuck everything up!”

“Christian, please don’t shout at me.”

Fuck.

I’ll be displaced.

She starts to cry.

Don’t you dare, Ana. “Don’t start with waterworks now! Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to comprehend this colossal fuckup. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” My voice cracks on the last word.

She turns tear-filled eyes to me. “I know neither one of us is ready for this,” she mumbles, “but I think you’ll make a wonderful father. We’ll figure it out.”

“How the fuck do you know!” My voice clamors around the room. “Tell me how!”

She opens her mouth, and closes it again as tears stream down her face.

And there it is—her regret.

Regret that’s writ large in every feature of her face. Regret that she’s saddled with me.

I can’t bear it.

My fury is drowning me.

“Oh, fuck this!” I rage at the world and back away, holding up my hands in defeat.

I cannot do this—

I’m out of here.

Grabbing my jacket, I storm out of the room, slamming the foyer door. Frantically, I stab the call button, and even though the elevator is on our floor the doors take far too fucking long to open.

A child?

A fucking child?

I step into the elevator, but in my head I’m underneath a kitchen table, in a shambolic, grimy, neglected hovel, waiting for him to find me.

There you are, you little shit.

Hell and damnation.

Fuck, no.

On the ground floor, I slam through the main doors out of Escala and onto the sidewalk. I drag in a lungful of fresh fall air, but it does little to assuage the anger and fear that surge in equal measure through my veins. I need to get away. Instinctively, I turn right and start walking, barely noticing that it’s stopped raining.

I walk.

And walk.

In a daze.

Concentrating on the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other.

Blotting out all other thoughts.

Except one.

How could she do this to me?

How?

How can I love a child?

I’ve only just learned to love her.

When I look up, I’m at Flynn’s office. There’s no way he’s going to be here. The door doesn’t shift—it’s locked. I call him but get his voice mail. I don’t leave a message. I can’t trust myself.

Jamming my hands into the pockets of my jacket and ignoring the commuters on the streets, I trudge on.

Aimless.

When I look up, Elena is locking up the salon, shrouded in her usual black attire. We gaze at each other; she’s on one side of the glass, I’m on the other. She unlocks and opens the door.

“Hello, Christian. You look like shit.”

I stare at her, not knowing what to say.

“Are you coming in?”

I shake my head and step back.

Grey, what are you doing?

Somewhere deep in my subconscious an alarm is sounding.

I ignore it.

Elena sighs and taps a scarlet nail against scarlet lips, her silver ring catching the evening light. “Shall we go for a drink?”

“Yes.”

“The Mile High?”

“No. Somewhere less crowded.”

“I see.” She tries and fails to hide her surprise. “Okay.”

“There’s a bar around the corner.”

“I know the one. It’s a quiet place. Let me grab my purse.”

Standing on the sidewalk while I wait for her, I feel numb.

I’ve just walked out on my pregnant wife.

But right now I’m too mad at her to care.

Grey, what are you doing?

I shake the disquieting voice from my head, and Elena steps out of her salon, locks the door, and with a slight nod of her head indicates right. I jam my hands farther into my pockets and together we walk the rest of the block, around the corner, and into the bar.

It’s had a considerable makeover since I was last here—it’s no longer a dive, but an upscale watering hole, all paneled wood and plush velvet seating. Elena was right—it is quiet except for Billie Holiday’s soft, melancholic voice over the sound system.

Apt.

We slide into a booth, and Elena signals for the waitress.

“Good evening, my name’s Sunny. What can I get you folks?”

“I’d like a glass of your Willamette pinot noir,” Elena says.

“A bottle,” I order, without looking at the waitress. Elena’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but she maintains her familiar air of cool detachment. Maybe that’s why I’m here; that’s what I’m looking for—cool detachment personified.