“Where are you?”
“On the tarmac at JFK.”
“Oh, so you just landed?”
“Yes. You asked me to call the moment I landed.”
“Well, Mr. Grey, I’m glad one of us is punctilious.”
“Mrs. Grey, your gift for hyperbole knows no bounds. What am I going to do with you?”
“I am sure you’ll think of something imaginative. You usually do,” she whispers.
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Yes.” She sounds breathless and even from this far away, and over the phone her voice is arousing.
I grin. “I’d better go. Ana, do as you’re told, please. The security team knows what they’re doing.”
“Yes, Christian, I will.” I sense more eye rolling.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I’ll call you later.”
“To check up on me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Christian!” she chides me.
“Au revoir, Mrs. Grey.”
“Au revoir, Christian. I love you.”
Hearing her say those three words will never get old. “And I you, Ana.”
Neither of us hangs up.
“Hang up, Christian,” she murmurs.
“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
“Your bossy little thing.”
“Mine,” I whisper. “Do as you’re told. Hang up.”
“Yes, Sir,” she purrs, and hangs up.
And the disappointment is real.
Ana.
I type a quick e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Twitching Palms
Date: August 25 2011 13:42 EDT
To: Anastasia Grey
Mrs. Grey
You are as entertaining as ever on the phone.
I mean it. Do as you’re told.
I need to know you’re safe.
I love you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
The plane pulls to a stop outside the terminal. Our car is waiting for us on the tarmac. It’s time to head to the Flatiron district and rally the troops.
I loathe the tedious drive from JFK to Manhattan. The traffic is always gridlocked, and even when it’s moving, it’s slow. That’s why I prefer to travel from Teterboro. I occupy myself with e-mails until I glance out of the car window. We’re driving through Queens on the expressway, heading to the Midtown Tunnel, and there she is—Manhattan. There is something magical about her skyline. I’ve not been to New York for a few months; well, since before I met Ana. And I know I must bring her here soon, as she’s never been before, if only to see this iconic view.
We head straight to the GEH Fiber Optics division, which is based in an old building on East Twenty-Second Street. We pull up outside, and I can feel the bustling energy of the city. It’s invigorating. As I step out of the car into the Manhattan throng, I’m hyped for my first meeting of the day.
The engineering team blows me away. Young. Creative. Energetic. I feel at home here. Over a long lunch of sandwiches and beer, I tell them how their technology is going to revolutionize Kavanagh Media’s operation and how the work they’re doing now is vital in future-proofing Kavanagh’s expansion plans. His will be the first major media outlet to use their technology, and when I show them how we intend to deploy their expertise in other fields, they’re all buzzing with excitement.
Ros was right—I needed to do this. Hassan, who is now the senior vice president of the company, is smart, young, and driven; he reminds me of myself. He’s far superior to Woods, an inspiring and worthy successor with vision and drive. One only has to see the premises that Woods has inflicted on his team to know he had a short-term, narrow perspective. What was he thinking? While the reception area is remarkably upscale and frankly pretentious, the offices are cramped, shabby, and in need of substantial refurbishment. We need to relocate. I’ve instructed Rachel Morris, their logistics chief, to get on that. She’s keen to do so, which is great, but it’s no wonder morale is low; the place is grim. I e-mail Ros and ask her to go through the lease to see if we can get out before the end of the term, which has another two years to run.
When I leave it’s after 6 p.m., and we’re behind schedule. I have just enough time to get to my apartment in Tribeca, change into my tux, then head out again to the Telecommunications Alliance Organization fundraiser near Union Square.
In the car I try to call Ana, but I can’t get a signal.
Hell.
The irony is not lost on me. I’ll try again later.
The event, as I expected, is convivial enough, and it gives me a chance to network with fellow senior executives and entrepreneurs in my field. But yesterday I attended a charity gala in Seattle with Ana, and it was more enjoyable for that reason alone.
While the gathered guests enjoy canapés and cocktails, I call her once more, but her phone goes to voice mail. I’m about to leave a message when I’m interrupted by the host, Dr. Alan Michaels, who is delighted to see me.
At 9:30 p.m., during the entrée, Taylor sidles up to me.
“Sir. Mrs. Grey is having a drink with Kate Kavanagh at the Zig Zag Café.”
“Really?” Ana said she would go back to the apartment. I check my watch. It’s 6:30 p.m. in Seattle. “Who’s with her?”
“Sawyer and Prescott.”
“Okay.” Maybe it’s just one drink. “Let me know when she leaves.”
She said she would stay at home.
Why would she do this?
She knows I’m concerned about her welfare.
Hyde is at large. He’s obviously crazy and unpredictable.
My mood sours, and I find it difficult to concentrate on the conversation that floats around me. I’m sitting at a table occupied by some of the titans of our industry and their wives—and a husband, in one case. We are here to raise money to provide technology for schools in less privileged and underserved communities across the country. But there are only nine of us at our table and one empty seat; my wife is conspicuous by her absence.
She’s also absent from our home.
“Where’s your wife this evening?” Callista Michaels asks me. Seated on my left, she’s the organizer of the event and Dr. Michaels’s wife. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, and dripping in diamonds.