I can’t go on like this. I have to see her. See that she’s okay. I need to erase the last image I have of her: hurt, humiliated, defeated…and leaving me.
I have to think of a way.
BACK AT ESCALA, GAIL watches me impassively.
“I didn’t ask for this.” I stare at the omelet she’s placed in front of me.
“I’ll throw it away, then, Mr. Grey,” she says, and reaches for the plate. She knows I hate waste, but she doesn’t quail at my hard stare.
“You did this on purpose, Mrs. Jones.” Interfering woman.
And she smiles, a small victorious smile. I scowl, but she’s unfazed, and with the memory of last night’s nightmare lingering, I devour my breakfast.
COULD I JUST CALL Ana and say hi? Would she take my call? My eyes wander to the glider on my desk. She asked for a clean break. I should honor that and leave her alone. But I want to hear her voice. For a moment I contemplate calling her and hanging up, just to hear her speak.
“Christian? Christian, are you okay?”
“Sorry, Ros, what was that?”
“You’re so distracted. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Shit—concentrate, Grey. “What were you saying?”
Ros eyes me suspiciously. “I was saying that SIP is in more financial difficulty than we thought. Are you sure you want to go ahead?”
“Yes.” My voice is vehement. “I am.”
“Their team will be here this afternoon to sign the heads of agreement.”
“Good. Now, what’s the latest on our proposal for Eamon Kavanagh?”
I STAND BROODING, STARING down through the slatted wooden blinds at Taylor, who is parked outside Flynn’s office. It’s late afternoon and I’m still thinking about Ana.
“Christian, I’m more than happy to take your money and watch you stare out the window, but I don’t think the view is the reason you’re here,” Flynn says.
When I turn to face him he’s regarding me with an air of polite anticipation. I sigh and make my way to his couch.
“The nightmares are back. Like never before.”
Flynn lifts a brow. “The same ones?”
“Yes.”
“What’s changed?” He cocks his head to one side, waiting for my response. When I remain mute, he adds, “Christian, you look as miserable as sin. Something’s happened.”
I feel like I did with Elena; part of me doesn’t want to tell him, because then it’s real.
“I met a girl.”
“And?”
“She left me.”
He looks surprised. “Women have left you before. Why is this different?”
I stare at him blankly.
Why is it different? Because Ana was different.
My thoughts blur together in a colorful tangled tapestry: she wasn’t a submissive. We had no contract. She was sexually inexperienced. She was the first woman I wanted more from than just sex. Christ—all the firsts I experienced with her: the first girl I’d slept beside, the first virgin, the first to meet my family, the first to fly in Charlie Tango, the first I took soaring.
Yeah…Different.
Flynn interrupts my thoughts. “It’s a simple question, Christian.”
“I miss her.”
His face remains kind and concerned, but he gives nothing away.
“You’ve never missed any of the women you were involved with previously?”
“No.”
“So there was something different about her,” he prompts.
I shrug, but he persists.
“Did you have a contractual relationship with her? Was she a submissive?”
“I’d hoped she would be. But it wasn’t for her.”
Flynn frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“I broke one of my rules. I chased this girl, thinking that she’d be interested, and it turned out it wasn’t for her.”
“Tell me what happened.”
The floodgates open and I recount the past month’s events, from the moment Ana fell into my office to when she left last Saturday morning.
“I see. You’ve certainly packed a lot in since we last spoke.” He rubs his chin as he studies me. “There are many issues here, Christian. But right now the one I want to focus on is how you felt when she said she loved you.”
I inhale sharply, my gut tightening with fear.
“Horrified,” I whisper.
“Of course you did.” He shakes his head. “You’re not the monster you think you are. You’re more than worthy of affection, Christian. You know that. I’ve told you often enough. It’s only in your mind that you’re not.”
I give him a level gaze, ignoring his platitude.
“And how do you feel now?” he asks.
Lost. I feel lost.
“I miss her. I want to see her.” I’m in the confessional once more, owning up to my sins: the dark, dark need that I have for her, as if she were an addiction.
“So in spite of the fact that, as you perceive it, she couldn’t fulfill your needs, you miss her?”
“Yes. It’s not just my perception, John. She can’t be what I want her to be, and I can’t be what she wants me to be.”
“Are you sure?”
“She walked out.”
“She walked out because you belted her. If she doesn’t share your tastes, can you blame her?”
“No.”
“Have you thought about trying a relationship her way?”
What? I stare at him, shocked. He continues, “Did you find sexual relations with her satisfying?”
“Yes, of course,” I snap, irritated. He ignores my tone.
“Did you find beating her satisfying?”
“Very.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
Do that to her again? And watch her walk out—again?
“No.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it’s not her scene. I hurt her. Really hurt her…and she can’t…she won’t…” I pause. “She doesn’t enjoy it. She was angry. Really fucking angry.” Her expression, her wounded eyes, will haunt me for a long time…and I never want to be the cause of that look again.
“Are you surprised?”
I shake my head. “She was mad,” I whisper. “I’d never seen her so angry.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Helpless.”
“And that’s a familiar feeling,” he prompts.
“Familiar, how?” What does he mean?
“Don’t you recognize yourself at all? Your past?” His question knocks me off balance.
Fuck, we’ve been over and over this.
“No, I don’t. It’s different. The relationship I had with Mrs. Lincoln was completely different.”
“I wasn’t referring to Mrs. Lincoln.”
“What were you referring to?” My voice is pin-drop quiet, because suddenly I see where he’s going with this.
“You know.”
I gulp for air, swamped by the impotence and rage of a defenseless child. Yes. The rage. The deep infuriating rage…and fear. The darkness swirls angrily inside me.