Chapter One
I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde… he smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.
“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a great team.”
Somehow, I manage to curl my lips in a semblance of a smile. “I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Ana.”
Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the door.
Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath.
It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my loss.
I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle… or the Audi.
I shut the door on that thought immediately.
No. Don’t think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice, new car.
I suspect he has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as blank as possible.
I can’t think about him. I don’t want to start crying again—not out on the street.
The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail.
I turn on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the vacuum and provide an illusion of company, but I don’t listen or watch.
All I can do is sit and stare blankly at the brick wall.
I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?
The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom, my scalp prickling in sudden anticipation.
“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied voice answers, and my disappointment is overwhelming.
I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man holding a large cardboard box, leaning against the front door and noisily chewing gum.
I sign for the package and take it upstairs.
The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.
Congratulations on your first day at work.
I hope it went well.
And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.
It has pride of place on my desk.
Christian
I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding.
No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it.
It’s too painful to think about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I can’t bring myself to throw them in the trash.
Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.
And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep.
Well, try to sleep. I can’t even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me.
And the music…so much music—I cannot bear to hear any music.
I’m careful to avoid it at all times. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.
I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray.
I don’t have the capacity for idle talk now.
No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state.
A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak.
Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that’s it.
If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further—and I have nothing left to break.
I’m finding it difficult to eat. By lunchtime on Wednesday, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going, but it’s making me anxious.
Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me and asking me personal questions. What does he want? I’m polite, but I need to keep him at arm’s length.
After lunch I begin scanning through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I’m pleased with the distraction of menial work. My email pings, and I quickly check to see who it’s from.
Holy shit. An email from Christian. Oh no, not here…not at work.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you get my flowers?
I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show, and I’m sure you’ve not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.
Let me know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. José’s show. I’d forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go. Shit, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?
I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Come to think of it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been so lost I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has been silent.
Shit! I’m such an idiot! I still have it set to forward calls to the BlackBerry. Holy crap. Christian’s been getting my calls—unless he’s just thrown the BlackBerry away. How did he get my email address?
He knows my shoe size; an email address is hardly going to present him with many problems.
Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me in equal measure. Of course I do.
Perhaps—perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my mind… No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t love me.
Torturous memories flash through my mind—the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare.
I miss him. It’s been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity.
I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walked out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we were together.
How long will this harrowing feeling last? I’m in purgatory.
I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss him… I love him. Simple.
Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to go to José’s show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk and respond to his email.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:25
To: Christian Grey
Hi Christian
Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.
Yes, I would appreciate a lift.
Thank you.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
Then I check my phone and find that it’s still set to forward calls to the BlackBerry. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call José.
“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”
“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcoming it’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.
“I can’t talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?”
“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.
“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.
“Seven thirty.”
“See you then. Goodbye, José.”
“Bye, Ana.”
There’s a reply from Christian.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:27
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
What time shall I pick you up?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:32
To: Christian Grey
José’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:34
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Portland is some distance away. I shall pick you up at 5:45.
I look forward to seeing you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:38
To: Christian Grey
See you then.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he’s been.
Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him. Has he found a new submissive? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and return to it as I try to push Christian out of my mind once more.
That night in bed, I toss and turn, and it’s the first time in a while I haven’t cried myself to sleep. Instead I’m haunted by my memories of Christian Grey.
In my mind’s eye, I visualize his face the last time I saw him, standing in his foyer watching me as the elevator doors closed.
His tortured expression still haunts me.
I remember he didn’t want me to go, which made no sense.
Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse?
We were each skirting around our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of… what? Love?
Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an overwhelming sadness.
He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be loved.
Why does he feel that way? Does it have to do with his upbringing?
His birth mom, the crack whore? My thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.