by E. L. James
As is our ritual on a Monday, Hannah comes into my office with a plate for my packed lunch courtesy of Mrs. Jones, and we sit and eat our lunches together, discussing what we want to achieve during the week. She brings me up to date with the office gossip, too, which—considering I’ve been away for three weeks—is pretty thin on the ground. As we’re chatting, there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Roach opens the door, and standing beside him is Christian. I’m momentarily struck dumb. Christian shoots me a blazing look and stalks in, before smiling politely at Hannah.
“Hello, you must be Hannah. I’m Christian Grey,” he says. Hannah scrambles to her feet and holds out her hand.
“Mr. Grey. H-how nice to meet you,” she stutters as they shake hands. “Can I fetch you a coffee?”
“Please,” he says warmly. With a quick puzzled glance at me, she scuttles out of the office past Roach, who stands as dumbstruck as me on the threshold of my office.
“If you’ll excuse me, Roach, I’d like a word with Ms. Steele.” Christian hisses the S sibilantly . . . sarcastically.
This is why he’s here . . . Oh shit.
“Of course, Mr. Grey. Ana,” Roach mutters, shutting the door to my office as he departs. I recover my power of speech.
“Mr. Grey, how nice to see you.” I smile, far too sweetly.
“Ms. Steele, may I sit down?”
“It’s your company.” I wave at the chair Hannah vacated.
“Yes, it is.” He smiles wolfishly at me, the smile not reaching his eyes. His tone is clipped. He’s bristling with tension—I can feel it all around me. Fuck. My heart sinks.
“Your office is very small,” he says as he sits down facing my desk.
“It suits me.”
He regards me neutrally, but I know he’s mad. I take a deep breath. This is not going to be fun.
“So what can I do for you, Christian?”
“I’m just looking over my assets.”
“Your assets? All of them?”
“All of them. Some of them need rebranding.”
“Rebranding? In what way?”
“I think you know.” His voice is menacingly quiet.
“Please—don’t tell me you have interrupted your day after three weeks away to come over here and fight with me about my name.” I am not a freaking asset!
He shifts and crosses his legs. “Not exactly fight. No.”
“Christian, I’m working.”
“Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me.”
My cheeks heat. “We were going through our schedules,” I snap. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I shout, too loudly.
Hannah opens the door and brings in a small tray. Milk jug, sugar bowl, coffee in a French press—she’s gone all out. She places the tray on my desk.
“Thank you, Hannah,” I mutter, embarrassed that I have just shouted so loudly.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Grey?” she asks all breathless. I want to roll my eyes at her.
“No, thank you. That’s all.” He smiles his dazzling, panty-dropping smile at her. She flushes and exits simpering. Christian turns his attention back to me.
“Now, Ms. Steele, where were we?”
“You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my name.”
Christian blinks once—surprised, I think, by the vehemence in my voice. Deftly, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his knee with long skilled fingers. It’s distracting. He’s doing it on purpose. I narrow my eyes at him.
“I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes, wives in their place. You know.” He shrugs, his mouth set in an arrogant line.
Wives in their place! “I had no idea you could spare the time,” I snap.
His eyes frost. “Why don’t you want to change your name here?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.
“Christian, do we have to discuss this now?”
“I’m here. I don’t see why not.”
“I have a ton of work to do, having been away for the last three weeks.”
He gazes at me, his eyes cool and assessing—distant even. I marvel that he can appear so cold after last night, after the last three weeks. Shit. He must be so mad—really mad. When will he learn not to overreact?
“Are you ashamed of me?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.
“No! Christian, of course not.” I scowl at him. “This is about me—not you.” Jeez, he’s exasperating sometimes. Silly overbearing megalomaniac.
“How is this not about me?” He cocks his head to one side, genuinely perplexed, some of his detachment slipping as he stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize that he’s hurt. Holy fuck. I’ve hurt his feelings. Oh no . . . he’s the last person I want to hurt. I have to make him see my logic. I have to explain my reasoning for my decision.
“Christian, when I took this job, I’d only just met you,” I say patiently, struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t know you were going to buy the company—”
What can I say about that event in our brief history? His deranged reasons for doing so—his control freakery, his stalker tendencies gone mad, given completely free rein because he is so wealthy. I know he wants to keep me safe, but it’s his ownership of SIP that is the fundamental problem here. If he’d never interfered, I could continue as normal and not have to face the disgruntled and whispered recriminations of my colleagues. I put my head in my hands just to break eye contact with him.
“Why is it so important to you?” I ask, desperately trying to hold on to my fraying temper. I look up at his impassive stare, his eyes luminous, giving nothing away, his earlier hurt now hidden. But even as I ask the question, deep down I know the answer before he says it.
“I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”
“I am yours—look.” I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding and engagement rings.
“It’s not enough.”
“Not enough that I married you?” My voice is barely a whisper.
He blinks, registering the horror on my face. Where can I go from here? What else can I do?
“That’s not what I mean,” he snaps and runs a hand through his overlong hair so that it flops onto his forehead.
“What do you mean?”
He swallows. “I want your world to begin and end with me,” he says, his expression raw. His comment completely derails me. It’s like he’s punched me hard in the stomach, winding and wounding me. And the vision comes to mind of a small, frightened, copper-haired gray-eyed boy in dirty, mismatched, ill-fitting clothes.
“It does,” I say without guile, because it’s the truth. “I’m just trying to establish a career, and I don’t want to trade on your name. I have to do something, Christian. I can’t stay imprisoned at Escala or the new house with nothing to do. I’ll go crazy. I’ll suffocate. I’ve always worked, and I enjoy this. This is my dream job; it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But doing this doesn’t mean I love you less. You are the world to me.” My throat swells and tears prick the back of my eyes. I must not cry, not here. I repeat it over and over in my head. I must not cry. I must not cry.
He stares at me, saying nothing. Then a frown crosses his face as if he’s considering what I’ve said.
“I suffocate you?” His voice is bleak, and it’s an echo of a question he’s asked me before.
“No . . . yes . . . no.” This is such an exasperating conversation—not one that I want to have now, here. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, trying to fathom how we got to this.
“Look, we were talking about my name. I want to keep my name here because I want to put some distance between you and me . . . but only here, that’s all. You know everyone thinks I got the job because of you, when the reality is—” I stop, when his eyes widen. Oh no . . . it is because of him?
“Do you want to know why you got the job, Anastasia?”
&
nbsp; Anastasia? Shit. “What? What do you mean?”
He shifts in his chair as if steeling himself. Do I want to know?
“The management here gave you Hyde’s job to babysit. They didn’t want the expense of hiring a senior executive when the company was mid-sale. They had no idea what the new owner would do with it once it passed into his ownership, and wisely, they didn’t want an expensive redundancy. So they gave you Hyde’s job to caretake until the new owner” —he pauses, and his lips twitch in an ironic smile—“namely me, took over.”
Holy crap! “What are you saying?” So it was because of him. Fuck! I’m horrified.
He smiles and shakes his head at my alarm. “Relax. You’ve more than risen to the challenge. You’ve done very well.” There’s the tiniest hint of pride in his voice, and it’s almost my undoing.
“Oh,” I murmur incoherently, reeling from this news. I sit right back in my chair, open-mouthed, staring at him. He shifts again.
“I don’t want to suffocate you, Ana. I don’t want to put you in a gilded cage. Well . . .” He pauses, his face darkening. “Well, the rational part of me doesn’t.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully as his mind concocts some plan.
Oh, where is he going with this? Christian looks up suddenly, as if he’s had a eureka moment. “So one of the reasons I’m here—apart from dealing with my errant wife,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “is to discuss what I am going to do with this company.”
Errant wife! I am not errant, and I’m not an asset! I scowl at Christian again and the threat of tears subsides.
“So what are your plans?” I incline my head to one side, mirroring him, and I can’t help my sarcastic tone. His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. Jeez—change of mood, again! How can I ever keep up with Mr. Mercurial?
“I’m renaming the company—to Grey Publishing.”
Holy shit.
“And in a year’s time, it will be yours.”
My mouth drops open once more—wider this time.
“This is my wedding present to you.”
I shut my mouth then open it, trying to articulate something—but there’s nothing there. My mind is blank.
“So, do I need to change the name to Steele Publishing?”
He’s serious. Holy fuck.
“Christian,” I whisper when my brain finally reconnects with my mouth. “You gave me a watch . . . I can’t run a business.”
He tilts his head to one side again and gives me a censorious frown. “I ran my own business from the age of twenty-one.”
“But you’re . . . you. Control freak and whiz-kid extraordinaire. Jeez Christian, you majored in economics at Harvard before you dropped out. At least you have some idea. I sold paint and cable ties for three years on a part-time basis, for heaven’s sake. I’ve seen so little of the world, and I know next to nothing!” My voice rises, growing louder and higher, as I complete my tirade.
“You’re also the most well-read person I know,” he counters earnestly. “You love a good book. You couldn’t leave your job while we were on our honeymoon. You read how many manuscripts? Four?”
“Five,” I whisper.
“And you wrote full reports on all of them. You’re a very bright woman, Anastasia. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Crazy for you,” he whispers.
And I snort because it’s the only expression my body can make. He narrows his eyes.
“You’ll be a laughing stock. Buying a company for the little woman, who has only had a full time job for a few months of her adult life.”
“Do you think I give a fuck what people think? Besides, you won’t be on your own.”
I gape at him. He really has lost his marbles this time. “Christian, I . . .” I put my head in my hands—my emotions have been through a wringer. Is he crazy? And from somewhere dark and deep inside I have the sudden, inappropriate need to laugh. When I look up at him again, his eyes widen.
“Something amusing you, Ms. Steele?”
“Yes. You.”
His eyes widen further, shocked but also amused. “Laughing at your husband? That will never do. And you’re biting your lip.” His eyes darken . . . in that way. Oh no—I know that look. Sultry, seductive, salacious . . . No, no, no! Not here.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, alarm clear in my voice.
“Think about what, Anastasia?”
“I know that look. We’re at work.”
He leans forward, his eyes glued to mine, molten gray and hungry. Holy shit! I swallow instinctively. “We’re in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a lockable door.”
“Gross moral turpitude.” I enunciate each word carefully.
“Not with your husband.”
“With my boss’s boss’s boss,” I hiss.
“You’re my wife.”
“Christian, no. I mean it. You can fuck me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!”
He blinks and narrows his eyes once more. Then unexpectedly he laughs.
“Seven shades of Sunday?” He arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “I may hold you to that, Ms. Steele.”
“Oh, stop with the Ms. Steele!” I snap and thump the desk, startling us both. “For heaven’s sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I’ll change my name!”
His mouth pops open as he inhales sharply. And then he grins, a radiant, all-teeth-showing, joyous grin. Wow . . .
“Good.” He claps his hands, and all of a sudden he stands.
What now?
“Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Grey.”
Gah—this man is so maddening! “But—”
“But what, Mrs. Grey?”
I sag. “Just go.”
“I intend to. I’ll see you this evening. I’m looking forward to seven shades of Sunday.”
I scowl.
“Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up, and I’d like you to accompany me.”
I gape at him. Will you just go?
“I’ll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule from now on.”
“Okay,” I mumble, completely bemused, bewildered and shell-shocked.
He leans over my desk. What now? I am caught in his hypnotic gaze.
“Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey.” He leans in closer as I sit paralyzed, and he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. “Laters, baby,” he murmurs. He stands abruptly, winks at me, and leaves.
I lay my head on my desk, feeling like I’ve been run over by a freight train—the freight train that is my beloved husband. He has to be the most frustrating, annoying, contrary man on the planet. I sit up and frantically rub my eyes. What have I just agreed to? Okay, Ana Grey running SIP—I mean, Grey Publishing. The man is insane. There’s a knock on the door, and Hannah pokes her head around.
“You okay?” she asks.
I just stare at her. She frowns.
“I know you don’t like me doing this—but can I make you some tea?”
I nod.
“Twinings English Breakfast, weak and black?”
I nod.
“Coming right up, Ana.”
I stare blankly at my computer screen, still in shock. How can I make him understand? E-mail!
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: NOT AN ASSET!
Date: August 22, 2011 14:23
To: Christian Grey
Mr. Grey
Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.
Yours
Anastasia Grey <-----please note name.
Commissioning Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday
Date: August 22, 2011 14:34
To: Anastasia Steele
My Dear
Mrs. Grey (emphasis on My)
What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.
And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.
As ever, you make my day.
Christian Grey
CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
He’s trying to be funny, but I am in no mood to laugh. I take a deep breath and go back to my correspondence.
Christian is quiet when I climb into the car that evening.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“Hi,” he responds, warily—as he should.
“Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” I ask too sweetly.
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Only Flynn’s.”
Oh.
“Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered,” I hiss at him.
“You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”
I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan and Sawyer’s heads in front of me. Christian shifts beside me.
“Hey,” he says softly and reaches for my hand. All afternoon, when I should have been concentrating on work, I was trying to figure out what to say to him. But I became angrier and angrier with each passing hour. I’ve had enough of his cavalier, petulant, and frankly childish behavior. I snatch my hand out of his—in a cavalier, petulant, and childish manner.
“You’re mad at me?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I hiss. Folding my arms protectively across my body, I gaze out my window. He shifts beside me once more, but I will myself not to look at him. I don’t understand why I’m so mad at him—but I am. Really fucking mad.
As soon as we pull up outside Escala, I break protocol and leap out of the car with my briefcase. I stomp into the building, not checking to see who is following. Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the call button.
“What?” I snap when I’m alongside him. His cheeks redden.
“Apologies, ma’am,” he mutters.
Christian comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan retreats.
“So it’s not just me you’re mad at?” Christian murmurs dryly. I glare up at him and see a trace of a smile on his face.
“Are you laughing at me?” I narrow my eyes.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, holding his hands up like I’m threatening him at gunpoint. He’s in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex-hair and a guileless expression.