Fifty Shades Freed

“Okay, ma’am,” he says, frowning, but opens the door.

Moving is good.

“Mrs. Grey,” Sawyer asks as we race toward the parking lot. “Can I ask why we’re making this unscheduled trip?”

“It’s my dad. He’s been in an accident.”

“I see. Does Mr. Grey know?”

“I’ll call him from the car.”

Sawyer nods and opens the rear door to the Audi SUV, and I climb in. With shaking fingers, I reach for my BlackBerry, and I dial Christian’s cell.

“Mrs. Grey.” Andrea’s voice is crisp and businesslike.

“Is Christian there?” I breathe.

“Um . . . he’s somewhere in the building, ma’am. He’s left his BlackBerry charging with me.”

I groan silently with frustration.

“Can you tell him I called, and that I need to speak with him? It’s urgent.”

“I could try and track him down. He does have a habit of wandering off sometimes.”

“Just get him to call me, please,” I beg, fighting back tears.

“Certainly, Mrs. Grey.” She hesitates. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” I whisper, not trusting my voice. “Please, just get him to call me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I hang up. I ca

“Where in Portland, Mrs. Grey?” Sawyer asks gently.

“OHSU,” I choke out. “The big hospital.”

Sawyer pulls out into the street and heads for the I-5, while I keen softly in the back of the car, muttering wordless prayers. Please let him be okay. Please let him

be okay.

My phone rings, “Your Love Is King” startling me from my mantra.

“Christian,” I gasp.

“Christ, Ana. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Ray—he’s been in an accident.”

“Shit!”

“Yes. I am on my way to Portland.”

“Portland? Please tell me Sawyer is with you.”

“Yes, he’s driving.”

“Where is Ray?”

“At OHSU.”

I hear a muffled voice in the background. “Yes, Ros,” Christian snaps angrily. “I know! Sorry, baby—I can be there in about three hours. I have business I need

to finish here. I’ll fly down.”

Oh shit. Charlie Tango is back in commission and last time Christian flew her . . .

“I have a meeting with some guys over from Taiwan. I can’t blow them off. It’s a deal we’ve been hammering out for months.”

Why do I know nothing about this?

“I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” I whisper. And I want to say that it’s okay, stay in Seattle, and sort out your business, but the truth is I want him with me.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers.

“I’ll be okay, Christian. Take your time. Don’t rush. I don’t want to worry about you, too. Fly safely.”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, baby. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Keep Luke close.”

“Yes, I will.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.” After hanging up, I hug my knees once more. I know nothing about Christian’s business. What the hell is he doing with the Taiwanese? I gaze out the

window as we pass Boeing Field-King County Airport. He must fly safely. My stomach knots anew and nausea threatens. Ray and Christian. I don’t think my

heart could take that. Leaning back, I start my mantra again: Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

“Mrs. Grey.” Sawyer’s voice rouses me. “We’re on the hospital grounds. I just have to find the ER.”

“I know where it is.” My mind flits back to my last visit to OHSU when, on my second day, I fell off a stepladder at Clayton’s, twisting my ankle. I recall Paul

Clayton hovering over me and shudder at the memory.

Clayton hovering over me and shudder at the memory.

Sawyer pulls up to the drop-off point and leaps out to open my door.

“I’ll go park, ma’am, and come find you. Leave your briefcase, I’ll bring it.”

“Thank you, Luke.”

He nods, and I walk briskly into the buzzing ER reception area. The receptionist at the desk gives me a polite smile, and within a few moments, she’s located

Ray and is sending me to the OR on the third floor.

OR? Fuck! “Thank you,” I mutter, trying to focus on her directions to the elevators. My stomach lurches as I almost run toward them.

Let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

The elevator is agonizingly slow, stopping on each floor. Come on . . . Come on! I will it to move faster, scowling at the people strolling in and out and preventing me from getting to my dad.

Finally, the doors open on the third floor, and I rush to another reception desk, this one staffed by nurses in navy uniforms.

“Can I help you?” asks one officious nurse with a myopic stare.

“My father, Raymond Steele. He’s just been admitted. He’s in OR-4, I think.” Even as I say the words, I am willing them not to be true.

“Let me check, Miss Steele.”

I nod, not bothering to correct her as she gazes intently at her computer screen.

“Yes. He’s been in for a couple of hours. If you’d like to wait, I’ll let them know that you’re here. The waiting room’s there.” She points toward a large white

door helpfully labeled WAITING ROOM in bold blue lettering.

“Is he okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You’ll have to wait for one of the attending doctor to brief you, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” I mutter—but inside I am screaming, I want to know now!

I open the door to reveal a functional, austere waiting room where Mr. Rodriguez and José are seated.

“Ana!” Mr. Rodriguez gasps. His arm is in a cast, and his cheek is bruised on one side. He’s in a wheelchair with one of his legs in a cast too. I gingerly wrap my

arms around him.

“Oh, Mr. Rodriguez,” I sob.

“Ana, honey.” He pats my back with his uninjured arm. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, his hoarse voice cracking.

Oh no.

“No, Papa,” José says softly in admonishment as he hovers behind me. When I turn, he pulls me into his arms and holds me.

“José,” I mutter. And I’m lost—tears falling as all the tension, fear, and heartache of the last three hours surface.

“Hey, Ana, don’t cry.” José gently strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and softly weep. We stand like this for ages, and I’m so grateful that my

friend is here. We pull apart when Sawyer joins us in the waiting room. Mr. Rodriguez hands me a tissue from a conveniently placed box, and I dry my tears.

“This is Mr. Sawyer. Security,” I murmur. Sawyer nods politely to José and Mr. Rodriguez then moves to take a seat in the corner.

“Sit down, Ana.” José ushers me to one of the vinyl-covered armchairs.

“What happened? Do we know how he is? What are they doing?”

José holds up his hands to halt my barrage of questions and sits down beside me. “We don’t have any news. Ray, Dad, and I were on a fishing trip to Astoria.

We were hit by some stupid fucking drunk—”

Mr. Rodriguez tries to interrupt, stammering an apology.

“Cálmate, Papa!” José snaps. “I don’t have a mark on me, just a couple of bruised ribs and a knock on the head. Dad . . . well, Dad broke his wrist and ankle.

But the car hit the passenger side and Ray.”

Oh no, no . . . Panic swamps my limbic system again. No, no, no. My body shudders and chills as I imagine what’s happening to Ray in the OR.

“He’s in surgery. We were taken to the community hospital in Astoria, but they airlifted Ray here. We don’t know what they’re doing. We’re waiting for news.”

I start to shake.

“Hey, Ana, you cold?”

I nod. I’m in my white sleeveless shirt and black summer jacket, and neither provides warmth. Gingerly, José pulls off his leather jacket and wraps it around my

shoulders.

“Shall I get you some tea, ma’am?” Sawyer is by my side. I nod gratefully, and he disappears from the room.

“Why were you fishing in Astoria?” I ask.

José shrugs. “The fishing’s supposed to be good there. We were having a boys’ get-together. Some bonding time with my old man before academia heats up for