Fifty Shades Freed

playroom . . . TV room . . . kitchen countertop . . . Stop! It always comes back to sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.

I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while

we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now? Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that day—

marry in haste . . . No, I mustn’t think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with him.

I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to deal with.

I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My i

hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of

my pumps, rather than my flats.

When I reemerge into the great room, Christian has the house plans spread out on the dining table. He has music playing through the sound system. It stops me in

my tracks.

“Mrs. Grey,” he says warmly then looks quizzically at me.

“What’s this?” I ask. The music is stu

“Fauré’s Requiem. You look different,” he says, distracted.

“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”

“It’s very calming, relaxing,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Have you done something to your hair?”

“Brushed it,” I mutter. I’m transported by the haunting voices. Abandoning the plans on the table, he walks toward me, a slow saunter in time to the music.

“Dance with me?” he murmurs.

“To this? It’s a requiem.” I squeak, shocked.

“Yes.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.

Oh . . . I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry. Why are you so infuriating?

“I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.

“Well, stop being such an arse.”

He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”

“Ass.”

“I prefer arse.”

“You should. It suits you.”

He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.

“A requiem?” I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it.

He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.”

Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and Christian releases me.

“Miss Matteo is here,” he says.

Oh joy!

“Show her in,” Christian says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss Gia Matteo enters the room.

Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman—a tall, good-looking woman. She wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown.

She’s dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary diamond glints,

matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well groomed—one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be

lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.

“Christian. Ana.” She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Christian’s, then my hand. It means I have to release

Christian’s hand to reciprocate. She’s a fraction shorter than Christian, but then she’s in killer heels.

“Gia,” Christian says politely. I smile coolly.

“You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she says smoothly, her brown eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his arm

around me, holding me close.

“We had a wonderful time, thank you.” He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise.

See . . . he’s mine. A

pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile.

“Have you managed to look over the plans?”

“We have,” I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me

squeezing his butt?

“Please,” Christian says. “The plans are here.” He gestures toward the dining table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally

remember my ma

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “A glass of wine?”

“That would be lovely,” Gia says. “Dry white if you have it.”

Shit! Sauvignon blanc—that’s a dry white, isn’t it? Reluctantly leaving my husband’s side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Christian switches

off the music.

“Would you like some more wine, Christian?” I call.

“Please, baby,” he croons, gri

Reaching up to open the cupboard, I’m aware his eyes are on me, and I’m gripped by the unca

game together—but this time we’re on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo. Does he know that she’s attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It gives

me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he’s trying to reassure me. Or maybe he’s just sending a message loud and clear to this woman that he’s taken.

Mine. Yeah, bitch—mine. My i

cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and place them all on the breakfast bar. Gia is leaning over the table while Christian stands

beside her and points at something on the plans.

“I think Ana has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we’re both pleased with the ideas you’ve come up with.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Gia gushes, obviously relieved, and as she says it, she briefly touches his arm in a small, flirty gesture. Christian stiffens immediately but subtly.

She doesn’t even seem to notice.

Leave him the fuck alone, lady. He doesn’t like to be touched.

Stepping casually aside so he’s out of her reach, Christian turns to me. “Thirsty here,” he says.

“Coming right up.” He is playing the game. She makes him uncomfortable. Why didn’t I see that before? That’s why I don’t like her. He’s used to how women

react to him. I’ve seen it often enough, and usually he thinks nothing of it. Touching is something else. Well, Mrs. Grey to the rescue.

I hastily pour the wine, gather all three glasses in my hands, and hurry back to my knight in distress. Offering a glass to Gia, I deliberately position myself

between them. She smiles courteously as she accepts it. I hand the second to Christian, who takes it eagerly, his expression one of amused gratitude.

“Cheers,” Christian says to us both, but looking at me. Gia and I raise our glasses and answer in unison. I take a welcome sip of wine.

“Ana, you have some issues with the glass wall?” Gia asks.

“Yes. I love it—don’t get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could incorporate it more organically into the house. After all, I fell in love with the house as it

was, and I don’t want to make any radical changes.”

“I see.”

“I just want the design to be sympathetic, you know . . . more in keeping with the original house.” I glance up at Christian, who is gazing at me thoughtfully.