Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 218

I settle into the chair and match my breathing to Ana’s. The rhythm soothes me, that and my proximity

to her. For the first time since I woke up this morning I feel a little calmer. The last time I sat and

watched her sleep was when Hyde broke into our apartment; she’d been out with Kate. I was mad as NôvelDrama.Org content rights.

hell then.

Why do I spend so much time mad at my wife?

I love her.

Even though she never does as she’s told.

That’s why.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;

The courage to change the things I can;

And the wisdom to know the difference.

I grimace as Dr Flynn’s oft-quoted serenity prayer pops into my head: a prayer for alcoholics and

fucked-up businessmen. I check my watch, though I know it’s far too late to call him in New York. I’ll try

him tomorrow. I can discuss my impending fatherhood with him.

I shake my head.

Me, a dad?

What could I possibly offer a child? I undo my tie and the top button of my shirt as I lean back. I

suppose there’s the material wealth. At least he won’t go hungry. No—not on my fucking watch. Not my

child. She says she’ll do this on her own. How could she? She’s too…and I want to say fragile,

because sometimes she looks fragile, but she’s not. She’s the strongest woman I know, stronger even

than Grace.

Gazing at her as she lies here, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I realize what an asshole I was

yesterday. She’s never backed down from a challenge, ever. She was hurt by what I said and what I

did. I see that now. She knew I’d overreact when she told me about the baby.

She knows me better than anyone.

Did she find out before we were in Portland? I don’t think so; she would have told me. She must have

found out yesterday. And when she told me, everything turned to shit. My fear took over.

How am I going to make it up to her?

“I’m sorry, Ana. Forgive me,” I whisper. “You scared the living shit out of me yesterday.” Leaning

forward, I kiss her forehead.

She stirs and frowns. “Christian,” she murmurs, her voice wistful and full of longing. The hope kindled

by her earlier call ignites into a fire.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

But she turns over, sighs, and falls back into a deep slumber. I’m so tempted to strip down and join her,

but I don’t think I’d be welcome. “I love you, Anastasia Grey. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Damn. No, I won’t.

I have to fly to Portland and see the finance committee at WSU in Vancouver. That means leaving

early.

I place my favorite tie beside her on the pillow so she’ll know I’ve been here. As I do, I recall the first

time I tied her hands. The thought travels straight to my cock.

I wore it to tease her at her graduation.

I wore it at our wedding.

I’m a sentimental fool. “Tomorrow, baby,” I whisper. “Sleep well.”

I forgo the piano, even though I want to play. I don’t want to wake her. But as I head alone into our

bedroom, I’m more hopeful. She whispered my name.

Yes. There’s hope for us yet.

Don’t give up on me, Ana.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

It’s 5:30 in the morning and I’m in the gym, pounding away on the treadmill. Sleep eluded me last night,

and when I did drift off, I was haunted by my dreams:

Ana disappearing into the garage at The Heathman without looking back at me.

Ana an enraged siren, holding a thin cane, eyes blazing, wearing nothing but expensive lingerie and

leather boots, her angry words like barbs.

Ana lying unmoving on a sticky green rug.

I shake off that last image and run harder, pushing my body to its limits. I don’t want to feel anything

except the pain of my bursting lungs and aching legs. With Bloomberg’s rolling business news on the

TV and “Pump It” in my ears, I blot out the world… I blot out thoughts of my wife, sleeping soundly two

rooms away from me.

Dream of me, Ana. Miss me.

In the shower while I hose off my workout sweat, I contemplate waking her just to say good-bye. I fly to

Portland in Charlie Tango this morning, and I’d like a sweet smile to take with me.

Let her sleep, Grey.

And given how pissed she is at me, there’s no guarantee of a sweet smile.

Mrs. Jones is still giving me the cold shoulder, but I grill her anyway. “Did Ana eat last night?”

“She did.” Mrs. Jones’s attention is on the omelet she’s preparing for me. I think that’s all the

information I’m going to get this morning. I sip my coffee and sulk, feeling fifty shades of miserable.

In the car on the way to Boeing Field I write an e-mail to Ana.

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