BOOK III - CHAPTER XVI - Christian and Anastasia Fanfiction

HELL HAS NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN SCORNED

CHAPTER XVI

“Mrs. Grey, it appears that you are not only decorative, but useful, too,” I tease Anastasia with pleasure and amusement in my eyes.

“Decorative?” she narrows her eyes, in her own teasing manner. I turn her around, pull her to me, and say “very,” before I kiss her on her soft lips.

“You’re much more decorative than I am, Mr. Grey,” she replies.

Her proximity, scent, and intoxicating beauty unfurls the desire in me, and I grin wide and kiss her forcefully as I wind her braid around my wrist, and wrapping my arms around her. I only let go of her when we both run out of breath. I’m so close to her that we can both feel each other’s racing hearts.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“No,” she replies. Of course. If I don’t make her eat, she’d waste away before my eyes.

“I am,” I say.

“What for?” she asks. My wife is ever desirous for me; just like I like it.

“Well, food actually, Mrs. Grey,” I say smiling.

“Alright, I’ll make you something,” she says giggling.

“I love that sound,” I say longing though she’s in my arms.

“Of me offering you food?” she asks curiously.

“You giggling,” I say as I kiss her hair, then she stands up to leave.

“So, what would you like to eat, Sir?” she asks in a sweet tone of voice.

She is definitely toying with me. I narrow my eyes on her.

“Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?”

“Always, Mr. Grey...” she says pausing, and then adds, “Sir.” Fuck! I have to do something about this. I feel my palms twitching. I just want to pull her on my lap, spank her and have my way with her.

“I can still put your over my knee,” I murmur in a seductive tone as my grin reaches ear to ear. She puts her hands on the arms of my office chair, and leans down to kiss me. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Mr. Grey. But stow your twitching palm...  You’re hungry,” she says.

How can I resist her when she is the one who is seducing me, toying with me, and turning me on like a fire hose? I can only smile at her. “Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?’

“You’re going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?” she asks.

“Something light. Surprise me,” I say. This is a choice I can leave up to her.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says, and sashays out of my office.

When Anastasia leaves my office, I turn my attention back to the video feed from Barney. Jack Fucking Hyde! You will regret the day you decided to fuck with me and my wife. I take my Blackberry and dial Welch.

“Welch’s here,” he answers.

“Did you talk to Barney?”

“I currently am, sir. We’re examining the video feed together. He informed me that the perp on the video matched Jack Hyde. We have to inform the police tomorrow, but before that, I’ve dispatched two of my men to his place to check out if he’s still there. If he’s smart, he wouldn't be.”

“If they find him in his place, I want to be informed immediately. Before you or your men question him, I want to have some time with him one on one,” I say darkly. So, I can kick his fucking ass. I hear soft scraping of his chair over the phone. He clears his throat.

“ Wouldn't you prefer Taylor or I to be with you, sir?” he asks fearing my well controlled anger.

“No! If he’s not in his place, then text me, and let me know.”

“As you wish sir,” he acquiesces.

“Is Barney on the other line?”

“He’s on the company server, sir. Not on the phone. We’re currently running cross checks and trying to run fingerprint scans to see if it can be matched with the Charlie Tango partial print. But that’s a shot in the dark. It’ll take us a while.”

“Meanwhile, I need the additional security info ASAP! All my family members are made aware of their arrival tomorrow.”

“Everything has already been arranged sir. Once we go over the video feed, I’ll send you and Taylor the info on the security detail.”

“Okay, then. Make sure you call me after you get anything on Hyde!”

“Yes, sir,” he says as I hang up. I toss my Blackberry onto my desk. I squeeze the bridge of my nose to prevent an oncoming headache, and exhale a breath. I have to take control of our lives, and circumstances plaguing our lives. I hate that Jack Hyde fucker is trying to harm me, my possessions, and possibly my wife and family. I couldn't live if my wife got harmed because of me! I stand abruptly my hands fisted. If they capture Hyde tonight, I’ll beat him an inch of his life. But right now, I just want to go and hold my wife, hear her voice, and kiss her. I have to take the designs out for our new house to view and discuss before Gia Matteo comes over tomorrow night. Stuffing my Blackberry in my pocket, the designs of our house in my hand I walk into the Great Room, and locate my wife in the kitchen fixing me something to eat.

I put the house plans on the breakfast bar, and saunter towards my wife. I go behind her and wrap my arms around her, and kiss her neck. She smells heavenly, and looks beautiful. It’s fucking arousing to find her in my kitchen fixing me something to eat barefoot, smelling delicious.

“Barefoot and in the kitchen,” I murmur into her ear.

“ Shouldn't that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” she asks smirking. What the fuck? Pregnant? I hope not. Not for a long time. Ten more years at least! If even then! I’ve not had my fill of my wife, and when it comes to her, I’m like a starving man in an all-you-can-eat-buffet. Because I’m starved for touch, love and attention, I can never get enough of her. I barely learned to tolerate and actually enjoy touch. Her touch is magic, healing, sensual, and addictive. I want all of her: mind, body and soul. How can I share her even with a baby who will consume all of her time, and not to mention take her love and attention away from me. I feel the breath knocked out of me immediately. I tense, my entire body goes rigid.

“Not yet!” I protest immediately. Even the idea of having a child so soon is repulsive, scary, immediately making me uneasy.

“No! Not yet!” she replies. Oh, good; I feel immense relief. I thought she wants children now, and we've been married but for about three minutes. I want so much more from our time alone. I want to show her the world. I slowly relax. “On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey.”

“You do want kids though, don’t you?” she asks worried.

“Sure, yes. Eventually. But I’m not ready to share you yet,” I reply kissing her neck. I’m so ready to leave this conversation for another ten years. I need to distract her; otherwise she’ll pursue this further. I’m not father material. I don’t need to be a father, now or ever. No child would benefit from a shitty, broken man. I shudder to think what I can offer. I immediately change the topic.

“What are you making? Looks good,” I say kissing behind her ear. I feel a shiver run through her body, and she leans into my touch.

“Subs,” she replies and smirks at me, making me smile, and I nip her earlobe my arms still holding her body in a tight embrace.

“My favorite,” I reply. She pokes me with her elbow. I clutch my side in mock pain. “Mrs. Grey, you wound me,” I say.

“Wimp,” she mutters in a mocking tone.

Wimp?” I ask in complete disbelief. I slap her ass; she jumps in surprise and yelps. “Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I can show you how wimpy I can be,” I say salaciously slapping her behind once more then walk to the fridge to grab a bottle of wine.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I ask.

“Please,” she replies.

I pour each of us a glass of wine, and hand her one of them.

After clearing our plates, I spread Gia’s plans over the breakfast bar. Ana looks over the plans, contemplating.

“I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but...” she says doubtful.

“But?” I prompt. I want her to be completely happy with the plans. I don’t want her to be displeased with any part of the plan, because this is all for her. If she isn't happy, I’m not happy.

She sighs, and replies, “I don’t want to take all the character out of the house.”

“Character?” I ask. What exactly does she want done with the house?

“Yes. Gia’s proposal is quite radical, but....well... I fell in love with the house as it is, Christian. Warts and all.”

Doesn’t she want the remodeling? She wants to keep as it is? My brows furrow in contemplation.

“I kind of like it as the way it is,” she whispers hesitantly. I gauge her reaction. She looks worried about what I might think. I don’t want her to worry. This house is for her; I want her to be happy in it in every way possible.

“I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours,” I say without blinking or breaking my gaze. Her happiness is essential.

“I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too.” Doesn’t she understand that I’m happy wherever she is - that my heart belongs to her? My happiness is not dependent on the house we live in, but on her presence in the house.

“I’ll be happy wherever you are. It’s that simple, Ana,” I say holding her gaze. She blinks, surprised, swallowing, she answers.

“Well,” she says emotions flooding through. She swallows again and takes a shallow breath. “I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically.” The idea that my wife is trying to please me melts my heart, making me grin.

“Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?” I ask.

“I’m cool with those.”

“Good.”

Then she shifts uncomfortably, burning to ask a question that’s been bothering her.

“Do you want to put in a playroom?” she asks in a soft voice, afraid of my reaction. Her question catches me by surprise; my eyebrows shoot up.

“Do you?” I ask. I’m amused as well as surprised. Does she really want to have a playroom in the new house, or is she doing this for my benefit? I want her to want it. If not, I can’t have it built.

She shrugs nonchalantly. “Uhm... if you want.”

She’s doing it for me. I don’t want this to be about me; what we do have to please both of us, especially a playroom. If she doesn’t want it, I don’t want to do it. We’ll still have Escala. We can use this Red Room of Pain should we so desire. If we are going to have a family no matter how long down the road, it may not be the best option. Decisions... Decisions...

“Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home,” I say, and her face falls. She does want a playroom. If she really wants one, that can be modified easily.

“Besides, we can improvise,” I say smirking.

“I like improvising,” she whispers. Then I show her the master bedroom, details of the master bathroom, and his and her walk-in closets on the plans.

****❦ ♡ ❧*****

When we are done discussing the house plans, it’s about nine thirty in the evening. I roll the plans to put them away.

“Are you going back to work?” Anastasia asks. Does she have plans?

“Not if you don’t want me to,” I reply smiling. “What would you like to do now?”

“We could watch TV,” she says. Even though I dislike TV, and mindless shit it fills people with, I’d do anything with Anastasia.

“Okay,” I say, and lead her to the TV room. When she’s watching TV, I generally read a book. What I like is her proximity. I feel extremely relaxed when she curls up beside me on the couch, her head resting against my shoulder. Her touch is healing, magical to me. The only touch I not only tolerate, but crave, desire, and need. I turn the flat screen TV on with the remote. I randomly flick through the channels.

“Any specific drivel you want to watch?” I ask grinning.

“You don’t like TV much, do you?” she mutters acerbically. I shake my head.

“Waste of time. But I’ll watch something with you,” I reply. So much can be accomplished with that wasted time, including pleasure.

“I thought we could make out,” she says and my head whips to face her. She’s got my full fucking attention. “Make out?” I ask, testing the waters. I can make out. I’m ready, willing and able. I gaze at her assessing. I stop changing the channels. I hear Spanish in the background on TV, but I don’t care. Make out? What does that entail? What exactly does she want?

“Yes,” she replies.

“We could go to bed and make out,” I say. Why the TV room? No toys, no bed, not that any of that would stop me.

“We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the TV?” she asks teasing. Making out in front of the TV... That would be... Never. Here’s something I’ve never done come to think of it. I feel dumbstruck; I shrug nonchalantly and shake my head. I press the remote again to flick it to something else. I don’t want to show her that this is something I haven’t done. I’ve done more than my share when it comes to sex, but never made out. I stop changing the channels when The X-Files come up.

X-Files Theme Music

“Christian?” Anastasia probes.

“I’ve never done that,” I reply quietly. Am I embarrassed of never having done that?

“Never?” she asks incredulous.

“No.”

“Not even with Mrs. Robinson?” she asks. My response is a snort. Making out with Elena... That would not happen even in a million years.

“Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out wasn’t one of them.” I smirk and gaze at her narrowing my eyes. Now, I’m curious... Did she make out with someone else?

“Have you?” I ask quizzically.

She flushes to the hairline. What the fuck! “Of course,” she replies. Of course? Some fucker fondled my wife?

“What! Who with?” I shout. She shakes her head. I need to know. I need to find out. I’ll go crazy knowing that some other fucker touched my wife the way I do, or desired her, and got close to having her. I have to know!

“Tell me!” I insist.

She gazes down and looked at her knotted fingers as if they hold the secrets to the universe. Is she afraid of me? I cover her hands with one of mine. She then looks up at me and finds me smiling at her.

“I want to know Anastasia. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp.” She giggles. She thinks I’m joking. I don’t joke when it comes to my affection for Anastasia, or my possessiveness.

“Well, the first time...” she starts. The first time? What fucking first time? How many times did she make out? How many guys has there been?

“The first time! There’s more than one fucker?” I growl my response.

She giggles again. This ain't funny Anastasia. “Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?” she asks taking me by surprise. Well, for starters, she’s mine, and only mine. I have never thought that another man put his hands on her... And now... I frown. I don’t like the idea of having another man having touched her. In fact I just want to erase any mark, or memory of them ever touching her. She’s mine! My woman. I run my hand in my hair in exasperation. I shrug. “I just am. I mean... given your lack of experience.”

She flushes once again. “I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you,” she replies. That, of course is the saving grace. She hasn't fucked anyone before me, and she’ll never fuck anyone else. I’m the one she’s given herself to completely, her virginity, her promise of ownership... I mean marriage. She’s mine damn it!

“You have,” I grin satisfied. “Tell me. I want to know.” I want to know everything about me, but, particularly this.

She gazes at me searching. She wants to know if I’ll get mad at her. I’ve had many women before. But it’s different with Anastasia. I may not have had any right over had before I’ve met her, but the idea that someone else might know her in a similar fashion that I do is eating me inside. I want to discover how far the fuckers progressed. I want to reconquer her. Print new memories over the ones she has made with those dick heads.

“You really want me to tell you?” I nod. Is it really that bad? I want to know so I can master over them. So that I can show her how it is properly done, how much better I am over any other guy she may ever had in whatever manner. My confidence is written all over my arrogant smile. She narrows her eyes after I nod.

“I was briefly in Vegas with mom and husband number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in Physics.” Tenth grade... She was a teenager.

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.” Okay, a kid then. But, I was fifteen when Elena introduced me to the kinky fuckery world. I want to know if she has done anything similar.

“And what’s he doing now?” I ask casually. I want to know if she keeps up with him. If she really thinks about him, or if she remembers what he did and how he did it.

“I don’t know,” she replies genuinely.

“What base did he get to?” I ask.

“Christian!” she scolds me. I want to know! She’s my woman, damn it! I suddenly grab her knees, and then her ankles, tipping her, making her fall back on the sofa. I slide on top of her, effectively trapping her under me. I place one leg between hers, and won’t let her move. The suddenness of my movement makes her yelp. I capture her hands, and raise them above her head.

“So, this Bradley character... Did he get to first base?” I murmur, all the while running my nose down the length of hers. I kiss the corner of her mouth softly, sensually.

“Like this?” I breathe.

“No...” she gasps with pleasure, “...nothing like that.” Somehow relief floods through me. I’m jealous knowing that someone out there had known my wife in a carnal fashion even if he was a tenth grader when he attempted to do that. Let’s explore what else he may have done with her. I release her chin, and run my hand down over her body, and my fingers skate up to her breasts.

“Did he do this? Touch you like this?” I ask my thumbs circle over her nipples repeatedly which harden under my touch beneath her camisole.

“No,” she moans her answer as she’s writhing under the ministration of my hands.

“Did he get to second base?” I murmur salaciously into her ear. I slide my hands down across her ribs, wait and to her hips. She doesn’t answer. I take her earlobe between my teeth and tug gently and probe with my body.

“No,” she breathes her answer. I can’t believe I’m feeling an overwhelming relief with her repose. My gaze is carnal, completely fixated on her. I smile triumphantly.

“Good,” I say as my hand slides inside her sweats, cupping her sex. “No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve,” I say while I push my index finger into her slowly, as my thumb skims over her clitoris, rubbing her in circles.

“We’re supposed to be making out,” Anastasia groans her protest. That stops me in my tracks.

“I thought we were?”

“No. No sex,” she says. What the hell does she mean with no sex? How can I touch her breasts, and her soaked sex, and not have sex with her?

“What?” I ask.

“No sex...” I can deal... I think.

“No sex, huh?” I take my hand out of her sweatpants reluctantly, and take my index finger to her lips. 

“Here,” I say as my finger traces her lips, and then I push it into her waiting mouth. I rub my finger in her mouth as I would her sex. Then I shift to re-position myself between her legs, and my erection pushes against her sex. I can make her change her mind. I thrust over her sex, slowly, intently, repeatedly. She gasps as I make sure that her sweatpants stimulate her sex just the right way. I push into her again, grinding into her.

“This is what you want?” I murmur as I rock against her.

“Yes,” she moans.

My hand moves back to her nipple, as my teeth scrape along her jaw. She is so fucking irresistible, so damn hot!

“Do you know how hot you are, Ana?” I ask in a hoarse voice as I rock into her harder and harder. She opens her mouth and only a groan comes out loudly, desirously. My mouth seizes her, and I start kissing her. I ensnare her lower lip and tug it with my teeth, sucking it. Then my tongue finds its way into her mouth, and explore, lick and caress sensually. When I release her hands, she reaches up to my hair, and grabs handfuls and tugs. She does that when her desire reaches its peak. I groan in response, all the blood rushes to the south of my body, erecting my cock, pushing its way out of my jeans. I raise my eyes to her quizzically.

“Ah...” I moan.

“Do you like me touching you?” she whispers. Did she misinterpret my reaction as apprehension? My brows furrow. I need her touch, I desire it, I want it... Come to think of it, I can’t live without it.

“Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch,” I say truthfully.

It looks like I’m going to make love to my wife after all. I kneel between her legs, and sit her up. I grab her shirt and pull it off. Then I pull the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head, and toss it on the floor. I finally pull my wife onto my lap, my hands clasped behind her ass.

“Touch me,” I breathe. I want her hands and fingers all over me. I need it like my next breath. She is hesitant. She first reaches up to me with her fingertips, lightly brushing over my chest hair. Then her fingers caress my burn scars. Her touch ignites me inside, lighting fire in my blood, making desire course through me for her. I inhale a sharp breath, my eyes darken, but I’m not afraid of her touch. I want it. She’s my lover, my wife, my life. My eyes follow her, unblinking. My entire body is full attention with her touch. I come alive down to every single cell. Her fingers tentatively touch one nipple first, and then float to the other. My body responds; my nipples pucker under her sensual caresses. She leans down and plants kisses all over my chest, her hands glide over to my shoulder. I’m a ball of desire. I have to have her.

“I want you,” I say, and she groans. Her fingers move into my hair, grasping, and pulling my hair, straining my head back to capture my mouth. Oh shit! This is fucking hot! I groan, and push my woman back onto the couch. I sit up and practically rip off her sweatpants off her while undoing my fly.

“Home run,” I whisper, and promptly spear my cock into her sex, filling and stretching her.

“Ah!” she groans. I still inside her. I take her face between my hands, and lean into her lips. “I love you, Mrs. Grey,” I murmur, and I slowly start moving. Kissing her with all I’ve got, exploring her mouth, sucking her lip. I pick my wife up onto my lap, making our proximity more intimate than ever. I slowly lift and ease her onto my cock while I thrust it into her deep. Each time her breast rub onto my chest, the friction puckering them, arousing her more. Her arms remain snaked around me, her hands pulling my hair, our lips molded into each other, I move, and thrust until we both reach our peak and I feel the familiar tightening of her sex, pulling me deeper into her. She starts moving faster, matching my thrust with her movements, gyrating her hip while her sex completely sheathing my cock and as she arches her back, her head is tilted back. She comes loudly calling my name, and I lose myself in sensation and pour all my love, and all I have to give into her.

****❦ ♡ ❧*****

When our senses come back to us, we’re sprawled on the floor, and she’s lying on my chest.

“You know, we completely bypassed the third base,” she says her fingers tracing my pectorals. Now that I got a taste for making out, “Next time, Mrs. Grey,” I reply laughing, kissing the top of her head. How can I resist my beautiful wife?

Anastasia looks up at the TV where the X-Files’ end credits are running. I turn the sound back on.

“You liked that show?” she asks quizzical.

“When I was a kid, I did,” I reply.

“How about you?” I ask.

“It was before my time,” she replies. Before her time... I tend to forget how young she is. She’s only 21! She’s six years younger than I am!

“You’re so young,” I remark, smiling at my wife affectionately. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.”

“Likewise, Mr. Grey,” she says kissing my chest.

“It’s been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses notwithstanding. I like being in our own private bubble,” she mutters.

“Hmm,” I hum, “I’m not sure I’m ready to share you with the rest of the world yet,” I say truthfully. I’ve had a blissful honeymoon; discovered how much I love and desire my wife. I love her more than I thought I could ever love a person. I didn't know I was capable of such love or such a relationship with anyone, and yet, she conquered me body and soul.

“Back to reality tomorrow,” murmurs Anastasia, though sounding despondent. If she really has to go to work, I have to let her know about the additional security. Exasperation looms over me again that the fucker Hyde is out there and he knows the SIP well. And my wife has the attention span of a three year old when it comes to listening or following anything I ask of her. I run my hand over my hair again, frustrated.

“Security will be tight-“I start saying, but Anastasia puts her fingers over my lips.

“I know. I’ll be good. I promise,” she says, which of course is remains to be seen.

“Why were you shouting at Sawyer?” she asks, making me stiffen. His incompetence put us in danger.

“Because we were followed,” I reply.

“That wasn’t Sawyer’s fault,” she says. Excuses can get you killed. I cannot excuse a fatal mistake that could have cost her life. It’s his job! If he’s incapable of doing it, he will be replaced. End of story! I look at Anastasia placidly. This is non-negotiable. “They should never have let you get so far in front. They know that,” I say. It’s one of the basic requirements which has been drilled into them by both Taylor and Welch.

“That wasn’t...” she starts making excuses for them.

“Enough!” I cut her off. “This is not up for discussion, Anastasia! It’s a fact, and they won’t let it happen again.” Does she even realize the fear I’ve experienced over the fact that she was so close to danger? That this fucker dared to follow us knowing that a team of security was following us?  And here’s my wife arguing with me without understanding the gravity of the situation. Her life is priceless. She’s my safe place, she’s my life. Anything or anyone that jeopardizes her well-being will be eliminated, and if my current security is unable to protect her, they will be replaced with those who can. 

“Okay,” she mutters, conciliating. “Did Ryan catch up with the woman in the Dodge?”

“No. And I’m not convinced it was a woman.”

“Oh?” she says her eyebrows shooting up.

“What Sawyer saw was someone with their hair tied back, but it was a brief look. He assumed it was a woman. Now, given that you've identified that fucker, maybe it was him. He wore his hair like that,” I say disgustedly. But I will not completely give up the notion that the incidents may not be tied together or that Hyde was working alone. If I want complete safety of my family, I have to consider all the possibilities. Anastasia doesn’t need to know that. She worries enough about me already.

The thought of losing her... I can't bear to think about it. I run my hand over her naked back.

“If anything happened to you...” I say. I am unable bring the end of the sentence. I’d simply die if I lost her. I’d be soulless. Worse than dead! I feel helpless, and it’s a territory I don’t want to be in. I’m back to being four years old, and helpless in aiding her... saving her from the pimp. I never want to be in that position as long as I live. I can’t let Anastasia get hurt!

“I know,” Anastasia whispers in a soothing tone. “I feel the same about you,” she says as a shivers runs through her like someone just stepped over her grave. I shake my head as if to clear the dark thoughts.

“Come. You’re getting cold,” I say as I sit up. “Let’s go to bed. We can cover third base there,” I say, smiling licentiously. I take my wife’s hand, pull her up to her feet, and walk her through the great room, completely nude, all the way to our bedroom.

 ****❦ ♡ ❧*****

The following morning, I’m uneasy as I we pull outside of the SIP. I hold her hand, and squeeze it. She eyes my dark navy suit and tie, and smile, liking what she sees.

“You know you don’t have to do this?” I murmur. She narrows her eyes a little, ready to roll them any second. I wish I could tell her the dangers, but I cannot; not without freaking her out. It’s my burden. I promised to take care of her and protect her. It’s my job.

“I know,” she whispers, looking determined.  I frown, but she smiles reassuringly.

“But I want to. You know this,” she says, and leans up and kisses me. I hate letting her go. The fucker knows the building. He’s worked here. My eyes remain resolutely dark. I’m still worried.

“What’s wrong?” she says when she looks up at my lingering frown. I glance at Ryan, and Sawyer climbs out of the car. “I’ll miss having you to myself.”

Her hands reach out to caress my face. “Me, too,” she says, kissing me. “It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you.”

“Go to work, Mrs. Grey.”

“You, too, Mr. Grey.”

As Sawyer opens the door, I squeeze Anastasia’s hand, reluctant to let her go. She finally climbs out. As she reaches to the SIP entrance Sawyer opens the door for her. She turns around and gives me a little wave, and enters into the building.

Ryan drives me to GEH. After parking the SUV, we make our way to the elevators.

“Ryan, I’ll have a meeting with Welch shortly. I want you to come in and give a description of the perp. Do you have a video of the Dodge?”

“Not very clear sir. We didn't have good visual angle to begin with. After dropping Sawyer off, I tried to get near, but she was weaving in and out of the traffic. Though the traffic was generally light, she was becoming reckless and endangering other drivers on the road to throw me off her back. I was more concerned to get a visual identification of the driver. But it was a difficult task due to the fact that it was a high speed chase, the Dodge’s windows were heavily tinted, the driver was wearing a cap, the hair was in a ponytail, and had glasses.”

“You keep saying ‘her’. But we've identified Jack Hyde last night. I’m not entirely convinced that it was a female. You just indicated yourself that the windows were tinted, and the driver wore a cap, and sunglasses.”

“You’re right that it’s not easy to clearly decipher the driver’s sex solely based on my limited visual. But there are some visual cues that we were taught in the FBI, sir.”

“Such as?” I probe as the elevator door dings open to my floor. Andrea rushes to her feet.

“Good morning Mr. Grey. Mr. Welch and Barney are waiting for you in your office. May I bring your coffee now sir?”

“Not right now Andrea,” I reply.

“Ryan, it’s best if you explained it to all of us,” I say.

“Of course, sir,” he says, and opens my office door.

Both Welch and Barney stand up, and talk in a single voice, “Morning Mr. Grey.”

“Gentlemen,” I nod. “As you both well know, Jack Hyde has been identified as the arsonist. We've also had a car chase yesterday. Ryan seems to insist that it’s a woman even though Jack Hyde in the video feed you've shown me last night,” I say nodding to Barney, "he had a similar ponytail.”

“Allow me to explain, sir. Generally, gender drastically impacts the tendencies in driving habits.  I’ve examined Hyde’s file Welch has shared with us. Personality traits reflect the posture, and driving habits. Hyde is aggressive, reckless, but careful. He’s calculating. From short visuals I’ve managed to observe, this driver had a different posture. She got nervous. Her main goal became to get away from me. Hyde's primary goal is to harm you.”

“That could have been him! He’s been identified on the videos, and you yourself said last night that you couldn't be completely sure of the driver’s description. Windows were tinted, and the driver was disguised with a cap and sunglasses.”

“Mr. Grey,” interjects Welch. “Let’s assume that it was Hyde in the Dodge. He would still have to go someplace. He wasn’t home. In fact he hasn't been there for some time. Weeks even... How does he get by? I’ve been looking into his credit card activity, cash withdrawal and there’s none, sir. That’s strong indication of an accomplice. We can’t overlook that.”

That’s what I’ve been afraid of. My lips thin into a tight line. I exhale a frustrated breath. I turn around and gaze into the city of Seattle absently.

“I want you to all gather your data, share your findings, and compile a report with images, and videos. I want to see it as soon as it’s done," I say slowly as my back is still facing my men.

“It’s already in the works, sir. I am compiling the data for my meeting with Pella tonight, so he can examine them to evaluate them for us to give us a fresh perspective. Barney will also have to clear the video as much as he can from the Audi.”

“If that’s all you have gentlemen, I’ll talk to you later when the data is compiled.”

When they all leave my office, I realize my worry over Anastasia safety is increasing, and I find myself missing her. Missing her... a lot. Her absence after spending every hour of the last three weeks together is quite evident, and weighs heavy in my mind. I immediately write her an e-mail.

_____________________________________________________________________________
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Bubble
Date: August 22, 2011 09:31
To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey Love covering all the bases with you.
Have a great first day back.
Miss our bubble already.

x

Christian Grey Back in the Real World CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

______________________________________________________________________
 But, less than a few seconds later, my e-mail is returned from the SIP e-mail server claiming that the user doesn’t exist. The user DOES exist, but either the tech entering her information made a mistake, or worse my errant wife probably didn't change her name. I put my theory to test. I nervously type my next e-mail.

_____________________________________________________________________________
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Errant Wives
Date: August 22, 2011 09:55
To: Anastasia Steele

Wife I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.
And it’s because you haven’t changed your name.
Something you want to tell me?

Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

Attachment:

_____________________________________________________________________________
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Bubble
Date: August 22, 2011 09:31
To: Anastasia Grey

Mrs. Grey Love covering all the bases with you.
Have a great first day back.
Miss our bubble already.

x

Christian Grey Back in the Real World CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

______________________________________________________________________
Sure enough, my e-mail goes through. So, she didn't change her name at work. Why would she do that? Is she embarrassed of me? Doesn’t she want me? Why wouldn't she take my name? Why would she feel the need to hide the fact that I’m her husband? Doesn’t she think that I’m not worthy of her? I feel my fingers tapping on the table like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. When her message dings in my e-mail box, I open it immediately.

____________________________________________________________________________
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Don’t Burst the Bubble
Date: August 22, 2011 09: 57
To: Christian Grey

Husband 

I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. Grey.
I want to keep my name here. I’ll explain this evening.
I am going in to a meeting now.
Miss our bubble, too. . . 

PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?

Anastasia Steele Commissioning Editor, SIP

______________________________________________________________________

What the hell does that mean? I can’t breathe! Why is she distancing herself from me? We just got married. I read her response several times. She wants to keep her name. She’s topping me from bottom! She’s my wife! I want her to have my name! I want the whole world to know that I, Christian Grey, is her husband. She's not the single and available Anastasia Steele! Will she remove her rings when she gets to work? What does that mean?

I pace around my office. The dominant part of me is telling me to go to SIP, and sling her over my shoulder and take her back to Escala, and keep her there for good. But, that will not do. It will push her away from me. I want her to want me. On her own. I want her to declare to the world, to her friends, to her co-workers that I’m her husband. I’m the man who possessed her, had her, claimed her, that no one else can ever claim her. She’s my wife, damn it!

Shit! I have meeting!

“Andrea!” I buzz the intercom.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” she replies promptly.

“Clear my schedule after lunch, and schedule me an appointment with Dr. Flynn this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir. The Engineering Team and Ros are waiting for you in the meeting room.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I say and compose myself pushing down Anastasia’s stunt until lunch time. During the meeting, I have a hard time concentrating. I place my impassive mask like a second skin, and listen only. Anastasia sends no other messages, and I don’t respond. I feel like a live wire. Ros looks at me quizzically. I stare back at her impassively. As soon as the meeting is over, I stand up, nod curtly and leave the meeting room, leaving a room full of puzzled faces. Ryan walks out of the room with me.

“We’re going to SIP,” I say sharply.

“Right now, sir?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Yes, sir,” he says flushing. The drive to SIP is not fast enough. I’ve been a nervous wreck for the last two and a half hours. I don’t understand why my wife doesn’t want to associate with me. I thought she loved me! She says it often enough. Is it just a ruse? Is she slipping through my fingers? Is she trying to tell others that she is or she may be in the near future become available? Fuck!

I take out my Blackberry, and dial Sawyer.

“Yes, Mr. Grey,” he answers his phone.

“Is Mrs. Grey out of her meeting?”

“She is sir. She’s currently in her office with her assistant.”

“We’ll be at SIP shortly.”

“Shall I inform Mrs. Grey, sir?” he asks. No, I want to surprise her.

“No. Don’t inform anyone. We’re pulling up right now.”

“I’ll meet you at the door, sir,” he says, and I hang up. Time to recapture the errant wife. After Ryan parks the SUV, we walk into the building. The secretary’s eyes get large when I enter into the building.

“Good morning... I mean, good afternoon Mr. Grey. Would you like me to ring Ana? I mean Mrs. Grey?”

“No, thank you. Just inform Roach that I’m here.”

“Of course, sir,” she replies, and Roach stumbles his way on the double to greet me as he buttons the front of his jacket in a respective gesture. He extends his hand warmly.

“Mr. Grey! What a nice surprise, sir. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” he asks.

“I’m here to visit Miss Steele. I trust she’s not currently busy.”

“I... uhm... I’m not sure of her schedule, sir. We are done with our meetings, and it’s lunch time. I’m sure she’s in her office. Shall I take you to her, sir?” he asks. Let’s not stand around man.

“Yes, you shall,” I reply with a smile. I am in charge. He leads the way to her office, and knocks on her door. I look confident, and in charge, but I’m also determined to resolve the last name problem, and rebrand my errant wife with my name.

“Come in,” I hear Anastasia’s voice. Roach opens the door. Anastasia is sitting at her desk across from her assistant. When Anastasia sees me, she looks completely stupefied. Just the reaction I was looking for. My gaze is locked on her, and it’s blazing with fire. I saunter into the room completely in charge. I turn and look at her assistant who is behaving the usual way women do when they take a look at me. I give her a polite smile and introduce myself.

I'll Be Watching You - Sting

“Hello, you must be Hannah. I’m Christian Grey,” I say, and she scrambles to her feet and extends her hand to me.

“Mr. Grey. H..how nice to meet you, sir,” she stutters her words, as she shakes my hand. “Can I fetch you a coffee?” she asks.

“Please,” I say willing to clear the room, except for my errant wife who is refusing to take my last name. Hannah glances at Anastasia bewildered, and quickly scuttles out of Anastasia’ small office, passing by Roach who looks just as stupefied as Anastasia.

“If you’ll excuse me Roach. I’d like to have a word with Miss Steele,” I say emphasizing the S implosively and sarcastically.

“Of course, Mr. Grey. Ana,” mutters Roach and closes the door behind him.

“Mr. Grey, how nice to see you,” Anastasia says as she’s sweetly smiling, finally composing herself.

“Miss Steele, may I sit down?” I ask sibilantly again.

“It’s your company,” she says waving her hand at a chair her assistant vacated.

“Yes, it is,” I say predatorily. I smile at her, but it’s just a ruse. I’m far too nervous, far too tense to feel anything else.

“Your office is very small,” I say as I sit down facing her desk. I gaze around her office nonchalantly observing.

“It suits me,” she replies. I gaze at her indifferently, though I’m anything but. I’m angry, anxious, wounded even and boiling inside with feeling I am not familiar with.

“So what can I do for you, Christian?”

“I’m just looking over my assets,” I reply.

“Your assets? All of them?” she asks.

“All of them,” I say with meaning. “Some of them need rebranding.”

“Rebranding? In what way?” she asks. She knows why I’m here, and yet, still acts obtuse. I need to resolve this. I’m fucking anxious inside, like she is unwilling to be known as my wife. To be mine.

“Please... Don’t tell me you have interrupted your day after three weeks away to come over here and fight with me about my name,” she says combatively. I’m here to negotiate, and win. Not fight. I sit back in my chair, finding an easy position. A position of power. I cross my legs.

“Not exactly fight, no.”

“Christian, I’m working,” she replies dismissively.

“Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me.”

“We were going through our schedules,” she lashes out. “And you haven’t answered my question.” Just as I open my mouth, there’s a knock on the door, and Anastasia barks at the visitor. “Come in!”

Her assistant opens the door, and walks in with a small tray containing my coffee in a French press, a milk jug, sugar bowl and places the tray on her desk. Gathering her senses, Anastasia manages to thank Hannah.

“Do you need anything else, Mr. Grey?” her assistant ask, in her Marilyn Monroe voice.

“No, thank you. That’s all,” I reply with a smile. Her reaction is what I usually get from other women, but I care nothing about that. All I care is the reaction of the one I’m married to who is refusing to take my name.

“Now, Miss Steele, where were we?” I say emphasizing, ready for anything.

“You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my name,” she replies bluntly, completely taking me by surprise. My carefully placed impassive face slips for a second and I blink in her furious reaction. It’s that way, is it, Miss Steele? I know how to get her attention in the direction I want. My fingers slowly trace on my leg drawing her attention to my most valuable physical asset. I pick up an invisible piece of lint as I move my finger slowly northward, and toss that invisible item. She’s focused on me, on my crotch, just as I intended. But resisting. She knows my game, and narrows her eyes at me.

“I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes, wives in their place. You know,” I say shrugging as if it’s no big deal.

“I had no idea you could spare the time,” she barks at me again, and the game is off. My gaze is a volcano covered with a glacier.

“Why don’t you want to change your name here?” I ask, in a well-controlled, quiet voice. She tries to dismiss it as usual.

“Christian, do we really have to discuss this now?”

“I’m here. I don’t see why not.”

“I have a ton of work to do, having been away for the last three weeks,” she says as if the three weeks she’s had off were forced upon her, and had been endured. Something breaks inside of me. Maybe she doesn’t want me. Maybe associating with me in any way is shameful. I have to know.

“Are you ashamed of me?” I ask in a soft voice, anxiety ripping me apart inside. My question surprises her, and I instantly realize that it’s not the reason.

“No! Christian, of course not,” she says scowling. Why then? “This is about me, not you,” she replies. The classic, it’s not you, it’s me.

“How is this not about me?” I say cocking my head to the side, puzzled. My wife, the woman who is the center of my existence doesn’t want have my last name, and how’s that not about me? Is that not a rejection? My carefully placed mask of indifference slips with the fervency of my question. I need to know if she’s distancing herself from me, and disassociating with me.

“Christian, when I took this job, I’d only just met you,” she say slowly. “I didn't know you were going to buy the company...” she says exasperated but her face tells me that there’s more. She doesn’t want me to protect her. She’s bothered with the fact that I own SIP and that gives me leverage. But she knows me, she knows my tendencies. I will not compromise on anything where she’s concerned. She finally puts her head into her hands.

“Why is it so important to you?” she asks, her temper is barely controlled. When I don’t answer, she looks up. I want to see her eyes, her expression, look into her thought when I say this. I’m impassive once again.

“I want everyone to know that you’re mine.” Isn't that reason enough? I might as well put the “available” tag on her neck if she’s not Mrs. Grey.

“I am yours! Look,” she says holding up her left hand showing her wedding and engagement rings. I want complete ownership. I want my name sealing hers. Rings can give ownership to anyone. There isn't a name tag attached to it. My fundamental worry is that she’s bothered by MY name, by me, by Christian Grey. Otherwise she might as well be married to a random guy. The name Anastasia Steele with rings on her finger doesn’t say anything about her being my wife! It just says she’s married to someone whose last name is possibly “Steele.”

“It’s not enough,” I reply.

“Not enough that I married you?” she whispers horrified. No! Of course not! That’s what I want to show everyone all along, that’s she married to me! She’s the one who is refusing to show that to others. I blink in surprise.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. Now it’s my turn to snap, completely exasperated. I run my hand through my hair.

“What do you mean?” she asks. I swallow. Can I tell her? That I want to be as important for her, as central in her life as she is to me?

“I want your world to begin and end with me,” I say in a raw expression, finally baring my soul to her. She’s falls further into her chair as if the impact of my words wounded her. Her eyes go wide, her mouth opens to form a coherent expression, unable to do so for a short while.

“It does,” she finally says. “I’m just trying to establish a career, and I don’t want to trade on your name. I have to do something, Christian. I can’t stay imprisoned at Escala or the new house with nothing to do. I’ll go crazy. I’ll suffocate. I’ve always worked, and I enjoy this. This is my dream job; it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But doing this doesn’t mean I love you less. You are the world to me,” she says with a gush of words.

I let the weight of her words sink in. Does my love and attention suffocate her? I frown. That’s the last thing I want to do.

“I suffocate you?” I ask in a desolate voice. Without her, I have nothing. All I have is meaningless if she’s not the central focus of my life.

“No... yes.. no” she replies. So, she does think that I suffocate her. She closes her eyes, and rubs her forehead as if this will rub in some sense, some coherence to what she wants to express to me. She finally opens up her eyes, and says, “Look, we were talking about my name. I want to keep my name here because I want to put some distance between you and me... but only here, that’s all. You know everyone thinks I got the job because of you, when the reality is...” she says and stops, because my facial expression gives away that is not the reason why she got the job.

“Do you want to know why you got the job, Anastasia?” I say. She has horrified expression on her face. I shift in my chair, and lean forward to explain. The leather of the chair protests under my weight.

“The management here gave you Hyde’s job to babysit. They didn't want the expense of hiring a senior executive when the company was mid-sale. They had no idea what the new owner would do with it once it passed into the ownership, and wisely, they didn't want an expensive redundancy. So they gave you Hyde’s job to caretake until the new owner,” I pause, to indicate me, unable to hide an ironic smile, “...namely me, took over.”

She leans forward in her chair, tense, her eyes wide, shocked and horrified.

“What are you saying?”

I smile at her reassuringly and shake my head to appease her alarm. “Relax. You've more than risen to the challenge. You've done very well,” I say completely proud of my wife. As always, she amazed me with her competence at work.

“Oh,” she says, surprised at my tone, and my regard for her in my voice.

“I don’t want to suffocate you, Ana. I don’t want to put you in a gilded cage. Well...” I say pausing. The fact is I do. Part of me anyway. I want to protect her from the world, shield her from all the bad it can put in her way. But that wouldn't allow her natural growth as a person. So, I keep that part of me in check. “Well, the rational part of me doesn’t’,” I say. How can I express her what she really means to me? I stroke my chin thoughtfully. Then I remember what I have decided in London when we were visiting Jane Austen’s house. Of course!

“So one of the reasons I’m here... apart from dealing with my errant wife,” I say with narrowed eyes, “ is to discuss what I am going to do with this company.” She scowls at me as she crosses her arms.

“What are your plans?” she asks acerbically, tilting her head to one side, mirroring my action. Baby, you are completely mine, and you don’t even know that! Even your body language indicates that you are mine! A small smile creeps up on my lips.

“I’m renaming the company to Grey Publishing.” She is shocked and taken aback. Rebranding all the way, darling! My company, my wife, so no one ever thinks she is remotely available. She’s so completely taken aback; her mouth drops open, wide.

“This is my wedding present to you.”

She closes her mouth, opens again to form any sentence, a word, but nothing comes out as if she has just forgotten how to speak.

“So, do I need to change the name to Steele Publishing?” I say in a completely serious expression.

“Christian. You gave me a watch... I can’t run a business,” she says. I frown. A watch is hardly a present. I want to give her the opportunity to fulfill her dreams. She said this is her dream job. Why leave it at that? She can do so much more. I tilt my head to one side. “I ran my own business from the age of twenty-one.”

This is something she can do, and I’m here to guide her, teach her, coach her in helping her achieve her goals. I’ve made a promise to do just that.

“But you’re... you! Control freak and whiz kid extraordinaire. Jeez Christian, you majored in economics at Harvard before you dropped out. At least you have some idea. I sold paint and cable ties for three years on a part time basis, for heaven’s sake! I’ve seen so little of the world and I know next to nothing!” she says, her anxiety shooting through the roof. She doesn’t realize her own talents and see her the way I do. She can do anything she sets her mind to if she’s given the opportunity, and I want to provide her that opportunity. Is that so horrible?

“You’re also the most well-read person I know,” I rebuttal. “You love a good book. You couldn't leave your job while we were on our honeymoon. You read how many manuscripts? Four?” I ask.

“Five,” she whispers.

“And you wrote full reports on all of them. You’re a very bright woman, Anastasia. I’m sure you’ll manage.” I’m more than sure; I’m certain.

“Are you crazy?” she shouts.

“Crazy for you,” I whisper, and it’s the plain truth. Everything in my world revolves around her. She’s half of my soul. There’s not an hour goes by I don’t think of her. Every decision I make has her well-being in my mind. She’s my life! Does she not understand that simple truth? She snorts in my response. I narrow my eyes. Are my feelings for her something to mock?

“You’ll be a laughing stock. Buying a company for the little woman who has only had a full time job for a few months of her adult life,” she says. I never base my decisions on what others may think of it. I simply don’t give a fuck!

“Do you think I give a fuck what people think? Besides, you won’t be on your own,” I reply.

She looks at me like I’m two dimes short of a Dollar. “Christian, I...” she says and unable to complete her sentence. She once again puts her head into her hands, and finally starts laughing. She finally manages to look up, staring at my widened, shocked eyes.

“Something amusing you, Miss Steele?” I ask sardonically.

“Yes. You,” she replies unashamed. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone. I’m further surprised, but, also diverted. Laughing at me would be right up with rolling eyes requiring the same punishment. “Laughing at your husband? That will never do. And you’re biting your lip,” I say with my gaze darkening, focusing on her licentiously. My body language is seductive, desirous and carnal, and she knows it.

“Don’t even think about it!” she warns.

“Think about what, Anastasia?” I ask in a caressing voice.

“I know that look. We’re at work.” Like that would stop me. She’s my wife, working for a company I own, where she is refusing to take my last name. I don’t see why I couldn't declare my territory right here, right now? I lean forward in my seat, my gaze in on her, unblinking, wanton, desirous and craving her. “We are in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a lockable door,” I  reply.

“Gross moral turpitude,” she hisses, each word staccato.

“Not with your husband.”

“With my boss’s boss’s boss,” she snaps.

“You’re my wife,” I snap back. It’s each other’s right.

“Christian, no. I mean it. You can fuck me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!”

Her declaration surprises me. I’m interested. It’s negotiable.

“Seven shades of Sunday?” I arch my eyebrows. “I may hold you to that, Miss Steele.”

“Oh, stop with the Miss Steele!” she snaps at me and slams her hands on the desk startling us both.

“For heaven’s sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I’ll change my name!” She agrees? Wow! My jaw drops, and I take a sharp breath in. Finally the full impact of her words sink in, and I grin as wide as possible.

“Good,” I say clapping my hands, and I stand up. My business here is done.

“Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Grey,” I say. She blinks, completely surprised.

“But...” she stammers.

“But what, Mrs. Grey?” I ask. She shakes her head as she sags into her chair. “Just go.”

“I intend to. I’ll see you this evening, and I’m looking forward to seven shades of Sunday.” She just scowls in response.

“Oh, and I have a stack of business related social engagements coming up, and I’d like you to accompany me.” She just gapes at me, unable to say anything.

“I’ll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule from now on.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, puzzled, confused and stunned. I lean over her desk, and get as close to her as possible without touching her.

“Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey,” and then I lean in the last inch and plant a soft kiss on her lips. “Laters, baby,” I murmur. I stand up, and wink at my wife, and leave her office with a spring in my step.

____________________________________________________________________________

From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: NOT AN ASSET!
Date: August 22, 2011 14:22
To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.

Yours

Anastasia Grey 

Commissioning Editor, SIP

____________________________________________________________________________
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday
Date: August 22, 2011 14:33
To: Anastasia Steele

My Dear Mrs. Grey (emphasis on My)

What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.
And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.

As ever, you make my day.

Christian Grey
CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

____________________________________________________________________________
She doesn’t respond to my message increasing my worry. She's still mad. When I arrive at Flynn’s office, I’m a nervous wreck once again.

“Hello Christian!” he says extending his hand as his older receptionist walks me into his office. I’m in my CEO mode. I tend to don that persona when I want to cover up all my vulnerabilities, even to Flynn and he’s the only other person I really open up. He regards me carefully.

“John,” I reply with a curt nod. We shake hands, and he indicates the leather chair for me to sit. I feel like I am bringing a business proposition to my shrink like I did to my wife, although it was anything but. I don’t know how to deal with these foreign emotions I’ve never felt before. I take in a deep breath, and don’t say anything.

“Christian, you seem to have a topic in mind you wish to discuss with me. Please, what’s troubling you?” he asks.

I regard him for a minute silently. “Anastasia didn't want to change her name at work. She wouldn't even tell me about it. I had to discover it myself when I sent her an e-mail this morning. It bounced back. When I sent her the message in her maiden name, it went through. She didn't want to take my last name at work!” I blurt out. He nods as if this is no big deal but doesn’t pass judgment and encourages me to elaborate.

“I had to go to her work to convince her otherwise. I panicked. Freaked out, would be a better expression... I felt that she wanted to distance herself from me, and I discovered that it wasn’t far from the truth. She didn't want to be associated with me at her work, and yet, I want her to declare everyone that she’s my wife, that she’s with me!” I say fervently.

“Would you say that you had low self-confidence and you were doubting yourself when she is concerned? Did you examine this from her point of view? Her decision may not be entirely about you, but about Anastasia exerting her personal freedom at work.”

“She said that, but it’s not entirely true! She indicated herself that she wanted to distance herself from me at work. What does that mean, John?”

“Christian, would you say that you are emotionally dependent on Anastasia?” I snort in response.

“My entire universe is singularly centered on her. The simple truth is John, I can’t exist without her. It’s not an emotional dependency, it’s finding my center, and she is it.”

“That is co-dependency. You need to learn to exist as yourself, then as her partner, her husband.”

“That’s a lot bull shit, John!” I say as anger surging through me.

“Christian, I have noticed significant changes in you since Anastasia entered into your life. All positive changes. You are genuinely happy. I know you both love each other. But, an integral part of a healthy relationship is the give and take; compromises. We all insert our independence time to time, even in our marriages. That doesn’t mean the other person is refusing us. Just exercising their personal freedom.”

“I don’t mind her exercising her personal freedom, John! I’m not limiting her! In fact, I want to empower her, give her the world, make all of her heart’s desires available to her. I want to protect her, and I want the world to know that she is my wife!”

“Are you worried that someone might not think she’s your wife?”

“Your wife carries your last name. Yes, you find it natural part of your marriage. Everyone knows that she’s Mrs. Flynn. Not just because she is wearing your wedding ring or that they may see her in your arm someplace, but she’s also declared as Mrs. Flynn. Why can’t I expect that from my wife? What is terrible for the world to know that she belongs to me? We belong to each other?”

“But Christian, this isn't about my wife. She decided that she wants to have my name. Should she wished that she wanted to keep her maiden name, that would have been her choice, and it wouldn't change the fact that she is still my wife. It’s just a name.”

“It’s not just the name; it’s what it represents. Do you have any priceless possessions John? A possession, an article, an item, an individual so valuable that you don’t want anyone to put their hands on, or touch, something so rare, so precious that you want the entire world to know it’s yours? Do you think that Musée du Louvre would have allowed anyone to say that Mona Lisa painting doesn’t belong to them or would the British Museum of Art would let anyone take possession of the Rosetta Stone? And those are just artifacts. They may be priceless in their own right, but similar ones exist in the world. Yet, there is no one comparable to Anastasia. She’s my life. She is half of my soul, John! For her to deny me gifting my last name to her because she doesn’t want others to know it is abhorrent.”

“Perhaps her co-workers are intimidated with whom she is married to, and she may want to appease some of the tension that arises from you being the owner of the company she is working for.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what others think! I only care about what she thinks! The flaw in your argument is that you are asking her to put precedence of feeling of others before her husband’s. I’m the one she’s married! How would she feel that I hid that fact that I married her from my co-workers? I love her! I want the whole world to know that. And you know me John; I’m not the kind of guy who declares love and attention in public. But with her, it’s different. My love is my biggest default gift to her. I felt turned down! Like she handed my heart in my hand in order to protect others’ feelings! Those others are of no consequence or have any sort of strong or permanent relationship with her! Given that, do you know how much it devalues me? And I'm her husband! Would you value the feelings of your co-workers over the feelings of your wife? Who would come first for you, John? Am I wrong to express my desires and wishes of my own wife? Aren't marriages supposed to have an in-depth relationship where we pledge the rest of our lives to each other? Is it so unreasonable, so horrible for me to want share my last name with my own wife?”

John finally sits aback, and regards me. His expression is unreadable.

“You have put a lot of thought in that Christian. What you request is not unreasonable. But for Anastasia denying that request isn't also a sign of her turning your love down. She may have her own explanations and I can’t speak for her. But what I can advise you is that you need to listen to her. Really listen to her reasoning. Having her own last name isn't going to take away from her love.”

“It’s non-negotiable John. Hard limit!”

“Perhaps it ought to be Anastasia you’re talking to about this. You've set your limits, and have legitimate worries. I’m sure Anastasia has worries that are legitimate as well. Listen to her. Just listen... We can’t negotiate until we allow the other person express themselves. Let her express herself, and convey your worries and concerns. She’s a reasonable, sane, and a remarkably intelligent woman who loves you. Anyone can see that!” he says and my eyes go wide. He stepped on my main worry that I haven’t voiced. I feel completely vulnerable. “This is but a minor roadblock which has to be resolved by talking, and not sexing. You can’t deploy your usual coping mechanism.”

“She’s conceded to take my name at work, but she’s mad at me,” I blurt out. He smiles.

“Don’t worry. It’s completely normal. Wives tend to get mad at their husbands even if they are insanely in love with them.” I nod, uncertain.

When I leave Flynn’s office still unable to calm down as Anastasia hasn't responded my e-mail, Ryan drives me back to SIP to pick Anastasia up from work. She approaches from the double doors, and Sawyer opens the door for her. She enters into the SUV. I feel like a cornered predator.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

“Hi,” I reply warily.

“Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” she asks sweetly. She’s being sarcastic, but it makes me smile.

“Only Flynn’s,” I respond.

“Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered,” she hissed at me. She’s still boiling mad!

“You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey,” I say and she glares ahead into the back of Ryan and Sawyer’s heads in the front seat. I shift and turn sideways to face her.

“Hey,” I say unable to stand the physical and emotional distance between us. I reach for her hand. She’s just getting angrier. I hold her hand only to have her snatch it away from me, irritably.

“You’re mad at me?” I whisper. I’m out of my element.

“Yes! What gave it away?” she hisses again. She folds her arms on her chest, shutting me down with her physical gesture, then gazes out the window. I shift again beside her, willing her to look at me, but she stubbornly avoids my gaze. Boiling mad! On the drive all the way to Escala, she doesn’t look at me, and as soon as we reach the building, she breaks the protocol, and leaps out of the car with her case, stomping into the building. Ryan doubles after her into the building, and I dash immediately to catch up. When Ryan catches up with her, she naps at him.

“What?” He goes crimson.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mutters. I come and stand beside her waiting for the elevator, and Ryan feels a relief of further avoiding her wrath or the daggers shooting from her eyes. If only looks could kill, we’d have a murder scene.

“So it’s not just me you’re mat at?” I murmur sardonically. She glares up at me, and the intensity of her ferocity is now directed at me, and it’s a sight to behold.

“Are you laughing at me?” she narrows her eyes.

“I wouldn't dare,” I say holding my hands up in a universal gesture of peace, like she’s holding me hostage with her gaze.

“You need a haircut,” she mutters under her breath. Then the blessed elevator comes and opens its doors.

“Do I?” I ask brushing my hair off my forehead.

“Yes,” she says as she enters the code to the penthouse.

“So, you’re talking to me now?” I ask.

“Barely.”

“What exactly are you made about? I need an indication,” I ask tentatively.

She turns and gapes at me.

“Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.” Her words are like a slap to my face. I take a step back, completely alarmed. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office,” I mutter, bewildered.

“Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all,” she responds. So my fears were not unfounded. She doesn’t want to take my name. She wants to be distant from me. Why? Am I so repulsive? When the elevator doors open, she storms out again. Taylor is standing in the hallway waiting for us. When he sees the wrath of my wife storming out, he quickly steps back and pushes down whatever greeting he was going to bestow.

“Hi, Taylor,” she mutter.

“Mrs. Grey,” he says in greeting her in as few words as possible.

She drops her briefcase in the hallway, and head into the great room. Gail is in the kitchen cooking something.

“Good evening, Mrs. Grey,” she greets her.

“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” Anastasia mutters again. She makes her way to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine. I follow her into the kitchen, my eyes not leaving her. Is this it? Will she say a few words and end us? All because I want her to have my last name? Is that the bottom value of our relationship? I say nothing. Just watch her like a hawk. I take my jacket off, and place it on the counter.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks sweetly. That’s the time when the wife wants to shoot you down.

“No thanks,” I reply, my eyes not leaving her. I don’t know what to do, or how to deal with this. I slowly loosen my tie, then remove it, finally opening up the top button of my shirt. She pours herself a large glass of wine, as I run an exasperated hand through my hair. Gail, realizing the tension between us, quickly leaves the kitchen leaving us alone. Anastasia takes a large gulp of wine.

“Stop this,” I whisper, lost, helpless, drowning. I take two steps and close the gap between us, and stand right in front of her. I tentatively extend a hand and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and caress her earlobe with my fingertips, making some sort of physical connection.

I Hate You Then I Love You - Pavarotti & Celine Dion

“Talk to me,” I murmur. I will beg if she wants to.

“What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”

“Yes, I do. You’re one of the few people I do listen to.”

She says nothing. Just takes another large gulp of her wine.

“Is this about your name?” I ask.

“Yes and no. It’s how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you,” she says glaring up at me. My brows are furrowed. Flynn’s words come back to me. Talk to her. Listen to her... Really listen to her...

“Ana, you know I have... issues. It’s hard for me to let go where you’re concerned. You know that,” I say in a pleading tone.

“But I’m not a child, and I’m not an asset.”

“I know,” I say sighing.

“Then stop treating me as though I am,” she whispers. I brush her cheek with the back of my fingers, then I run my thumb across her bottom lip.

“Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,” I whisper. How can I begin to tell her what she means to me? How my existence is dependent on hers. I feel that everything I worked for, was for the moment I found her. Everything makes sense with her. My life means something, my existence is not irrelevant. I have a greater purpose: to love and protect her.

“I’m nether of those things, Christian. I’m your wife. If you were to hurt that I wasn’t going to take your name, you should have said.”

“Hurt?” I ask frowning. I want to resolve this problem, but we also have to eat and meet the architect. I look down at my watch. “The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat,” I remind her. She scowls at me.

“This discussion isn't finished,” she mutters.

“What else is there to discuss?”

“You could sell the company?” she blurts out. Why would I want to do that?

I snort. “Sell it?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’d find a buyer in today’s market?”

“How much did it cost you?” she inquires.

“It was relatively cheap,” I say in a guarded tone. Cheap compared to her value to me. I paid the top price to acquire a company that wasn’t on sale.

“So if it folds?”

I smirk. I’d never let that happen. “We’ll survive. But I won’t let it fold, Anastasia. Not while you’re there.”

“And if I leave?” What the fuck!

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Something else.”

“ You've already said this is your dream job. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I promised before God, Reverend Walsh, and a congregation of our nearest and dearest to cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at my side.”

“Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair.” Said the wife who quoted hers to get her way...

“I’ve never promised to play fair where you’re concerned. Besides, you've wielded your vows at me like a weapon before.” She scowls at me again knowing the truth in what I say.

“Anastasia, if you’re still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later,” I say in a low, sensual, longing voice. Fight me in bed. Deny me orgasm, frustrate me there. I don’t know how to deal with this emotional overflow! She’s confused. I smile at her.

“Seven shades of Sunday,” I whisper in her ear. “Looking forward to it.”

“Gail!” I call Mrs.  Jones. She quickly appears.

“Mr. Grey?”

“We’d like to eat now, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

I can’t take my eyes off my wife, who is still scowling, and angry. She says nothing, and just takes a sip of her wine.

“I think I’ll join you in a glass,” I say, running a hand through my hair again.

She says nothing during the course of the dinner. She doesn’t finish her fettuccine either. “You’re not going to finish?” I ask.

“No,” she replies and takes our plates to clear them. “Gia will be with us shortly,” she mutters. I’m not happy that she hasn't eaten, not happy that we haven’t resolved our problems, and on top, Gia Matteo who is a sexual predator is coming over to discuss our house plans. What a fucking great evening! Anastasia and Gail exchanges a small conversation, but I’m not in the mind to listen.

“I’m going to make a couple of calls,” I say reluctantly. I readjusted my entire afternoon schedule, and haven’t had a chance to speak to Barney or Welch who is supposed to be meeting with Pella before I meet him tomorrow. I can’t focus.

I dial Welch first.

“Mr. Grey?” he answers.

“How did the meeting go?”

“In progress sir...”

“Call me when it’s completed then,” I say, and hang up.

Then I dial Barney.

“Barney’s speaking.”

“Have you managed to compile a report?”

“Yes sir, I’ve completed the reports, but I’m still trying to clear the video feed from the Audi. Since that task hasn't been completed, I didn't want to submit an incomplete report. I should be done in the next few minutes, sir.”

“Okay,” I say and hang up.

I take the house plans with me and turn the music on. As I start spreading the house plans on the dining table, Anastasia enters into the great room. She looks...different. She has two of her top buttons of her sleeveless blouse open, her cleavage is prominently displayed. Her hair is rearranged, her grey pencil skirt hugging her curves at all the right places. She’s in her high heels.

“Mrs. Grey,” I say warmly greeting her.

“What’s this?” she asks indicating the museum.

““Fauré’s Requiem. You look different,” I say, completely taken by her.

Fauré’s Requiem

“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”

“It’s very calming, relaxing,” I say raising an eyebrow. I want to calm her down, as well as calm down the storms brewing inside me. “Have you done something to your hair?”

“Brushed it,” she mutters. Leaving the plans on the table, I saunter towards my wife, in time with music.

“Dance with me?” I murmur.

“To this? It’s a requiem.”

“Yes,” I say pulling her into my embrace, burying my nose into her hair, and we start swaying side to side. She finally wraps her arms around me.

“I hate fighting with you,” I say hating the distance that’s been created during the day.

“Well, stop being such an arse,” making me chuckle.

“Arse?” I ask as I tighten my hold on her.

“Ass.”

“I prefer arse.”

“You should. It suits you.” I laugh once more, and kiss the top of her head.

“A requiem?” she murmurs again, shocked.

I shrug. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.”

Then we hear Taylor’s discreet cough, and I release Anastasia.

“Miss Matteo is here,” he says.

“Show her in,” I say, and take my wife’s hand to show a unified front as Gia Matteo enters the room.