“No. Somewhere less crowded.”

“I see.” She tries and fails to hide her surprise. “Okay.”

“There’s a bar around the corner.”

“I know the one. It’s a quiet place. Let me grab my purse.”

Standing on the sidewalk while I wait for her, I feel numb.

I’ve just walked out on my pregnant wife.

But right now I’m too mad at her to care.

Grey, what are you doing?

I shake the disquieting voice from my head, and Elena steps out of her salon, locks the door, and with a slight nod of her head indicates right. I jam my hands farther into my pockets and together we walk the rest of the block, around the corner, and into the bar.

It’s had a considerable makeover since I was last here—it’s no longer a dive, but an upscale watering hole, all paneled wood and plush velvet seating. Elena was right—it is quiet except for Billie Holiday’s soft, melancholic voice over the sound system.

Apt.

We slide into a booth, and Elena signals for the waitress.

“Good evening, my name’s Sunny. What can I get you folks?”

“I’d like a glass of your Willamette pinot noir,” Elena says.

“A bottle,” I order, without looking at the waitress. Elena’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but she maintains her familiar air of cool detachment. Maybe that’s why I’m here; that’s what I’m looking for—cool detachment personified.

“Coming right up.” The young woman leaves us.

“So, all is not well in the world of Christian Grey,” Elena observes. “I knew I’d see you again.” Her eyes are fixed on mine and I don’t know what to say. “Like that, is it?” Elena fills the silence between us. “Did you get my text?”

“On my wedding day?”

“Yes.”

“I did. I deleted it.”

“Christian, I can feel your enmity from here. It’s coming off you in waves. But you wouldn’t be here if I was the enemy.”

I blow out a breath and sit back in the booth.

“Why are you here?” she asks, not unreasonably.

Fuck. “I don’t know.” Could I sound any more sullen?

“She’s left you?”

“Don’t.” I give her a glacial stare.

I don’t want to talk about Ana.

Elena purses her lips as the waitress returns. We both sit back and watch as she uncorks our wine and pours a sample into my glass. “I’m sure it’s fine.” I wave in Elena’s direction and the waitress fills each of our glasses in turn.

“Enjoy,” she says brightly, leaving us with the bottle.

Elena reaches for her glass and raises it. “To old friends.” She smirks and takes a sip.

I snort, feeling some of my tension leave my shoulders. “Old friends.” I raise my glass and gulp down a few mouthfuls of wine, not tasting it. Elena frowns and presses her lips together but says nothing, her eyes not leaving mine.

I sigh. She wants me to fill the silence. I’m going to have to say something. “How’s the business?”

“Good. It was generous of you to gift it to me. Thank you for that.”

“It was the least I could do.”

She glances down at her glass as the silence between us expands. Eventually, she breaks it. “As you’re here, I think I should apologize for how I behaved at your parents’ house.”

Well, this is a surprise. It’s not like Mrs. Lincoln to apologize for anything. Her mantra has always been “never apologize, never explain.”

“I said several things that I regret,” she adds quietly.

“We both did, Elena. It’s in the past.”

I offer her more wine, but she declines—her glass is still half full, while mine is empty. I pour myself another.

She sighs. “My social circle is considerably diminished. I miss your mother. It hurts that she won’t see me.”

“It’s probably not a good idea for you to get in contact with her.”

“I know. I understand. I never meant for her to overhear us. Grace was always most fearsome when it came to protecting her brood.” She looks wistful for a moment. “We shared some good times, though. Your mother knows how to party.”

“I don’t wish to know that.”

Elena laughs. “You’ve always placed her on such a pedestal.”

“I’m not here to talk about my mother.”

“What are you here to talk about, Christian?” She cocks her head to the side and runs a scarlet nail around the rim of her glass, icy blue eyes on mine.

I shake my head and take another long draft of the pinot.

“Has she left you?”

“No!” I snap. If anything, it was me who walked out.

What kind of man walks out on his pregnant wife?

Hell. Maybe my father was right.

His words come back to haunt me. It’s about you. You living up to your responsibilities. You being a trustworthy and decent human being. You being husband material.

Maybe I’m not husband material.

I shake off the thought as Elena gazes at me, and I know she’s trying to work out what’s wrong. “You miss it? The lifestyle? Is that it? The little woman not giving you what you want?”

Fuck you, Elena.

I don’t have to listen to her bullshit.

I start to slide out of the booth.

“Christian. Don’t go. I’m sorry.” She reaches for my hand, then changes her mind, so her outstretched hand becomes a fist on the table. “Please. Don’t go,” she pleads.