Fifty Shades Freed

much room does five million dollars take up? What will it weigh? Will I need a suitcase? Should I telephone the bank in advance? Mia. Mia. What if he doesn’t

have Mia? How can I check? If I call Grace it will raise her suspicions, and possibly endanger Mia. He said he would know. I glance out the back window of the

SUV. Am I being followed? My heart races as I examine the cars following us. They look i

meet his in the rearview mirror and his brow creases.

Sawyer presses a button on his Bluetooth headset to answer a call. “T . . . I wanted to let you know Mrs. Grey is with me.” Sawyer’s eyes meet mine once more

before he looks back at the road and continues. “She’s unwell. I’m taking her back to Escala . . . I see . . . Sir.” Sawyer’s eyes flick from the road to mine in the

rearview mirror again. “Yes,” he agrees and hangs up.

“Taylor?” I whisper.

He nods.

“He’s with Mr. Grey?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer’s look softens in sympathy.

“Are they still in Portland?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Good. I have to keep Christian safe. My hand strays down to my belly, and I rub it consciously. And you, Little Blip. Keep you both safe.

“Can we hurry please? I’m not feeling well.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer presses the accelerator and our car glides through the traffic.

Mrs. Jones is nowhere to be seen when Sawyer and I arrive at the apartment. Since her car is missing from the garage, I assume she’s ru

Sawyer heads for Taylor’s office while I bolt to Christian’s study. Stumbling in panic around his desk, I wrench open the drawer to find the checkbooks. Leila’s

gun slides forward into view. I feel an incongruous twinge of a

get hurt.

After a moment’s hesitation, I grab the pistol, check to ensure it’s loaded, and tuck it into the waistband of my black slacks. I may need it. I swallow hard. I’ve

only ever practiced on targets. I’ve never fired a gun at anyone; I hope Ray will forgive me. I turn my attention to tracking down the right checkbook. There are

only ever practiced on targets. I’ve never fired a gun at anyone; I hope Ray will forgive me. I turn my attention to tracking down the right checkbook. There are

five, and only one is in the names of C. Grey and Mrs. A. Grey. I have about fifty-four thousand dollars in my own account. I have no idea how much money is in

this one. But Christian must be good for five million dollars, surely. Perhaps there’s money in the safe? Crap. I have no idea of the number. Didn’t he mention the

combination was it his filing cabinet? I try the cabinet, but it’s locked. Shit. I’ll have to stick to plan A.

I take a deep breath and, in a more composed but determined ma

should have slept here last night. What is the point of arguing with someone who, by their own admission, is Fifty Shades? He’s not even talking to me now. No—I

do not have time to think about this.

Quickly, I change out of my slacks, pulling on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers and put the gun in the waistband of my jeans, at my back. From

the closet I fish out a large soft duffle bag. Will five million dollars fit into this? Christian’s gym bag is lying there on the floor. I open it, expecting to find it full of

dirty laundry, but no—his gym kit is clean and fresh. Mrs. Jones does indeed get everywhere. I dump the contents onto the floor and stuff his gym bag into my

duffle. There, that should do it. I check that I have my driver’s license as identification for the bank and check the time. It’s been thirty-one minutes since Jack

called. Now I just have to get out of Escala without Sawyer seeing me.

I make my way slowly and quietly to the foyer, aware of the CCTV camera which is trained on the elevator. I think Sawyer’s still in Taylor’s office. Cautiously,

I open the foyer door, making as little noise as possible. Shutting it quietly behind me, I stand on the very threshold, up against the door, out of the view of the

CCTV lens. I fish my cell phone out of my purse and call Sawyer.

“Mrs. Grey.”

“Sawyer, I’m in the room upstairs, will you give me a hand with something?” I keep my voice low, knowing he’s just down the hallway on the other side of this

door.

“I’ll be right with you, ma’am,” he says, and I hear his confusion. I’ve never telephoned him for help before. My heart is in my throat, pounding in a jarring,

frenetic rhythm. Will this work? I hang up and listen as his footsteps cross the hallway and go up the stairs. I take another deep steadying breath and briefly contemplate the irony of escaping from my own home like a felon.

Once Sawyer’s reached the upstairs landing, I race to the elevator and punch the call button. The doors slide open with the too-loud ping that a

elevator is ready. I dash inside and frantically stab the button for the basement garage. After an agonizing pause, the doors slowly start to slide shut, and as they do I

hear Sawyer’s cries.

“Mrs. Grey!” Just as the elevator doors close, I see him skid into the foyer. “Ana!” he shouts in disbelief. But he’s too late, and he disappears from view.

The elevator sinks smoothly down to the garage level. I have a couple of minutes’ start on Sawyer, and I know he’ll try to stop me. I glance longingly at my R8

as I rush to the Saab, open the door, toss the duffel bag onto the passenger seat, and slide into the driver’s seat.

I start the car, and the tires squeal as I race to the entrance and wait eleven agonizing seconds for the barrier to lift. The instant it’s clear I drive out, catching sight

of Sawyer in my rearview mirror as he dashes out of service elevator into the garage. His bewildered, injured expression haunts me as I turn off the ramp onto

Fourth Avenue.

I let out my long held breath. I know Sawyer will call Christian or Taylor, but I’ll deal with that when I have to—I don’t have time to dwell on it now. I squirm

uncomfortably in my seat, knowing in my heart of hearts that Sawyer’s probably lost his job. Don’t dwell. I have to save Mia. I have to get to the bank and collect

five million dollars. I glance in the rearview mirror, nervously anticipating the sight of the SUV bursting forth from the garage, but as I drive away, there’s no sign

of Sawyer.

The bank is sleek, modern, and understated. There are hushed tones, echoing floors, and pale green etched glass everywhere. I stride to the information desk.

“May I help you, ma’am?” The young woman gives me a bright, insincere smile, and for a moment I regret changing into jeans.

“I’d like to withdraw a large sum of money.”

Ms. Insincere Smile arches an even more insincere eyebrow.

“You have an account with us?” She fails to hide her sarcasm.

“Yes,” I snap. “My husband and I have several accounts here. His name is Christian Grey.”

Her eyes widen fractionally and insincerity gives way to shock. Her eyes sweep up and down me once more, this time with a combination of disbelief and awe.

“This way, ma’am,” she whispers, and leads me to a small, sparsely furnished office walled with more green-etched glass.

“Please take a seat.” She gestures to a black leather chair by a glass desk bearing a state-of-the-art computer and phone. “How much will you be withdrawing

today, Mrs. Grey?” she asks pleasantly.

“Five million dollars.” I look her straight in the eye as if I ask for this amount of cash every day.

She blanches. “I see. I’ll fetch the manager. Oh, forgive me for asking, but do you have ID?”