by E. L. James
He snorts. “I’m not that vindictive, Anastasia,” he admonishes me. “No. I’ll gift them to her. I’ll talk to my lawyer Monday. I owe her that much.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “No more Mrs. Robinson?” His mouth twists in amusement and he shakes his head.
“Gone.”
I grin.
“I’m sorry you lost a friend.”
He shrugs then smirks. “Are you?”
“No,” I confess, flushing.
“Come.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Let’s join the party in our honor. I might even get drunk.”
“Do you get drunk?” I ask as I take his hand.
“Not since I was a wild teenager.” We walk down the stairs.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
Oh, crap.
“No.”
“Well you should. From the look and smell of Elena, that was one of my father’s lethal cocktails you threw on her.” He gazes at me, trying and failing to keep the amusement off his face.
“Christian, I—”
He holds up his hand.
“No arguing, Anastasia. If you’re going to drink—and toss alcohol on my exes—you need to eat. It’s rule number one. I believe we’ve already had that discussion after our first night together.”
Oh yes. The Heathman.
Back in the hallway, he pauses to caress my face, his fingers skimming my jaw.
“I lay awake for hours and watched you sleep,” he murmurs. “I might have loved you even then.”
Oh.
He leans down and kisses me softly, and I melt everywhere, all the tension of the last hour or so seeping languidly from my body.
“Eat,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I acquiesce because right now I’d probably do anything for him. Taking my hand, he leads me toward the kitchen where the party is in full swing.
“GOOD NIGHT, JOHN, RHIAN.”
“Congratulations again, Ana. You two will be just fine.” Dr. Flynn smiles kindly at us, standing arm in arm in the hallway as he and Rhian take their leave.
“Good night.”
Christian closes the door and shakes his head. He gazes down at me, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement.
What’s this?
“Just the family left. I think my mother has had too much to drink.” Grace is singing karaoke on some game console in the family room. Kate and Mia are giving her a run for her money.
“Do you blame her?” I smirk at him, trying to keep the atmosphere between us light. I succeed.
“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”
“I am.”
“It’s been quite a day.”
“Christian, recently, every day with you has been quite a day.” My voice is sardonic.
He shakes his head. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Come—I want to show you something.” Taking my hand, he leads me through the house to the kitchen where Carrick, Ethan, and Elliot are talking Mariners, drinking the last of the cocktails, and eating leftovers.
“Off for a stroll?” Elliot teases suggestively as we make our way through the French doors. Christian ignores him. Carrick frowns at Elliot, shaking his head in a silent rebuke.
As we make our way up the steps to the lawn, I take off my shoes. The half moon shines brightly over the bay. It’s brilliant, casting everything in myriad shades of gray as the lights of Seattle twinkle in the distance. The lights of the boathouse are on, a soft glowing beacon in the cool cast of the moon.
“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the least I could do.”
“Okay.”
We wander hand in hand in a relaxed silence for a few moments. Then something occurs to me.
“Where are you going to put the photos José took of me?”
“I thought we might put them in the new house.”
“You bought it?”
He stops to stare at me, and his voice full of concern. “Yes. I thought you liked it.”
“I do. When did you buy it?”
“Yesterday morning. Now we need to decide what to do with it,” he murmurs, relieved.
“Don’t knock it down. Please. It’s such a lovely house. It just needs some tender loving care.”
Christian glances at me and smiles. “Okay. I’ll talk to Elliot. He knows a good architect; she did some work on my place in Aspen. He can do the remodeling.”
I snort, suddenly remembering the last time we crossed the lawn under the moonlight to the boathouse. Oh, perhaps that’s what we’re going to do now. I grin.
“What?”
“I remember the last time you took me to the boathouse.”
Christian chuckles quietly. “Oh, that was fun. In fact …” He suddenly stops and scoops me over his shoulder, and I squeal, though we don’t have far to go.
“You were really angry, if I remember correctly,” I gasp.
“Anastasia, I’m always really angry.”
“No, you’re not.”
He swats my behind as he stops outside the wooden door. He slides me down his body back to the ground and takes my head in his hands.
“No, not anymore.” Leaning down, he kisses me, hard. When he pulls away, I’m breathless and desire is racing around my body.
He gazes down at me, and in the glow of the strip of light coming from inside the boathouse, I can see he’s anxious. My anxious man, not a white knight or a dark knight, but a man—a beautiful, not-quite-so-fucked-up man—whom I love. I reach up and caress his face, running my fingers through his sideburns and along his jaw to his chin, then let my index finger touch his lips. He relaxes.
“I’ve something to show you in here,” he murmurs and opens the door.
The harsh light of the fluorescents illuminates the impressive motor launch in the dock, bobbing gently on the dark water. There’s a rowboat beside it.
“Come.” Christian takes my hand and leads me up the wooden stairs. Opening the door at the top, he steps aside to let me in.
My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognizable. The room is filled with flowers … there are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical bower of beautiful wild meadow flowers mixed with glowing Christmas lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft and pale all around the room.
My face whips around to meet his, and he’s gazing at me, his expression unreadable. He shrugs.
“You wanted hearts and flowers,” he murmurs.
I blink at him, not quite believing what I’m seeing.
“You have my heart.” And he waves toward the room.
“And here are the flowers,” I whisper, completing his sentence. “Christian, it’s lovely.” I can’t think of what else to say. My heart is in my mouth as tears prick my eyes.
Tugging my hand, he pulls me into the room, and before I know it, he’s sinking to one knee in front of me. Holy hell … I did not expect this! I stop breathing.
From his inside jacket pocket he produces a ring and gazes up at me, his eyes bright gray and raw, full of emotion.
“Anastasia Steele. I love you. I want to love, cherish, and protect you for the rest of my life. Be mine. Always. Share my life with me. Marry me.”
I blink down at him as my tears fall. My Fifty, my man. I love him so, and all I can say as the tidal wave of emotion hits me is, “Yes.”
He grins, relieved, and slowly slides the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, an oval diamond in a platinum ring. Whoa—it’s big … Big, yet simple and stunning in its simplicity.
“Oh, Christian,” I sob, suddenly overwhelmed with joy, and I join him on my knees, my fingers fisting in his hair as I kiss him, kiss him with all my heart and soul. I kiss this beautiful man, who loves me as I love him; and he wraps his arms around me, his hands moving to my hair, his mouth on mine. I know deep down I will always be his, and he will always be mine. We’ve come so far together, we have so far to go, but we are made for e
ach other. We are meant to be.
The cigarette end glows brightly in the darkness as he takes a deep pull. He blows the smoke out in a long exhale, finishing with two smoke rings that dissolve in front of him, pale and ghostly in the moonlight. He shifts in his seat, bored, and takes a quick shot of cheap bourbon from a bottle wrapped in shabby brown paper before resting it back between his thighs.
He can’t believe he’s still on the trail. His mouth twists in a sardonic sneer. The helicopter had been a rash and bold move. One of the most exhilarating things he’d ever done in his life. But to no avail. He rolls his eyes ironically. Who would have thought the son of a bitch could actually fly the fucker?
He snorts.
They have underestimated him. If Grey thought for one minute he’d go whimpering quietly into the dusk, that prick didn’t know jack shit.
It had been the same all his life. People constantly underestimating him—just a man who reads books. Fuck that! A man with a photographic memory who reads books. Oh, the things he’s learned, the things he knows. He snorts again. Yeah, about you, Grey. The things I know about you.
Not bad for a kid from the gutter end of Detroit.
Not bad for the kid who won a scholarship to Princeton.
Not bad for the kid who worked his ass off through college and got into publishing.
And now all of that’s fucked, fucked because of Grey and his little bitch. He scowls at the house as if it represents everything he despises. But there’s nothing doing. The only drama had been the stacked, blonde broad in black, teetering down the driveway in tears before she climbed into the white CLK and fucked off.
He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs. Still sore from the swift kicking Grey’s henchman delivered.
He replays the scene in his mind. “You fucking touch Miss Steele again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
That motherfucker will get it good, too. Yeah—get what’s coming to him.
He settles back in his seat. Looks like it’s going to be a long night. He’ll stay, watch, and wait. He takes another drag off his Marlboro Red. His chance will come. His chance will come soon.
Originally published in Australia by
The Writer’s Coffee Shop Publishing House, in 2011
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, APRIL 2012
Copyright © 2011 by Fifty Shades Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author published an earlier serialized version of this story online with different characters as “Master of the Universe” under the pseudonym Snowqueen’s Icedragon.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at Library of Congress.
eISBN: 978-1-61213-061-3
Cover design by Jennifer McGuire
Cover image © Random House, Inc., photo by Kineticimagery
www.vintagebooks.com
v3.1
Para mi Mamá con todo mi amor y gratitud
And for my beloved Father
Daddy, I miss you every day
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Thanks to Niall, my rock.
To Kathleen for just being a great sounding board, friend, confidante, and a technical wiz.
To Bee for endless moral support.
To Taylor (also a technical wiz), Susi, Pam, and Nora for showing a girl a good time.
And for their advice and tact I’d really like to thank:
Dr. Raina Sluder for help with all matters medical; Anne Forlines for the financial advice; Elizabeth de Vos for her kind counsel regarding the American adoption system.
Thanks to Maddie Blandino for her exquisite, inspirational art.
And to Pam and Gillian for Saturday morning coffee and hauling me back to real life.
Also thanks to my editing team, Andrea, Shay, and the ever lovely and only occasionally frothing Janine, who tolerates my frothing with patience, fortitude, and a great sense of humor.
Thanks to Amanda and all at The Writer’s Coffee Shop Publishing House, and lastly a huge thank-you to everyone at Vintage.
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Fifty Shades Freed
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
Shades of Christian
Fifty’s First Christmas
Meet Fifty Shades
PROLOGUE
* * *
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I brush her hair because she likes that. She doesn’t wake up. I shake her. Mommy! My tummy hurts. It is hungry. He isn’t here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink, and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie, and I cover Mommy, and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her. Mommy is still asleep. I have two toy cars. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. I search for something to eat. In the freezer I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. The peas are gone. In the freezer is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue is stuck to it. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars, and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold, and she won’t wake up. The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. He’s here. Fuck. What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked-up bitch. Shit. Fuck. Get out of my way, you little shit. He kicks me, and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door. I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts. The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie, and she grabs me. I scream. Mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy. The words are gone. I can’t say the words. Mommy can’t hear me. I have no words.
“Christian! Christian!” Her voice is urgent, pulling him from the depths of his nightmare, the depths of his despair. “I’m here. I’m here.”
He wakes and she’s leaning over him, grasping his shoulders, shaking him, her face etched with anguish, blue eyes wide and brimming with tears.
“Ana.” His voice is a breathless whisper, the taste of fear tarnishing his mouth. “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here.”
“I had a dream …”
“I know. I’m here, I’m here.”
“Ana.” He breathes her name, and it’s a talisman against the black choking panic coursing through his body.
“Hush, I’m here.” She curls around him, her limbs cocooning him, her warmth leeching into his body, forcing back the shadows, forcing back the fear. She is sunshine, she is light … she is his.
“Please let’s not
fight.” His voice is hoarse as he wraps his arms around her.
“Okay.”
“The vows. No obeying. I can do that. We’ll find a way.” The words rush out of his mouth in a tumble of emotion and confusion and anxiety.
“Yes. We will. We’ll always find a way,” she whispers, and her lips are on his, silencing him, bringing him back to the now.
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
I stare up through gaps in the sea-grass parasol at the bluest of skies, summer blue, Mediterranean blue, with a contented sigh. Christian is beside me, stretched out on a sun lounge. My husband—my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless and in cut-off jeans—is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system. By all accounts, it’s a page-turner. I haven’t seen him sit this still, ever. He looks more like a student than the hotshot CEO of one of the top privately owned companies in the United States.
On the final leg of our honeymoon, we laze in the afternoon sun on the beach of the aptly named Beach Plaza Monte Carlo in Monaco, although we’re not actually staying in this hotel. I open my eyes and gaze out at the Fair Lady anchored in the harbor. We are staying, of course, on board a luxury motor yacht. Built in 1928, she floats majestically on the water, queen of all the yachts in the harbor. She looks like a child’s wind-up toy. Christian loves her—I suspect he’s tempted to buy her. Honestly, boys and their toys.
Sitting back, I listen to the Christian Grey mix on my new iPod and doze in the late afternoon sun, idly remembering his proposal. Oh, his dreamy proposal in the boathouse … I can almost smell the scent of the meadow flowers …
“Can we marry tomorrow?” Christian murmurs softly in my ear. I am sprawled on his chest in the flowery bower in the boathouse, sated from our passionate lovemaking.
“Hmm.”
“Is that a yes?” I hear his hopeful surprise.
“Hmm.”