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"You think?" Christian asks, surprised.

"Yes, sir. I heard Mrs. Grey. I'm running face recognition software on all the digitized CCTV footage right now. See where else this asshole -- I'm sorry ma'am -- this man has been within the organization."

"Barney, are you getting this?" Christian puts the phone down on his desk and switches to hands-free. "You seem to have studied your ex-boss in some detail, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs, sounding none too pleased. I scowl at him, but I'm saved by Barney.

"Why would he do this?" I ask Christian.

"It's the line of his jaw." I point at the screen. "And the earrings and the shape of his shoulders. He's the right build, too. He must be wearing a wig -- or he's cut and dyed his hair."

He shrugs. "Revenge, perhaps. I don't know. You can't fathom why some people behave the way they do. I'm just angry that you ever worked so closely with him." Christian's mouth presses into a hard, thin line and he encircles my waist with his arm.

I glance anxiously at Christian, who ignores Barney's expletive. He's studying the CCTV picture closely.

"Good. Let me know where else that fucker has been in my building. And check this image against the one from his SIP personnel file." Christian gazes at me skeptically. "I want to be sure we have a match."

"What sort of things? About your lifestyle?"

"Me." He sighs.

"Sure will. I'm also going to scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his movements."

"Tell me."

Christian nods and gives me a smug smile.

"We have the contents of his hard drive, too, sir," Barney adds.

"Was it about you, or me?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

Christian's face hardens and he shakes his head. "Nothing much," he says, tight-lipped, his smile forgotten.

"Alert Welch."

"Barney can do all this?" I whisper.

"Sir."

"Yes, I remember. Do you have an address for Mr. Hyde?" Christian says sharply.

"No."

"Check what vehicle he owns."

"What was on his hard drive?" I whisper.

Christian shakes his head and puts his index finger against my lips to silence me. I scowl at him. But he narrows his eyes, and it's a clear warning that I should hold my tongue.

"It's a 2006 Camaro. I'll send the license details to Welch, too," Barney says excitedly from the phone.

"Well done, Mrs. Grey." He smiles, his earlier rancor forgotten. To Barney he says, "Let me know when you've tracked all his movements at HQ. Also check out any other GEH property he may have had access to, and let the security teams know so they can make another sweep of all those buildings."

"I'll make you something." I giggle.

"Well -- food actually."

"Very," he says quietly, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.

"I am."

"Well, Mrs. Grey, it seems that you are not only decorative, but useful, too." Christian's eyes light up with wicked amusement. I know he's teasing.

"Decorative?" I scoff, teasing him back.

I grin. See? I can be useful. Christian rubs his hand down my back.

He grins and kisses me more forcefully, winding my braid around his wrist and wrapping his arms around me. When we come up for air, my heart is racing.

"You're much more decorative than I am, Mr. Grey."

"Hungry?" he asks.

"No."

"Sir."

"What for?"

"Thanks, Barney." Christian hangs up.

"Already done, sir, and Mrs. Grey is correct. This is Jack Hyde."

She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.

"Mrs. Grey. Are you ready for something to eat?"

"Always, Mr. Grey… Sir."

"Hello, Mrs. Jones."

He narrows his eyes. "Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?"

"Of me offering you food?"

"Something light. Surprise me," he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.

"I'll see what I can do." I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.

"I love that sound."

"Your giggling." He kisses my hair, then I stand.

He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. "Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?"

"You're going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?"

"So what would you like to eat, Sir?" I ask sweetly.

"I know." I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean down and kiss him. "That's one of the things I love about you. But stow your twitching palm -- you're hungry."

"Um…"

He smiles a sphinxlike smile. "I can still put you over my knee," he murmurs seductively.

"I was going to make subs for Mr. Grey and me."

"What are you cooking?"

"I know. But I'd like to do this."

She pauses for a heartbeat. "Sure," she says. "Mr. Grey likes French bread -- there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I'd be happy to make it for you, ma'am."

"I understand. I'll give you some room."

"This is a Bolognese sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I'll freeze it." She smiles warmly and turns the heat right down.

"Mrs. Grey, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as it's on French bread, he'll eat it." We grin at each other.

"Um -- so what does Christian like in a, um… sub?" I frown, struck by what I've just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?

"Okay, thank you." I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size in Ziploc bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them in the microwave, and set it to defrost.

Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for ingredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones and I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for Christian on the weekends. Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the week -- the last thing I'll want to do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm… a bit like Christian's routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn't overthink this. I find some ham in the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.

As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, Christian emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts them on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck.

"No! Not yet!"

"What are you making? Looks good." He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it's to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine.

Oh… share?

"Mrs. Grey, you wound me." He clutches his side as if in pain.

I poke him with my elbow.

"Sure, yes. Eventually. But I'm not ready to share you yet." He kisses my neck again.

"Barefoot and in the kitchen," he murmurs.

"You do want kids though, don't you?"

"Subs." I smirk, recovering my sense of humor.

He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. "My favorite."

He relaxes. "On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey."

"Wimp," I mutter disapprovingly.

He stills, his whole body tensing against me. "Not yet," he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.

"Shouldn't that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?" I smirk.

Christian's brow furrows as if this is anathema to him.

"Please."

I sigh. "I don't want to take all the character out of the house."

"Would you like a glass of wine?" he asks.

"But?" Christian prompts.

"Character?"

"I'll be happy wherever you are. It's that simple, Ana." His gaze holds mine. He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really does love me.

"I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but…"

"Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but… well… I fell in love with the house as it is… warts and all."

Christian spreads GIA's plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spectacular ideas.

"I kind of like it the way it is," I whisper. Is this going to make him mad?

He regards me steadily. "I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It's yours."

"I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too."

"Wimp?" he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. "Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I'll show you how wimpy I can be." He slaps me playfully once more and goes to the fridge.

"I'm cool with those."

"Do you?" he replies, surprised and amused at once.

Christian grins. "Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?"

I shrug. "Um… if you want."

"Good."

He regards me for a moment. "Let's leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home."

Okay… I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. "Do you want to put in a playroom?" I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask. Christian's eyebrows shoot up.

He grins. "There's something I want to discuss." Christian points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in closets.

"Besides, we can improvise."

"Well"-- I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throat --"I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically."

I'm surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he's right… although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.

"I like improvising," I whisper.

"Not if you don't want me to." He smiles. "What would you like to do?"

"We could watch TV." I don't want to read, and I don't want to go to bed… yet.

We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and Christian usually reads a book. He's not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He switches on the flat-screen television with the remote and flicks mindlessly through the channels.

"Any specific drivel you want to see?"

"Are you going back to work?" I ask as Christian rolls up the plans.

He whips his face to mine. "Make out?" He gazes at me as if I've grown two heads. He stops the endless flicking, leaving the TV on an overlit Spanish soap opera.

"Okay," Christian agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV room.

"You don't like TV much, do you?" I mutter sardonically.

When we finish, It's nine thirty in the evening.

He shakes his head. "Waste of time. But I'll watch something with you."

"I thought we could make out."

"We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the TV?" I ask, shy and teasing at the same time.

I giggle. "Well, the first time…"

"I want to know. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp."

Oh no. I do not want to have this discussion.

"The first time! There's more than one fucker?" He growls.

"Christian?"

"What! Who with?"

He snorts. "Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out was not one of them." He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes with amused curiosity. "Have you?"

"No."

"Not even with Mrs. Robinson?"

I flush. "Of course." Well, kind of…

"Tell me," he persists.

"Never?"

I gaze down at my knotted fingers. He gently covers my hands with one of his. When I glance up at him, he's smiling at me.

"We could go to bed and make out."

"I've never done that," he says quietly.

He shrugs and shakes his head. Pressing the remote again, he flicks through another few channels before settling on an old episode of The X-Files.

"Yes." Why is he so horrified?

"And what's he doing now?"

"I was briefly in Texas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics."

"Fifteen."

I gaze into patient gray eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Is this going to make him mad, or does he genuinely want to know? I don't want him sulking… he's impossible when he's sulking.

He frowns briefly, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at me as if seeing me in a completely different light. He shrugs. "I just am. I mean -- given your lack of experience."

"Christian!" I scold -- and suddenly he grabs my knees, then my ankles, and tips me up so I fall back onto the couch. He slides smoothly on top of me, trapping me beneath him, one leg between mine. It's so sudden that I cry out in surprise. He grabs my hands and raises them above my head.

He nods slowly once, and his lips twitch with an amused, arrogant smile.

"You really want me to tell you?"

"What base did he get to?"

"You have." He grins. "Tell me. I want to know."

"I don't know."

"How old were you?"

I giggle again. "Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?"

I flush. "I've certainly made up for that since I met you."

"Did he do this? Touch you like this?" His thumb skims over my nipple, through my camisole, softly, repeatedly, and it hardens under his expert touch.

"Yes," I murmur against his lips. He releases one of his hands so that he can clasp my chin and hold me still while his tongue invades my mouth, and I surrender to his ardent kissing.

Mulder blurts from the television something about the FBI's most unwanted.

Releasing my chin, he runs his hand down over my body and back up to my breast.

"No… nothing like that," I manage as all the blood in my body heads south.

"No," I breathe.

"Did he get to second base?" he murmurs in my ear. His hand moves down across my ribs, past my waist to my hip. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and gently tugs.

"So, this Bradley -- did he get to first base?" he murmurs, running his nose down the length of mine. He plants soft kisses at the corner of my mouth.

"No." I writhe beneath him.

"Like this?" Christian breathes when he comes up for air.

Christian pauses, leans up, and presses "mute" on the remote. He gazes down at me.

"What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?"

His eyes are smoldering hot… angry? Turned on? It's difficult to say which. He shifts to my side and slides his hand beneath my sweatpants.

"Good." His hand cups my sex. "No underwear, Mrs. Grey. I approve." He kisses me again as his fingers weave more magic, his thumb skimming over my clitoris, tantalizing me, as he pushes his index finger inside me with exquisite slowness.

"No," I whisper, trapped in his carnal gaze. Christian smiles wickedly.

"We're supposed to be making out." I groan.

"No. No sex."

"No sex, huh?" He withdraws his hand from my sweatpants. "Here." He traces my lips with his index finger, and I taste my slick saltiness. He pushes his finger into my mouth, mirroring what he was doing a moment earlier. Then he shifts so he's between my legs, and his erection pushes against me. He thrusts, once, twice, and again. I gasp as the material of my sweatpants rubs in just the right way. He pushes once more, grinding into me.

Christian stills. "I thought we were?"

"What?"

"No sex…"

"Do you like me touching you?" I whisper.

"Yes." I moan.

"This what you want?" he murmurs and moves his hips rhythmically, rocking against me.

"Ah…"

His hand moves back to concentrate on my nipple once more and his teeth scrape along my jaw. "Do you know how hot you are, Ana?" His voice is hoarse as he rocks harder against me. I open my mouth to articulate a response and fail miserably, groaning loudly. He captures my mouth once more, tugging at my bottom lip with his teeth before plunging his tongue into my mouth again. He releases my other wrist and my hands travel greedily up his shoulders and into his hair as he kisses me. When I pull on his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine.

His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn't understand the question. He stops grinding against me. "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." His voice hums with passionate sincerity.

Holy cow…

He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I'm naked beneath it. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind.

"I love you, Mrs. Grey," he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself around him, never wanting to let him go.

"I want you," he murmurs, and it's a green light to my libido. My fingers move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot and high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time.

"Ah…" I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands.

"Touch me," he breathes.

Oh my… Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply and his pupils dilate, but it's not with fear. It's a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculptured lines of sinew and muscle. Whoa… he's in good shape.

"Home run," he whispers, and swiftly he fills me.

"It's been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and psycho ex-bosses notwithstanding. Like being in our own private bubble," I mutter dreamily.

"Back to reality tomorrow," I murmur, trying to keep the melancholy from my voice.

"You're so young." Christian smiles fondly. "I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey."

"Hmm," Christian hums deep in his throat. "I'm not sure I'm ready to share you with the rest of the world yet."

"You know, we completely bypassed third base." My fingers trace the line of his pectoral muscles.

"When I was a kid."

"Before my time."

I lay sprawled on his chest. We're on the floor of the TV room.

"You liked that show?" I ask.

"Likewise, Mr. Grey." I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The X-Files finish and the commercials come on.

He laughs. "Next time." He kisses the top of my head.

I look up to stare at the television screen, where the end credits for The X-Files play. Christian reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on.

"You?" he asks.

Oh… Christian as a kid… kickboxing and X Files and no touching.

"Okay," I mutter, placating him. I don't want to fight. "Did Ryan catch up with the woman in the Dodge?"

"Sawyer saw 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." The disgust in Christian's voice is palpable.

He stiffens immediately. Oh shit.

"Oh?" I look up again.

"Enough!" Christian is suddenly curt. "This is not up for discussion, Anastasia. It's a fact, and they won't let it happen again."

Christian sighs and runs his other hand through his hair. "Security will be tight --" I put my finger over his lips. I don't want to hear this lecture again.

"No. And I'm not convinced it was a woman."

He gazes at me levelly. "They should never have let you get so far in front. They know that."

I blush guiltily and resume my position, resting on his chest. It was my fault. I wanted to get away from them.

"I know. I'll be good. I promise." Which reminds me… I shift, propping myself up on my elbows to see him better. "Why were you shouting at Sawyer?"

"That wasn't Sawyer's fault."

Anastasia! I am Anastasia when I am in trouble just like at home with my mother.

"That wasn't --"

"Because we were followed."

"I know," I whisper. "I feel the same about you." I shiver at the thought.

"Come. You're getting cold," he says, sitting up. "Let's go to bed. We can cover third base there." He smiles a lascivious smile, as mercurial as ever, passionate, angry, anxious, sexy -- my Fifty Shades. I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet, and without a stitch on, I follow him through the great room to the bedroom.

The following morning, Christian squeezes my hand as we pull up outside SIP. He looks very much the powerful executive in his dark navy suit and matching tie, and I smile. He's not been this smart since the ballet in Monte Carlo.

I don't know what to make of this news. Christian runs his hand down my naked back, distracting me.

"You know you don't have to do this?" Christian murmurs. I am tempted to roll my eyes at him.

"If anything happened to you…," he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

"But I want to," I continue. "You know this." I lean up and kiss him. His frown doesn't disappear. "What's wrong?"

"I know," I whisper, not wanting Sawyer and Ryan to overhear me from the front of the Audi. He frowns and I smile.

"The best, thank you. How's it been here?"

He glances uncertainly at Ryan as Sawyer climbs out of the car. "I'll miss having you to myself."

"You look wonderful. Good honeymoon?"

Sawyer opens the door. I squeeze Christian's hand once more before I climb out onto the sidewalk. As I head into the building, I give him a little wave. Sawyer holds open the door and follows me in.

"Hi, Ana." Claire smiles from behind the reception desk.

Hannah is my assistant. She is tall, slim, and ruthlessly efficient to the point that sometimes I find her a little intimidating. But she's sweet to me, in spite of the fact that she's a couple of years older. She has my latte waiting -- the only coffee I let her get for me.

I reach up to caress his face. "Me, too." I kiss him. "It was a wonderful honeymoon. Thank you."

"Go to work, Mrs. Grey."

"Old man Roach is the same, but security has been stepped up and our server room is being overhauled. But Hannah will tell you."

Sure she will. I give Claire a friendly smile and head to my office.

"You, too, Mr. Grey."

"Claire, hello." I smile back.

"Fantastic. Here -- for you." I pop the small bottle of perfume I bought for her onto her desk, and she claps her hands with glee.

"Come in."

Elizabeth looks around the door. "Hi, Ana. I just wanted to say welcome back."

Just before ten there's a timid tap on my door.

"Okay," I murmur, and she shuts the door behind her. I frown at the closed door. What was that about? I shrug it off. My e-mail pings -- it's a message from Christian.

"Good. Thank you. And thanks for the coffee." Wandering into my office, I rest my briefcase on my desk and gaze at the piled up letters. I have a lot to do.

"Ana, how was your honeymoon?"

"Oh, thank you!" she says enthusiastically. "Your urgent correspondence is on your desk, and Roach would like to see you at ten. That's all I have to report for now."

"Hey. I have to say, reading through all this correspondence, I wish I was back in the South of France."

Elizabeth laughs, but her laughter is off, forced, and I cock my head to one side and gaze at her like Christian does to me.

"Hi, Hannah," I say warmly.

"Glad you're back safely," she says. "I'll see you in a few minutes at the meeting with Roach."

Christian Grey

From: Christian Grey

Date: August 22 2011 09:58

Date: August 22 2011 09:56

Anastasia Steele

Have a great first day back.

Love covering all the bases with you.

Miss our bubble, too…

Date: August 22 2011 09:32

I'll explain this evening.

To: Christian Grey

====================

Shit. I hit reply immediately.

Subject: Errant Wives

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

From: Anastasia Steele

PS: Thought I had to use my BlackBerry?

This is going to be such a fight. I can feel it. Sighing, I gather up my papers for the meeting.

And it's because you haven't changed your name.

I sent the e-mail below and it bounced.

From: Christian Grey

Mrs. Grey

To: Anastasia Steele

====================

====================

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

Editor, SIP

I am all for a baseball metaphor with you, Mr. Grey.

Wife

I am going in to a meeting now.

Something you want to tell me?

Attachment:

I want to keep my name here.

Husband

x

FW Subject: Bubble

Subject: Don't Burst the Bubble

Christian Grey

To: Anastasia Grey

Miss our bubble already.

When I sit down at my desk, I quickly check my e-mails. Nothing from Christian. I check my BlackBerry… Still nothing. Good. At least there's been no adverse reaction to my e-mail. Perhaps we'll discuss this tonight per my request. I find that hard to believe, but ignoring my uneasy feeling, I open the marketing plan I was given at the meeting.

The meeting lasts for two hours. All the editors are there, plus Roach and Elizabeth. We discuss personnel, strategy, marketing, security, and year-end. As the meeting progresses, I grow more and more uncomfortable. There's a subtle change in how my colleagues are treating me -- a distance and deference that wasn't there before I left for my honeymoon. And from Courtney, who heads up the nonfiction division, there's downright hostility. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but it goes some way to explaining Elizabeth's odd greeting this morning.

My mind drifts back to the yacht, then to the playroom, then to the R8 speeding away from the mystery Dodge on I-5. Perhaps Christian's right… perhaps I can't do this anymore. The thought is depressing -- this is all I've ever wanted to do. If I can't do this, what will I do? As I walk back to my office, I try to dismiss these dark thoughts.

As is our ritual on a Monday, Hannah comes into my office with a plate for my packed lunch courtesy of Mrs. Jones, and we sit and eat our lunches together, discussing what we want to achieve during the week. She brings me up to date with the office gossip, too, which -- considering I've been away for three weeks -- is sorely lacking. As we're chatting, there's a knock on the door.

Roach opens the door, and standing beside him is Christian. I'm momentarily struck dumb. Christian shoots me a blazing look and stalks in, before smiling politely at Hannah.

"Come in."

"Hello, you must be Hannah. I'm Christian Grey," he says. Hannah scrambles to her feet and holds out her hand.

"Mr. Grey. H-how nice to meet you," she stutters as they shake hands. "Can I fetch you a coffee?"

"If you'll excuse me, Roach, I'd like a word with Ms. Steele." Christian hisses the S sibilantly… sarcastically.

"Please," he says warmly. With a quick puzzled glance at me, she scuttles out of the office past Roach, who stands as dumbstruck as me on the threshold of my office.

"Mr. Grey, how nice to see you." I smile, far too sweetly.

"Your assets? All of them?"

"Yes, it is." He smiles wolfishly at me, the smile not reaching his eyes. His tone is clipped. He's bristling with tension -- I can feel it all around me. Fuck. My heart sinks.

He regards me neutrally, but I know he's mad. I take a deep breath. This is not going to be fun.

"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." I am not a freaking asset!

"So what can I do for you, Christian?"

"I think you know." His voice is menacingly quiet.

"All of them. Some of them need rebranding."

"I'm just looking over my assets."

This is why he's here… Oh shit.

"Your office is very small," he says as he sits down facing my desk.

"Rebranding? In what way?"

"Of course, Mr. Grey. Ana," Roach mutters, shutting the door to my office as he departs. I recover my power of speech.

"Ms. Steele, may I sit down?"

"It suits me."

"It's your company." I wave at the chair Hannah vacated.

"Thank you, Hannah," I mutter, embarrassed that I have just shouted so loudly.

"Do you need anything else, Mr. Grey?" she asks, all breathless. I want to roll my eyes at her.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in!" I shout, too loudly.

"Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me."

"Christian, I'm working."

He shifts and crosses his legs. "Not exactly fight. No."

My cheeks heat. "We were going through our schedules," I snap. "And you haven't answered my question."

"No, thank you. That's all." He smiles his dazzling, panty-dropping smile at her. She flushes and exits simpering. Christian turns his attention back to me.

Hannah opens the door and brings in a small tray. Milk jug, sugar bowl, coffee in a French press -- she's gone all out. She places the tray on my desk.

"Now, Ms. Steele, where were we?"

Christian blinks once -- surprised, I think, by the vehemence in my voice. Deftly, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his knee with long skilled fingers. It's distracting. He's doing it on purpose. I narrow my eyes at him.

"You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my name."

"Christian, do we have to discuss this now?"

"I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes, wives in their place. You know." He shrugs, his mouth set in an arrogant line.

Wives in their place! "I had no idea you could spare the time," I snap.

"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."

"Are you ashamed of me?" he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

His eyes frost. "Why don't you want to change your name here?" he asks, his voice deathly quiet.

"No! Christian, of course not." I scowl. "This is about me -- not you." Jeez, he's exasperating sometimes. Silly overbearing megalomaniac.

His eyes are cool and assessing -- distant even. I marvel that he can appear so cold after last night, after the last three weeks. Shit. He must be mad -- really mad. When will he learn not to overreact?

"How is this not about me?" He cocks his head to one side, genuinely perplexed, some of his detachment slipping as he stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize that he's hurt. Holy fuck. I've hurt his feelings. Oh no… he's the last person I want to hurt. I have to make him see my logic. I have to explain my reasoning for my decision.

"Christian, when I took this job, I'd only just met you," I say patiently, struggling to find the right words. "I didn't know you were going to buy the company --"

"I want everyone to know that you're mine."

"Why is it so important to you?" I ask, desperately trying to hold on to my fraying temper. I look up at his impassive stare, his eyes luminous, giving nothing away, his earlier hurt now hidden. But even as I ask the question, deep down I know the answer before he says it.

What can I say about that event in our brief history? His deranged reasons for doing so -- his control freakery, his stalker tendencies gone mad, given completely free rein because he is so wealthy. I know he wants to keep me safe, but it's his ownership of SIP that is the fundamental problem here. If he'd never interfered, I could continue as normal and not have to face the disgruntled and whispered recriminations of my colleagues. I put my head in my hands just to break eye contact with him.

"I am yours -- look." I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding and engagement rings.

"That's not what I mean," he snaps and runs a hand through his overlong hair so that it flops onto his forehead.

"Not enough that I married you?" My voice is barely a whisper.

He blinks, registering the horror on my face. Where can I go from here? What else can I do?

"It's not enough."

"What do you mean?"

He swallows. "I want your world to begin and end with me," he says, his expression raw. His comment completely derails me. It's like he's punched me hard in the stomach, winding and wounding me. And the vision comes to mind of a small, frightened, copper-haired, gray-eyed boy in dirty, mismatched, ill-fitting clothes.

"It does," I say without guile, because it's the truth. "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." My throat swells and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I must not cry, not here. I repeat it over and over in my head. I must not cry. I must not cry.

"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 --" I stop when his eyes widen. Oh no… it is because of him?

"No… yes… no." This is such an exasperating conversation -- not one that I want to have now, here. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, trying to fathom how we got to this.

He stares at me, saying nothing. Then a frown crosses his face as if he's considering what I've said.

"I suffocate you?" His voice is bleak, and it's an echo of a question he's asked me before.

"Do you want to know why you got the job, Anastasia?"

Anastasia? Shit. "What? What do you mean?"

"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 his ownership, and wisely, they didn't want an expensive redundancy. So they gave you Hyde's job to caretake until the new owner"-- he pauses, and his lips twitch in an ironic smile --"namely me, took over."

He shifts in his chair as if steeling himself. Do I want to know?

He smiles and shakes his head at my alarm. "Relax. You've more than risen to the challenge. You've done very well." There's the tiniest hint of pride in his voice, and it's almost my undoing.

Holy crap! "What are you saying?" So it was because of him. Fuck! I'm horrified.

Oh, where is he going with this? Christian looks up suddenly, as if he's had a eureka moment. "So one of the reasons I'm here -- apart from dealing with my errant wife," he says, narrowing his eyes, "is to discuss what I am going to do with this company."

"Oh," I murmur incoherently, reeling from this news. I sit right back in my chair, open-mouthed, staring at him. He shifts again.

"I don't want to suffocate you, Ana. I don't want to put you in a gilded cage. Well…" He pauses, his face darkening. "Well, the rational part of me doesn't." He strokes his chin thoughtfully as his mind concocts some plan.

"So what are your plans?" I incline my head to one side, mirroring him, and I can't help my sarcastic tone. His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. Whoa -- change of mood, again! How can I ever keep up with Mr. Mercurial?

Errant wife! I am not errant, and I'm not an asset! I scowl at Christian again and the threat of tears subsides.

"So, do I need to change the name to Steele Publishing?"

"And in a year's time, it will be yours."

My mouth drops open once more -- wider this time.

I shut my mouth then open it, trying to articulate something -- but there's nothing there. My mind is blank.

He tilts his head to one side and gives me a censorious frown. "I ran my own business from the age of twenty-one."

"Christian," I whisper when my brain finally reconnects with my mouth. "You gave me a watch… I can't run a business."

"I'm changing the name of the company -- to Grey Publishing."

Holy shit.

He's serious. Holy fuck.

"This is my wedding present to you."

"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!" My voice rises, growing louder and higher, as I complete my tirade.

"You're also the most well-read person I know," he counters earnestly. "You love a good book. You couldn't leave your job while we were on our honeymoon. You read how many manuscripts? Four?"

"Do you think I give a fuck what people think? Besides, you won't be on your own."

"You'll be a laughingstock. Buying a company for the little woman, who has only had a full-time job for a few months of her adult life."

"Yes. You."

"And you wrote full reports on all of them. You're a very bright woman, Anastasia. I'm sure you'll manage."

His eyes widen further, shocked but also amused. "Laughing at your husband? That will never do. And you're biting your lip." His eyes darken… in that way. Oh no -- I know that look. Sultry, seductive, salacious… No, no, no! Not here.

And I snort because it's the only expression I can manage. He narrows his eyes.

"Crazy for you," he whispers.

I gape at him. He really has lost his marbles this time. "Christian, I…" I put my head in my hands -- my emotions have been through a wringer. Is he crazy? And from somewhere dark and deep inside I have the sudden, inappropriate need to laugh. When I look up at him again, his eyes widen.

"Something amusing you, Ms. Steele?"

"Are you crazy?"

"Five," I whisper.

"I know that look. We're at work."

"You're my wife."

"Don't even think about it," I warn, alarm clear in my voice.

"Not with your husband."

"With my boss's boss's boss," I hiss.

"Gross moral turpitude." I enunciate each word carefully.

"We're in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a lockable door," he whispers.

He blinks and narrows his eyes once more. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

"Seven shades of Sunday?" He arches an eyebrow, intrigued. "I may hold you to that, Ms. Steele."

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

His mouth pops open as he inhales sharply. And then he grins, a radiant, all-teeth-showing, joyous grin. Wow…

"Think about what, Anastasia?"

"Good." He claps his hands, and all of a sudden he stands.

He leans forward, his eyes glued to mine, molten gray and hungry. Holy shit! I swallow instinctively.

"Oh, stop with the Ms. Steele!" I snap and thump the desk, startling us both. "For heaven's sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I'll change my name!"

He leans over my desk. What now? I am caught in his hypnotic gaze.

"Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey." He leans in closer as I sit paralyzed, and he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. "Laters, baby," he murmurs. He stands abruptly, winks at me, and leaves.

I lay my head on my desk, feeling like I've been run over by a freight train -- the freight train that is my beloved husband. He has to be the most frustrating, annoying, contrary man on the planet. I sit up and frantically rub my eyes. What have I just agreed to? Okay, Ana Grey running SIP -- I mean, Grey Publishing. The man is insane. There's a knock on the door, and Hannah pokes her head around.

"I intend to. I'll see you this evening. I'm looking forward to seven shades of Sunday."

"But what, Mrs. Grey?"

"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."

I gape at him. Will you just go?

"Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Grey."

What now?

"Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up, and I'd like you to accompany me."

Gah -- this man is so maddening! "But --"

I sag. "Just go."

"Okay," I mumble, completely bemused, bewildered, and shell-shocked.

I scowl.

As ever, you make my day.

I nod.

Date: August 22 2011 14:34

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

I nod.

And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.

Yours, Anastasia Grey <-- please note name.

From: Anastasia Steele

Editor, SIP

Mr. Grey

He's trying to be funny, but I am in no mood to laugh. I take a deep breath and go back to my correspondence.

Subject: Not an asset!

"You okay?" she asks.

My Dear Mrs. Grey (emphasis on My)

To: Anastasia Steele

Christian Grey

From: Christian Grey

"Coming right up, Ana."

Date: August 22 2011 14:23

I stare blankly at my computer screen, still in shock. How can I make him understand? E-mail!

CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday

====================

I just stare at her. She frowns.

"Twinings English Breakfast, weak and black?"

====================

To: Christian Grey

What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.

"I know you don't like me doing this -- but can I make you some tea?"

"Hi," he responds, warily -- as he should.

"Next time you go to see him, I'll give you a list of topics I want covered," I hiss.

I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan's and Sawyer's heads in front of me. Christian shifts beside me.

"You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Only Flynn's."

"Yes," I hiss. Folding my arms protectively across my body, I gaze out my window. He shifts beside me once more, but I will not let myself look at him. I don't understand why I'm so mad at him -- but I am. Really fucking mad.

"Disrupt anyone else's work today?" I ask too sweetly.

"Hi," I murmur.

"You're mad at me?" he whispers.

"Hey," he says softly and reaches for my hand. All afternoon, when I should have been concentrating on work, I was trying to figure out what to say to him. But I became angrier and angrier with each passing hour. I've had enough of his cavalier, petulant, and, frankly, childish behavior. I snatch my hand out of his -- in a cavalier, petulant, and childish manner.

Christian is quiet when I climb into the car that evening.

Oh.

"Apologies, ma'am," he mutters.

"What?" I snap when I'm alongside him. His cheeks redden.

"Are you laughing at me?" I narrow my eyes.

"I wouldn't dare," he says, holding his hands up like I'm threatening him at gunpoint. He's in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex hair and a guileless expression.

"Yes." I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.

"Do I?" he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.

As soon as we pull up outside Escala, I break protocol and leap out of the car with my briefcase. I stomp into the building, not checking to see who is following. Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the "call" button.

"You need a haircut," I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.

"So it's not just me you're mad at?" Christian murmurs dryly. I glare up at him and see a trace of a smile on his face.

Christian comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan retreats.

"So you're talking to me now?"

He takes an alarmed step back. "You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office," he murmurs, perplexed.

I turn and gape at him.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask super sweetly.

"Hi, Mrs. Jones," I mutter. I head straight to the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. Christian follows me into the kitchen and watches me like a hawk as I take a glass down from the cupboard. He removes his jacket and casually places it on the countertop.

"Hi, Taylor," I mutter.

"Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That's all."

"Good evening, Mrs. Grey."

Dropping my briefcase in the hallway, I head into the great room. Mrs. Jones is at the stove.

"What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication," he asks cautiously.

"Just."

The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway. He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.

"Mrs. Grey," he murmurs.

"Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can't believe you're that obtuse."

"Stop this," Christian whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he's standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I've missed all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at him.

"No thanks," he says, not taking his eyes off me, and I know that he's helpless. He does not know what to do with me. It's comical on one level and tragic on another. Well, screw him! I am having trouble locating my compassionate self since our meeting this afternoon. Slowly, he removes his tie and then opens the top button of his shirt. I pour myself a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and Christian runs a hand through his hair. When I turn around, Mrs. Jones has disappeared. Shit! She's my human shield. I take a slug of wine. Hmm. It tastes good.

"Talk to me," he murmurs.

I take another swig of wine.

"What's the point? You don't listen to me."

"Yes I do. You're one of the few people I do listen to."

"Yes and no. It's about how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you." I glare up at him, expecting him to be angered.

"But I'm not a child, and I'm not an asset."

"Is this about your name?"

"I know." He sighs.

His brow furrows. "Ana, you know I have… issues. It's hard for me to let go where you're concerned. You know that."

He brushes the backs of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his thumb across my bottom lip.

"Then stop treating me as though I am," I whisper, imploring him.

"Don't be mad. You're so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child," he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like a child. Precious like a child… a child would be precious to him!

"I'm neither of those things, Christian. I'm your wife. If you were hurt that I wasn't going to take your name, you should have said."

"Hurt?" He frowns deeply, and I know that he's exploring the possibility in his mind. He straightens suddenly, still frowning, and glances quickly at his wristwatch. "The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat."

"It was relatively cheap." His tone is guarded.

"You think I'd find a buyer in today's market?"

He smirks. "We'll survive. But I won't let it fold, Anastasia. Not while you're there."

Christian snorts. "Sell it?"

"Yes."

"I've never promised to play fair where you're concerned. Besides," he adds, "you've wielded your vows at me like a weapon before."

"This discussion isn't finished," I mutter.

Oh no. I groan inwardly. He hasn't answered me, and now I have to deal with Gia Matteo. My shitty day just got shittier. I scowl at Christian.

"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.'"

"How much did it cost you?"

"And if I leave?"

"What else is there to discuss?"

"So if it folds?"

"You could sell the company."

"And do what?"

"Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair."

What? Bed? How?

"Gia will be with us shortly," I mutter. Christian's mouth twists in an unhappy scowl, but he says nothing.

"No." I gaze down at my barely touched plate of fettuccini to avoid Christian's darkening expression. Before he can say anything, I stand and clear our plates from the dining table.

"We'd like to eat now, please."

He smiles indulgently down at my expression. Is he expecting me to tie him up? Holy crap!

"Seven shades of Sunday," he whispers. "Looking forward to it."

"Mr. Grey?"

"Gail!" he shouts abruptly, and four seconds later, Mrs. Jones appears. Where was she? Taylor's office? Listening? Oh no.

Whoa!

"Anastasia, if you're still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later." His voice is suddenly low and full of sensual longing, his eyes heated.

"Very good, sir."

Christian doesn't take his eyes off me. He watches me vigilantly as if I'm some exotic creature about to bolt. I take a sip of my wine.

"I think I'll join you in a glass," he says, sighing, and runs a hand through his hair again.

"You're not going to finish?"

I scowl. This is true.

"Thank you."

"I'll take those, Mrs. Grey," says Mrs. Jones as I walk into the kitchen.

"You didn't like it?" she asks, concerned.

"I'm going to make a couple of calls," Christian announces, giving me an assessing look before he disappears into his study.

"It was fine. I'm just not hungry."

I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Dinner was awkward. I'm still mad at Christian, and he doesn't seem to think he's done anything wrong. Has he? My subconscious cocks an eyebrow at me and gazes benignly over her half-moon glasses. Yes, he has. He's made it even more awkward for me at work. He didn't wait to discuss this issue with me when we were in the relative privacy of our own home. How would he feel if I came barging into his office, laying down the law? And to cap it all, he wants to give me SIP! How the hell could I run a company? I know next to nothing about business.

Giving me a small sympathetic smile, she turns to clear my plate and put everything in the dishwasher.

I gaze out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the pearly pink light of dusk. And as usual, he wants to solve our differences in the bedroom… um… foyer… playroom… TV room… kitchen countertop… Stop! It always comes back to sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.

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

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'm wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cleavage. I wash my face, then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I brush my 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.

"Well, stop being such an arse."

"I hate fighting with you," he whispers.

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.

"Dance with me?" he murmurs.

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

"Oh. I've not heard it before."

"Fauré's Requiem. You look different," he says, distracted.

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

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

"What's this?" I ask. The music is stunning.

"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.

"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.

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

"I prefer arse."

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

"Ass."

"A requiem?" I murmur, a little shocked that we are dancing to it.

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

"You should. It suits you."

He shrugs. "It's just a lovely piece of music, Ana."

"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.