Fifty Shades Freed

prominent.

“Oh fuck this!” Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket

as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and he disappears through the double doors into the foyer, slamming the door behind him and

making me jump once more.

I am alone with the silence—the still, silent emptiness of the great room. I shudder involuntarily as I gaze numbly at the closed doors. He’s walked out on me.

Shit! His reaction is far worse than I could ever have imagined. I push my plate away and fold my arms on the table, letting my head sink into them while I weep.

“Ana, dear.” Mrs. Jones is hovering beside me.

I sit up quickly, dashing the tears from my face.

“I heard. I’m sorry,” she says gently. “Would you like an herbal tea or something?”

“I’d like a glass of white wine.”

Mrs. Jones pauses for a fraction of a second, and I remember Blip. Now I can’t drink alcohol. Can I? I must study the dos and don’ts Dr. Greene gave me.

“I’ll get you a glass.”

“Actually, I’ll have a cup of tea, please.” I wipe my nose. She smiles kindly.

“Cup of tea coming up.” She clears our plates and heads over to the kitchen area. I follow her and perch on a stool, watching her prepare my tea.

She places a steaming mug in front of me. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Ana?”

“No, this is fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t eat much.”

I gaze up at her. “I’m just not hungry.”

“Ana, you should eat. It’s not just you anymore. Please let me fix you something. What would you like?” She looks so hopefully at me. But really, I can’t face

anything.

My husband has just walked out on me because I’m pregnant, my father has been in a major car accident, and there’s Jack Hyde the nutcase trying to make out

that I sexually harassed him. I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to giggle. See what you’ve done to me, Little Blip! I caress my belly.

Mrs. Jones smiles indulgently at me. “Do you know how far you are?” she asks softly.

“Very newly pregnant. Four or five weeks, the doctor isn’t sure.”

“If you won’t eat, then at least you should rest.”

I nod, and taking my tea, I head into the library. It’s my refuge. I dig my BlackBerry out of my purse and contemplate calling Christian. I know it’s a shock for

him—but he really did overreact. When does he not overreact? My subconscious arches a finely plucked brow at me. I sigh. Fifty Shades of fucked up.

“Yes, that’s your daddy, Little Blip. Hopefully he’ll cool off and come back . . . soon.”

I pull out the leaflet of dos and don’ts and sit down to read.

I can’t concentrate. Christian’s never walked out on me before. He’s been so thoughtful and kind over the last few days, so loving and now . . . Suppose he never

comes back? Shit! Perhaps I should call Fly

was so sweet this weekend. All those circumstances way beyond his control, yet he managed fine. But this news was too much.

Ever since I met him, my life has been complicated. Is it him? Is it the two of us together? Suppose he doesn’t get past this? Suppose he wants a divorce? Bile

rises in my throat. No. I mustn’t think this way. He’ll be back. He will. I know he will. I know regardless of the shouting and his harsh words he loves me . . . yes.

And he’ll love you, too, Little Blip.

Leaning back in my chair, I start to doze.

I wake cold and disorientated. Shivering I check my watch; eleven in the evening. Oh yes . . . You. I pat my belly. Where’s Christian? Is he back? Stiffly I ease out

of the armchair and go in search of my husband.

Five minutes later, I realize he’s not home. I hope nothing’s happened to him. Memories of the long wait when Charlie Tango went missing flood back.

No, no, no. Stop thinking like this. He’s probably gone to . . . where? Who would he go and see? Elliot? Or maybe he’s with Fly

BlackBerry back in the library, and I text him.

*Where are you?*

I head into the bathroom and run myself a bath. I am so cold.

He still hasn’t returned when I climb out of the bath. I change into one of my 1930s-style satin nightdresses and my robe and head to the great room. On the way, I

pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip’s room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality. Will we paint

pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip’s room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality. Will we paint

it blue or pink? The sweet thought is soured by the fact that my errant husband is so pissed at the idea. Grabbing the duvet from the spare bed, I head into the great

room to keep vigil.

Something wakes me. A sound.

“Shit!”

It’s Christian in the foyer. I hear the table scrape across the floor again.

“Shit!” he repeats, more muffled this time.

I scramble up in time to see him stagger through the double doors. He’s drunk. My scalp prickles. Shit, Christian drunk? I know how much he hates drunks. I

leap up and run toward him.

“Christian, are you okay?”

He leans against the jamb of the foyer doors. “Mrs. Grey,” he slurs.

Crap. He’s very drunk. I don’t know what to do.

“Oh . . . you look mighty fine, Anastasia.”

“Where have you been?”

He puts his fingers to his lips and smiles crookedly at me. “Shh!”

“I think you’d better come to bed.”

“With you . . .” He snickers.

Snickering! Frowning, I gently put my arm around his waist because he can hardly stand, let alone walk. Where has he been? How did he get home?

“Let me help you to bed. Lean on me.”

“You are very beautiful, Ana.” He leans onto me and sniffs my hair, almost knocking both of us over.

“Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed.”

“Okay,” he says as if he’s trying to concentrate.

We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.

“Bed,” he says, gri

“Yes, bed.” I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.

“Join me,” he says.

“Christian, I think you need some sleep.”

“And so it begins. I’ve heard about this.”

I frown. “Heard about what?”

“Babies mean no sex.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Otherwise we’d all come from one-child families.”

He gazes down at me. “You’re fu

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes.” He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.

“Come on, Christian,” I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid, ugly memories that no child should see. “Let’s get you into bed.” I push him gently,

and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and gri

“Join me,” he slurs.

“Let’s get you undressed first.”

He grins widely, drunkenly. “Now you’re talking.”

Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I’ll take him over mad-as-hell Christian anytime.

“Sit up. Let me take your jacket off.”

“The room is spi

Shit . . . is he going to throw up? “Christian, sit up!”

He smirks up at me. “Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing . . .”

“Yes. Do as you’re told and sit up.” I put my hands on my hips. He grins again, struggles up onto his elbows then sits up in a most unChristian-like, gawky

fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.

“You smell good.”

“You smell of hard liquor.”