Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (182 page)

Stupid!
I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Sorry? Fuck!” he says again.

“I know the timing’s not very good.”

“Not very good!” he shouts. “We’ve known each other five fucking minutes. I wanted to show you the fucking world and now … Fuck. Diapers and vomit and shit!” He closes his eyes. I think he’s trying to contain his temper and losing the battle.

“Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?” His eyes blaze and anger emanates off him like a force field.

“No,” I whisper. I can’t tell him about Hannah—he’d fire her.

“I thought we’d agreed on this!” he shouts.

“I know. We had. I’m sorry.”

He ignores me. “This is why. This is why I like control. So shit like this doesn’t come along and fuck everything up.”

No … Little Blip. “Christian, please don’t shout at me.” Tears start to slip down my face.

“Don’t start with waterworks now,” he snaps. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it as he does. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” His voice catches, and it’s a mixture of rage and panic.

And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent.
Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It’s a shock for me, too
.

“I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you’ll make a wonderful father,” I choke. “We’ll figure it out.”

“How the fuck do you know!” he shouts, louder this time. “Tell me how!” His eyes burn as so many emotions cross his face. It’s fear that’s most prominent.

“Oh, fuck this!” Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and he disappears through the double doors into the foyer, slamming the door behind him and making me jump once more.

I am alone with the silence—the still, silent emptiness of the great room. I shudder involuntarily as I gaze numbly at the closed doors.
He’s walked out on me. Shit!
His reaction is far worse than I could ever have imagined. I push my plate away and fold my arms on the table, letting my head sink into them while I weep.

“ANA, DEAR.” MRS. JONES
is hovering beside me.

I sit up quickly, dashing the tears from my face.

“I heard. I’m sorry,” she says gently. “Would you like an herbal tea or something?”

“I’d like a glass of white wine.”

Mrs. Jones pauses for a fraction of a second, and I remember Blip. Now I can’t drink alcohol. Can I? I must study the dos and don’ts Dr. Greene gave me.

“I’ll get you a glass.”

“Actually, I’ll have a cup of tea, please.” I wipe my nose. She smiles kindly.

“Cup of tea coming up.” She clears our plates and heads over to the kitchen area. I follow her and perch on a stool, watching her prepare my tea.

She places a steaming mug in front of me. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Ana?”

“No, this is fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t eat much.”

I gaze up at her. “I’m just not hungry.”

“Ana, you should eat. It’s not just you anymore. Please let me fix you something. What would you like?” She looks so hopefully at me. But really, I can’t face anything.

My husband has just walked out on me because I’m pregnant, my father has been in a major car accident, and there’s Jack Hyde the nutcase trying to make out that I sexually harassed him. I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to giggle.
See what you’ve done to me, Little Blip!
I caress my belly.

Mrs. Jones smiles indulgently at me. “Do you know how far along you are?” she asks softly.

“Very newly pregnant. Four or five weeks, the doctor isn’t sure.”

“If you won’t eat, then at least you should rest.”

I nod, and taking my tea, I head into the library. It’s my refuge. I dig my BlackBerry out of my purse and contemplate calling Christian. I know it’s a shock for him—but he really did overreact.
When does he not overreact?
My subconscious arches a finely plucked brow at me. I sigh. Fifty Shades of fucked up.

“Yes, that’s your daddy, Little Blip. Hopefully he’ll cool off and come back … soon.”

I pull out the leaflet of dos and don’ts and sit down to read.

I can’t concentrate. Christian’s never walked out on me
before. He’s been so thoughtful and kind over the last few days, so loving and now … Suppose he never comes back?
Shit!
Perhaps I should call Flynn. I don’t know what to do. I’m at a loss. He’s so fragile in so many ways, and I knew he’d react badly to the news. He was so sweet this weekend. All those circumstances way beyond his control, yet he managed fine. But this news was too much.

Ever since I met him, my life has been complicated. Is it him? Is it the two of us together? Suppose he doesn’t get past this? Suppose he wants a divorce? Bile rises in my throat. No. I mustn’t think this way. He’ll be back. He will. I know he will. I know, regardless of the shouting and his harsh words, that he loves me … yes. And he’ll love you, too, Little Blip.

Leaning back in my chair, I start to doze.

I WAKE COLD AND
disoriented. Shivering, I check my watch: eleven in the evening.
Oh yes … You
. I pat my belly. Where’s Christian? Is he back? Stiffly I ease out of the armchair and go in search of my husband.

Five minutes later, I realize he’s not home. I hope nothing’s happened to him. Memories of the long wait when
Charlie Tango
went missing flood back.

No, no, no. Stop thinking like this. He’s probably gone to … where?
Who would he go and see? Elliot? Or maybe he’s with Flynn. I hope so. I find my BlackBerry back in the library, and I text him.

I head into the bathroom and run myself a bath. I am so cold.

HE STILL HASN’T RETURNED
when I climb out of the bath. I change into one of my 1930s-style satin nightdresses and my robe and head to the great room. On the way, I pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip’s room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality.
Will we paint it blue or pink? The sweet thought is soured by the fact that my errant husband is so pissed at the idea. Grabbing the duvet from the spare bed, I head into the great room to keep vigil.

SOMETHING WAKES ME
.
A sound.

“Shit!”

It’s Christian in the foyer. I hear the table scrape across the floor again.

“Shit!” he repeats, more muffled this time.

I scramble up in time to see him stagger through the double doors.
He’s drunk
. My scalp prickles.
Shit, Christian drunk?
I know how much he hates drunks. I leap up and run toward him.

“Christian, are you okay?”

He leans against the jamb of the foyer doors. “Mrs. Grey,” he slurs.

Crap. He’s
very
drunk. I don’t know what to do.

“Oh … you look mighty fine, Anastasia.”

“Where have you been?”

He puts his finger to his lips and smiles crookedly at me. “Shh!”

“I think you’d better come to bed.”

“With you …” He snickers.

Snickering!
Frowning, I gently put my arm around his waist because he can hardly stand, let alone walk. Where has he been? How did he get home?

“Let me help you to bed. Lean on me.”

“You are very beautiful, Ana.” He leans on me and sniffs my hair, almost knocking both of us over.

“Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed.”

“Okay,” he says, as if he’s trying to concentrate.

We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.

“Bed,” he says, grinning.

“Yes, bed.” I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.

“Join me,” he says.

“Christian, I think you need some sleep.”

“And so it begins. I’ve heard about this.”

I frown. “Heard about what?”

“Babies mean no sex.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Otherwise we’d all come from one-child families.”

He gazes down at me. “You’re funny.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes.” He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.

“Come on, Christian,” I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid, ugly memories that no child should see. “Let’s get you into bed.” I push him gently, and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and grinning up at me, his haunted expression gone.

“Join me,” he slurs.

“Let’s get you undressed first.”

He grins widely, drunkenly. “Now you’re talking.”

Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I’ll take him over mad-as-hell Christian anytime.

“Sit up. Let me take your jacket off.”

“The room is spinning.”

Shit … is he going to throw up? “Christian, sit up!”

He smirks up at me. “Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing …”

“Yes. Do as you’re told and sit up.” I put my hands on my hips. He grins again, struggles up onto his elbows, then sits up in a most un-Christian-like, gawky fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.

“You smell good.”

“You smell of hard liquor.”

“Yes … bour-bon.” He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I have to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a start on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.

“I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia,” he says, slurring his words. “You should always be in satin or silk.” He runs his hands up and down my hips, then jerks me forward, pressing his mouth against my belly.

“And we have an invader in here.”

I stop breathing. Holy cow. He’s talking to Little Blip.

“You’re going to keep me awake, aren’t you?” he says to my belly.

Oh my
. Christian looks up at me through his long dark lashes, gray eyes blurred and cloudy. My heart constricts.

“You’ll choose him over me,” he says sadly.

“Christian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she.”

He frowns. “A she … Oh, God.” He flops back down on the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. I have managed to loosen his tie. I undo one shoelace and yank off his shoe and sock, then the other. When I stand, I see why I’ve met no resistance—Christian has passed out completely. He’s sound asleep and snoring softly.

I stare at him. He’s so goddamned beautiful, even drunk and snoring. His sculptured lips parted, one arm above his head, ruffling his messy hair, his face relaxed. He looks young—but then he is young; my young, stressed-out, drunk, unhappy husband. The thought rests heavily in my heart.

Well, at least he’s home. I wonder where he went. I’m not sure I have the energy or the strength to move him or undress him any further. He’s on top of the duvet, too. Heading back into the great room, I pick up the duvet I was using and bring it back to our bedroom.

He’s still fast asleep, still wearing his tie and his belt. I climb onto the bed beside him, remove his tie, and gently undo the top button of his shirt. He mumbles something incoherently in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. Carefully, I unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, and after some difficulty it’s off. His shirt has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy
trail. I can’t resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.

I sit up and gaze at him again.
Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty … what am I going to do with you?
I brush my fingers through his hair—it’s so soft—and kiss his temple.

“I love you, Christian. Even when you’re drunk and you’ve been out God knows where, I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs. I kiss his temple once more, then get off the bed and cover him up with the spare duvet. I can sleep beside him, sideways across the bed … 
Yes, I’ll do that
.

First I’ll sort out his clothes, though. I shake my head and pick up his socks and tie and fold his jacket over my arm. As I do, his BlackBerry falls to the floor. I pick it up and inadvertently unlock it. It opens on the texts screen. I can see my text, and above it, another.

Fuck. My scalp prickles.

It’s from
her
. Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson. Shit.

That’s where he went. He’s been to see
her
.

I
gape at the text, then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He’s been out until one thirty in the morning drinking—with
her
! He snores softly, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent, oblivious drunk. He looks so serene.

Oh no, no, no
. My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive—just. But this … this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and fro, weeping softly.

What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it—I knew it would come to this. Why. Why.
Why?
How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel about that woman. How could he turn to her? How? The knife twists slowly and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?

Through my tears, his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers.
Oh, Christian
. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.