Fifty Shades Freed (56 page)

“I know you weren’t . . . um, well,” I murmur, reeling. I hadn’t expected an apology.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You’re feeling better now?” I ask gently.

“Much. Thank you.”

“Does your doctor know you’re here?”

She shakes her head.

Oh.

She looks suitably guilty. “I know I’ll have to deal with the fallout for this later. But I had to get some things, and I wanted to see Susi, and you, and . . . Mr. Grey.”

“You want to see Christian?” My stomach free-falls to the floor.
That’s why she’s here.

“Yes. I wanted to ask you if that would be okay.”

Holy fuck.
I gape at her, and I want to tell her that it’s not okay. I don’t want her anywhere near my husband. Why is she here? To assess the opposition? To unsettle me? Or perhaps she needs this as some sort of closure?

“Leila.” I flounder, exasperated. “It’s not up to me, it’s up to Christian. You’ll need to ask him. He doesn’t need my permission. He’s a grown man . . . most of the time.”

She gazes at me for a fraction of a beat as if surprised by my reaction then laughs softly, nervously twiddling the end of her hair.

“He’s repeatedly refused all my requests to see him,” she says quietly.

Oh shit.
I’m in more trouble than I thought.

“Why is it so important for you to see him?” I ask gently.

“To thank him. I’d be rotting in a stinking prison psychiatric facility if it wasn’t for him. I know that.” She glances down and runs her finger along the edge of the table. “I suffered a serious psychotic episode, and without Mr. Grey and John—Dr. Flynn . . .” She shrugs and gazes at me once more, her face full of gratitude.

Once again I’m speechless. What does she expect me to say? Surely she should be saying these things to Christian, not me.

“And for art school. I can’t thank him enough for that.”

I knew it!
Christian
is
funding her classes. I remain expressionless, tentatively exploring my feelings for this woman now that she’s confirmed my suspicions about Christian’s generosity. To my surprise, I feel no ill will toward her. It’s a revelation, and I’m glad she’s better. Now, hopefully, she can move on with her life and out of ours.

“Are you missing classes right now?” I ask, because I’m interested.

“Only two. I head home tomorrow.”

Oh good. “What are your plans, while you’re here?”

“Pick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Grey already has a couple of my paintings.”

What the hell!
My stomach plunges into the basement once more.
Are they hanging in my living room?
I bridle at the thought.

“What sort of painting do you do?”

“Abstracts, mainly.”

“I see.” My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room. Two by his ex-sub . . . possibly.
Jeez.

“Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?” she asks, completely oblivious to my warring emotions.

“By all means,” I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she’s relaxed a little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.

“I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year.” Her voice drops to a sad whisper.

Holy shit, she’s getting personal.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn’t heard me.

“I loved my husband . . . and one other,” she murmurs.

“My husband.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Yes.” She mouths the word.

This is not news to me. When she lifts her brown eyes to mine, they are wide with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be apprehension . . . of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to this poor young woman is compassion. Mentally I run through all the classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing hard, I clutch the moral high ground.

“I know. He’s very easy to love,” I whisper.

Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. “Yes. He is—was.” She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I can’t help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her dog-eared copy of
Jane Eyre
. I glance at my watch. Deep down I know Christian will be here soon.

“You’ll get your chance to see Christian.”

“I thought I would. I know how protective he can be.” She smiles.

So this is her scheme. She’s very shrewd.
Or manipulative,
whispers my subconscious. “This is why you’re here to see me?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” And Christian is playing right into her hands. Reluctantly, I have to acknowledge that she knows him well.

“He seemed very happy. With you,” she says.

What
?
“How would you know?”

“From when I was in the apartment.” She adds cautiously.

Oh hell . . . how could I forget that?

“Were you there often?”

“No. But he was very different with you.”

Do I want to hear this? A shudder runs through me. My scalp prickles as I recall my fear when she was the unseen shadow in our apartment.

“You know it’s against the law. Trespassing.”

She nods, gazing down at the table. She runs a fingernail along the edge. “It was only a few times, and I was lucky not to get caught. Again, I need to thank Mr. Grey for that. He could have had me thrown in jail.”

“I don’t think he’d do that,” I murmur.

Suddenly there is a flurry of activity outside the meeting room, and instinctively I know that Christian is in the building. A moment later he bursts through the door, and before he closes it, I catch Taylor’s eye as he stands patiently outside. Taylor’s mouth is set in a grim line, and he doesn’t return my tight smile. Oh hell, even he’s mad at me.

Christian’s burning gray gaze pins first me then Leila to our chairs. His demeanor is quietly determined, but I know better, and I suspect Leila does, too. The menacing cool glint in his eyes reveals the truth—he’s emanating rage, though he hides it well. In his gray suit, with his dark tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone, he looks at once businesslike and casual . . . and hot. His hair is in disarray—no doubt because he’s been running his hands through it in exasperation.

Leila looks nervously down at the edge of the table, running her index finger along the edge again as Christian looks from me to her and then to Prescott.

“You,” he says to Prescott in a soft tone. “You’re fired. Get out now.”

I blanch. Oh no—this isn’t fair.

“Christian—” I make to stand up.

He holds his index finger up at me in warning. “Don’t,” he says. His voice so ominously quiet that I’m immediately silenced and rooted to my seat. Bowing her head, Prescott walks briskly out of the room to join Taylor. Christian shuts the door behind her and walks to the edge of the table.
Crap! Crap! Crap!
That was my fault. Christian stands opposite Leila, and placing both hands on the wooden surface, he leans forward.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls at her.

“Christian!” I gasp. He ignores me.

“Well?” he demands.

Leila peeks up at him through long lashes, her eyes wide, her face ashen, her rosy glow gone.

“I wanted to see you, and you wouldn’t let me,” she whispers.

“So you came here to harass my wife?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Leila looks down at the table again.

He stands, glowering at her. “Leila, if you come anywhere near my wife again, I will cut off all support. Doctors, art school, medical insurance—all of it—gone. Do you understand?”

“Christian—” I try again. But he silences me with a chilling look. Why is he being so unreasonable? My compassion for this sad woman blooms.

“Yes,” she says, her voice just audible.

“What’s Susannah doing in reception?”

“She came with me.”

He runs a hand through his hair, glaring at her.

“Christian, please,” I beg him. “Leila just wants to say thank you. That’s all.”

He ignores me, concentrating his wrath on Leila. “Did you stay with Susannah while you were sick?”

“Yes.”

“Did she know what you were doing while you were staying with her?”

“No. She was away on vacation.”

He strokes his index finger over his lower lip. “Why do you need to see me? You know you should send any requests through Flynn. Do you need something?” His tone has softened, maybe by a fraction.

Leila runs her finger along the edge of the table again.

Stop bullying her, Christian!

“I had to know.” And for the first time she looks up directly at him.

“Had to know what?” he snaps.

“That you’re okay.”

He gapes at her. “That I’m okay?” he scoffs, disbelieving.

“Yes.”

“I’m fine. There, question answered. Now Taylor will run you to Sea-Tac so you can go back to the East Coast. And if you take one step west of the Mississippi, it’s all gone. Understand?”

Holy fuck . . . Christian!
I gape at him. What the fuck is eating him? He cannot confine her to one side of the country.

“Yes. I understand,” Leila says quietly.

“Good.” Christian’s tone is more conciliatory.

“It might not be convenient for Leila to go back now. She has plans,” I object, outraged on her behalf.

Christian glares at me. “Anastasia,” he warns, his voice icy, “this does not concern you.”

I scowl at him. Of course it concerns me. She’s in my office. There must be more to this than I know. He’s not being rational.

Fifty Shades,
my subconscious hisses at me.

“Leila came to see me, not you,” I murmur petulantly.

Leila turns to me, her eyes impossibly wide.

“I had my instructions, Mrs. Grey. I disobeyed them.” She glances nervously at my husband, then back at me.

“This is the Christian Grey I know,” she says, her tone sad and wistful. Christian frowns at her, while all the breath evaporates from my lungs. I can’t breathe. Was Christian like this with her all the time? Was he like this with me, at first? I find it hard to remember. Giving me a forlorn smile, Leila rises from the table.

“I’d like to stay until tomorrow. My flight is at noon,” she says quietly to Christian.

“I’ll have someone collect you at ten to take you to the airport.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re at Susannah’s?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

I glare at Christian. He can’t dictate to her like this . . . and how does he know where Susannah lives?

“Good-bye, Mrs. Grey. Thank you for seeing me.”

I stand and hold out my hand. She takes it gratefully and we shake.

“Um . . . good-bye. Good luck,” I mutter, because I’m not sure what the protocol is for saying farewell to my husband’s ex-submissive.

She nods and turns to him. “Good-bye, Christian.”

Christian’s eyes soften a little. “Good-bye, Leila.” His is voice low. “Dr. Flynn, remember.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He opens the door to usher her out, but she halts in front of him and looks up. He stills, watching her warily.

“I’m glad you’re happy. You deserve to be,” she says and leaves before he can reply. He frowns after her, then nods to Taylor, who follows Leila toward the reception area. Closing the door, Christian gazes uncertainly at me.

“Don’t even think about being angry with me,” I hiss. “Call Claude Bastille and kick the shit out of him or go see Flynn.”

His mouth drops open; he’s so surprised by my outburst, and his brow creases once more.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this.” Now his tone is accusatory.

“Do what?”

“Defy me.”

“No I didn’t. I said I’d be more considerate. I told you she was here. I had Prescott search her, and your other little friend, too. Prescott was with me the entire time. Now you’ve fired the poor woman, when she was only doing what I asked. I told you not to worry, yet here you are. I don’t remember receiving your papal bull decreeing that I couldn’t see Leila. I didn’t know that my visitors were subject to a proscribed list.” My voice rises with indignation as I warm to my cause. Christian regards me, his expression unreadable. After a moment his mouth twists.

“Papal bull?” he says, amused, and he visibly relaxes. I wasn’t aiming to lighten our conversation, yet here he is smirking at me, and that makes me madder. The exchange between him and his ex was painful to witness. How could he be so cold with her?