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avoid it at all costs. 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 imper-
sonally 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 am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, 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, asking me personal questions. What
does he want? I’m polite, but I need to keep him at arm’s length.
I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I’m
pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see
who it’s from.
Holy shit. An e-mail 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. Crap. 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 any-
one phoned? I’ve been so absentminded, I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has been
silent.
Shit!I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian’s
been getting my calls—unless he’s just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he get my
e-mail address?
He knows my shoe size, an e-mail 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. Of course I do.
Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my mind . . . No, no, no. I ca
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 wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I
miss him. I really miss him . . . I love him. Simple.
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 hideous overwhelming feeling
last? I am in purgatory.
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.
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, Commissioning Editor, SIP
Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert. 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. Good-bye, José.”
“Bye, Ana.”
From:Christian Grey
Subject:Tomorrow
Date:June 8, 2011 14:27
To:Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
What time shall I collect you?
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, Commissioning 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 collect you 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, Commissioning Editor, SIP
Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a frac-
tion 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
from wherever they come from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I
look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Chris-
tian out of my mind once more.
That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is the first time in a while I haven’t
cried myself to sleep.
In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the last time I saw him as I left his apart-
ment. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me to go, which was
odd. 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? Is it something 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.
The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I suspect it’s Kate’s plum dress and
the black high-heeled boots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on the thought.
I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it
was, but I pretend not to notice.
Finally, it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket and purse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m
going to see him!