Fifty Shades Freed (71 page)

It works. He stills and swallows. “That wasn’t my intention.” He frowns.

I can barely breathe. If he touches me, I will succumb. I know the power he wields over me and over my traitorous body. I know. I hang on to my anger.

“I had a drink with someone I used to be close to. We cleared the air. I am not going to see her again.”

“You sought her out?”

“Not at first. I tried to see Flynn. But I found myself at the salon.”

“And you expect me to believe you’re not going to see her again?” I cannot contain my fury as I hiss at him. “What about the next time I step across some imaginary line? This is the same argument we have over and over again. Like we’re on some Ixion’s wheel. If I fuck up again, are you going to run back to her?”

“I am not going to see her again,” he says with a chilling finality. “She finally understands how I feel.”

I blink at him. “What does that mean?”

He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, exasperated and angry and mute. I try a different tack.

“Why can you talk to her and not to me?”

“I was mad at you. Like I am now.”

“You don’t say!” I snap. “Well
I
am mad at you right now. Mad at you for being so cold and callous yesterday when I needed you. Mad at you for saying I got knocked up deliberately, when I didn’t. Mad at you for betraying me.” I manage to suppress a sob. His mouth drops open in shock, and he closes his eyes briefly as if I’d slapped him. I swallow.
Calm down, Anastasia
.

“I should have kept better track of my shots. But I didn’t do it on purpose. This pregnancy is a shock to me, too.” I mutter, trying for a modicum of civility. “It could be that the shot failed.”

He glares at me, silent.

“You really fucked up yesterday,” I whisper, my anger boiling over. “I’ve had a lot to deal with over the last few weeks.”

“You really fucked up three or four weeks ago. Or whenever you forgot your shot.”

“Well, God forbid I should be perfect like you!”

Oh stop, stop, stop.
We stand glowering at each other.

“This is quite a performance, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers.

“Well, I’m glad that even knocked up I’m entertaining.”

He stares at me blankly. “I need a shower,” he murmurs.

“And I’ve provided enough of a floor show.”

“It’s a mighty fine floor show,” he whispers. He steps forward, and I step back again.

“Don’t.”

“I hate that you won’t let me touch you.”

“Ironic, huh?”

His eyes narrow once more. “We haven’t resolved much, have we?”

“I’d say not. Except that I’m moving out of this bedroom.”

His eyes flare and widen briefly. “She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Except when you need her.”

“I don’t need her. I need you.”

“You didn’t yesterday. That woman is a hard limit for me, Christian.”

“She’s out of my life.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“For fuck’s sake, Ana.”

“Please let me get dressed.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair once more. “I’ll see you this evening,” he says, his voice bleak and devoid of feeling. And for a brief moment I want to take him in my arms and soothe him . . . but I resist because I’m just too mad. He turns and heads for the bathroom. I stand frozen until I hear the door close.

I stagger to the bed and flop down on to it. My inner goddess and my subconscious are both giving me a standing ovation. I did not resort to tears, shouting, or murder, nor did I succumb to his sexpertise. I deserve a Congressional Medal of Honor, but I feel so low. Shit. We resolved nothing. We’re on the edge of a precipice. Is our marriage is at stake here? Why can’t he see what a complete and utter ass he’s been running to that woman? And what does he mean when he says he’ll never see her again? How on earth am I supposed to believe that? I glance at the radio alarm—eight thirty.
Shit!
I’ll don’t want to be late. I take a deep breath.

“Round Two was a stalemate, Little Blip,” I whisper, patting my belly. “Daddy may be a lost cause, but I hope not. Why, oh why, did you come so early, Little Blip? Things were just getting good.” My lip trembles, but I take a deep cleansing breath and bring my rolling emotions under control.

“Come on. Let’s go kick ass at work.”

I don’t say good-bye to Christian. He’s still in the shower when Sawyer and I leave. As I gaze out of the darkened windows of the SUV, my composure slips and my eyes water. My mood is reflected in the gray, dreary sky, and I feel a strange sense of foreboding. We didn’t actually discuss the baby. I have had less than twenty-four hours to assimilate the news of Little Blip. Christian has had even less time. “He doesn’t even know your name.” I caress my belly and wipe tears from my face.

“Mrs. Grey.” Sawyer interrupts my reverie. “We’re here.”

“Oh. Thanks, Sawyer.”

“I’m going to make a run to the deli, ma’am. Can I get you anything?”

“No. Thank you, no. I’m not hungry.”

Hannah has my latte waiting for me. I take one sniff of it and my stomach roils.

“Um
 . . 
.can I have tea, please?” I mutter, embarrassed. I knew there was a reason I never really liked coffee. Jeez, it smells foul.

“You okay, Ana?”

I nod and scurry into the safety of my office. My BlackBerry buzzes. It’s Kate.

“Why was Christian looking for you?” she asks with no preamble at all.

“Good morning, Kate. How are you?”

“Cut the crap, Steele. What gives?” The Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition begins.

“Christian and I had a fight, that’s all.”

“Did he hurt you?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, but not the way you’re thinking.” I cannot deal with Kate at the moment. I know I will cry, and right now I am so proud of myself for not breaking down this morning. “Kate, I have a meeting. I’ll call you back.”

“Good. You’re all right?”

“Yes.”
No.
“I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay, Ana, have it your own way. I’m here for you.”

“I know,” I whisper and fight the backlash of emotion at her kind words.
I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry.

“Ray okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper the word.

“Oh, Ana,” she whispers.

“Don’t.”

“Okay. Talk later.”

“Yes.”

During the course of the morning, I sporadically check my e-mails, hoping for word from Christian. But there’s nothing. As the day wears on, I realize that he’s not going to contact me at all and that he’s still mad. Well, I’m still mad, too. I throw myself into my work, pausing only at lunchtime for a cream cheese and salmon bagel. It’s extraordinary how much better I feel once I’ve eaten something.

At five o’clock Sawyer and I set off for the hospital to see Ray. Sawyer is extra vigilant, and even oversolicitous. It’s irritating. As we approach Ray’s room, he hovers over me.

“Shall I get you some tea while you visit with your father?” he asks.

“No thanks, Sawyer. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll wait outside.” He opens the door for me, and I’m grateful to get away from him for a moment. Ray is sitting up in bed reading a magazine. He’s shaved, wearing a pajama top—he looks like his old self.

“Hey, Annie.” He grins. And his face falls.

“Oh, Daddy . . .” I rush to his side, and in a very uncharacteristic move, he opens his arms wide and hugs me.

“Annie?” he whispers. “What is it?” He holds me tight and kisses my hair. As I’m in his arms, I realize how rare these moments between us have been.
Why is that?
Is that why I like to crawl into Christian’s lap? After a moment, I pull away from him and sit down in the chair beside the bed. Ray’s brow is furrowed with concern.

“Tell your old man.”

I shake my head. He doesn’t need my problems right now.

“It’s nothing, Dad. You look well.” I clasp his hand.

“Feeling more like myself, though this leg in a cast is bitchin’.”

“Bitchin’?” His word prompts my smile.

He smiles back. “Bitchin’ sounds better than itchin’.”

“Oh, Dad, I am so glad you’re okay.”

“Me, too, Annie. I’d like to bounce some grandchildren on this bitchin’ knee one day. Wouldn’t want to miss that for the world.”

I blink at him.
Shit.
Does he know? And I fight the tears that prick the corners of my eyes.

“You and Christian getting along?”

“We had a fight,” I whisper, trying to speak past the knot in my throat. “We’ll work it out.”

He nods. “He’s a fine man, your husband,” Ray says reassuringly.

“He has his moments. What did the doctors say?” I don’t want to talk about my husband right now; he’s a painful topic of conversation.

Back at Escala, Christian is not home.

“Christian called and said that he’d be working late,” Mrs. Jones informs me apologetically.

“Oh. Thanks for letting me know.” Why couldn’t he tell me? Jeez, he really is taking his sulk to a whole new level. I am briefly reminded of the fight over our wedding vows and the major tantrum he had then. But I’m the aggrieved one here.

“What would you like to eat?” Mrs. Jones has a determined, steely glint in her eye.

“Pasta.”

She smiles. “Spaghetti, penne, fusilli?”

“Spaghetti, your Bolognese.”

“Coming up. And Ana . . . you should know Mr. Grey was frantic this morning when he thought you’d left. He was beside himself.” She smiles fondly.

Oh . . .

He’s still not home by nine. I am sitting at my desk in the library, wondering where he is. I call him.

“Ana,” he says, his voice cool.

“Hi.”

He inhales softly. “Hi,” he says, his voice lower.

“Are you coming home?”

“Later.”

“Are you in the office?”

“Yes. Where did you expect me to be?”

With her.
“I’ll let you go.”

We both hang on the line, the silence stretching and tightening between us.

“Goodnight, Ana,” he says eventually.

“Goodnight, Christian.”

He hangs up.

Oh shit.
I gaze at my BlackBerry. I don’t know what he expects me to do. I’m not going to let him walk all over me. Yes, he’s mad, fair enough. I’m mad. But we are where we are. I haven’t run off loose-lipped to my ex-paedo lover. I want him to acknowledge that that is not an acceptable way to behave.

I sit back in my chair, gazing at the billiard table in the library, and recall fun times playing snooker. I place my hand on my belly. Maybe it’s just too early. Maybe this is not meant to be . . . And even as I think that, my subconscious is screaming
no!
If I terminate this pregnancy, I will never forgive myself—or Christian. “Oh, Blip, what have you done to us?” I can’t face talking to Kate. I can’t face talking to anyone. I text her, promising to call soon.

By eleven, I can no longer keep my eyelids open. Resigned, I head up to my old room. Curling up beneath the duvet, I finally let myself go, sobbing into my pillow, great heaving unladylike sobs of grief . . .

My head is heavy when I wake. Crisp fall light shines through the great windows of my room. Glancing at my alarm I see it’s seven thirty. My immediate thought is
where’s Christian?
I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. On the floor beside the bed is Christian’s silver-gray tie, my favorite. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night. I pick it up and stare at it, caressing the silky material between my thumbs and forefingers, then hug it against my cheek. He was here, watching me sleep. And a glimmer of hope sparks deep inside me.

Mrs. Jones is busy in the kitchen when I arrive downstairs.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

“Morning. Christian?” I ask.

Her face falls. “He’s already left.”

“So he did come home?” I need to check, even though I have his tie as evidence.

“He did,” she pauses, “Ana, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, but don’t give up on him. He’s a stubborn man.”

I nod and she stops. I’m sure my expression tells her I do not want to discuss my errant husband right now.

When I arrive at work, I check my e-mails. My heart leaps into overdrive when I see there’s one from Christian.