Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (63 page)

I gaze at myself in the mirror. A pale and haunted ghost stares back at me. I scoop my hair into a bun and ignore how swollen my eyelids are from the crying. My subconscious nods with approval. Even she knows not to be snarky right now. I cannot believe that my world is crumbling around me into a sterile pile of ashes, all my hopes and dreams cruelly dashed. No, no, don’t think about it. Not now, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my case, and after placing the glider kit and my note on his pillow, I head for the great room.

Christian is on the phone. He’s dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt. His feet are bare.

“He said what?” he shouts, making me jump. “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him … Welch, this is a real fuckup.” He glances up and doesn’t take his dark and brooding eyes off me. “Find her,” he snaps and presses the off switch.

I walk over to the couch and collect my backpack, doing my best to ignore him. I take the Mac out of it and walk back toward the kitchen, placing it carefully on the breakfast bar, along with the BlackBerry and the car key. When I turn to face him, he’s staring at me, stupefied with horror.

“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” My voice is clear and calm, devoid of emotion … 
extraordinary
.

“Ana, I don’t want those things, they’re yours,” he says in disbelief. “Take them.”

“No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance—and I don’t want them anymore.”

“Ana, be reasonable,” he scolds me, even now.

“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” My voice is quite monotone.

He gasps. “Are you really trying to wound me?”

“No.” I frown, staring at him. Of course not … I love you. “I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself,” I whisper. Because you don’t want me the way I want you.

“Please, Ana, take that stuff.”

“Christian, I don’t want to fight—I just need the money.”

He narrows his eyes, but I’m no longer intimidated by him. Well, only a little. I gaze impassively back, not blinking or backing down.

“Will you take a check?” he says acidly.

“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”

He doesn’t smile; he just turns on his heel and stalks into his study. I take a last, lingering look around his apartment—at the art on the walls—all abstracts, serene, cool … cold, even.
Fitting
, I think absently. My eyes stray to the piano. Jeez—if I’d kept my mouth shut, we’d have made love on the piano. No, fucked, we would have fucked on the piano. Well, I would have made love. The thought lies heavy and sad in my mind and what’s left of my heart. He has never made love to me, has he? It’s always been fucking to him.

Christian returns and hands me an envelope.

“Taylor got a good price. It’s a classic car. You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” He nods in the direction over my shoulder. I turn, and Taylor is standing in the doorway, wearing his suit, as impeccable as ever.

“That’s fine. I can get myself home, thank you.”

I turn to stare at Christian, and I see the barely contained fury in his eyes.

“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”

“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” I give him a small, apologetic shrug.

He closes his eyes in frustration and runs his hand through his hair.

“Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home.”

“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces authoritatively.
Christian nods at him, and when I glance around, Taylor has gone.

I turn back to face Christian. We are four feet apart. He steps forward, and instinctively I step back. He stops, and the anguish in his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning.

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, his voice full of longing.

“I can’t stay. I know what I want and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need.”

He takes another step forward, and I hold up my hands.

“Don’t, please.” I recoil from him. There’s no way I can tolerate his touch now, it will slay me. “I can’t do this.”

Grabbing my suitcase and my backpack, I head for the foyer. He follows me, keeping a careful distance. He presses the elevator button, and the doors open. I climb in.

“Good-bye, Christian,” I murmur.

“Ana, good-bye,” he says softly, and he looks utterly, utterly broken, a man in agonizing pain, reflecting how I feel inside. I tear my gaze away from him before I change my mind and try to comfort him.

The elevator doors close and it whisks me down to the bowels of the basement and to my own personal hell.

TAYLOR HOLDS THE DOOR
open for me, and I climb into the back of the car. I avoid eye contact. Embarrassment and shame wash over me. I’m a complete failure. I had hoped to drag my Fifty Shades into the light, but it’s proved a task beyond my meager abilities. Desperately, I try to keep my emotions banked and at bay. As we head out onto Fourth Avenue, I stare blankly out the window, and the enormity of what I’ve done slowly washes over me.
Shit—I’ve left him
. The only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I’ve ever slept with. I gasp, as crippling pain slices through me, and the levees burst. Tears course unbidden and unwelcome down my cheeks, and I wipe them away hurriedly with my fingers, scrambling in my bag for my sunglasses. As we pause at some traffic light, Taylor holds out a linen handkerchief for me. He says
nothing and doesn’t look in my direction, and I take it with gratitude.

“Thank you,” I mutter, and this small discreet act of kindness is my undoing. I sit back in the luxurious leather seat and weep.

THE APARTMENT IS ACHINGLY
empty and unfamiliar. I have not lived here long enough for it to feel like home. I head straight to my room, and there, hanging limply at the end of my bed, is a very sad, deflated helicopter balloon.
Charlie Tango
, looking and feeling exactly like me. I grab it angrily off my bedrail, snapping the tie, and hug it to me.
Oh—what have I done?

I fall onto my bed, shoes and all, and howl. The pain is indescribable … physical, mental … metaphysical … it is everywhere, seeping into the marrow of my bones. Grief. This is grief—and I’ve brought it on myself. Deep down, a nasty, unbidden thought comes from my inner goddess, her lips contorted in a snarl … the physical pain from the bite of a belt is nothing, nothing compared to this devastation. I curl up, desperately clutching the flat foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to my grief.

A chilling wail wakes him.
Christ!
He’s drenched in sweat and his heart is pounding.
What the fuck?
He sits bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands.
Fuck. They’re back. The noise was me
. He takes a deep steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.

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 upward in a semblance of a smile.

“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.

“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“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.