Two apologies from Mrs. Lincoln in such a short time.

I settle back in my seat. Warier.

“I’m sorry,” she says once more, for emphasis. Then tries a different tack. “How is Anastasia?”

“She’s good,” I answer, eventually, and hope that I haven’t given anything away.

Elena narrows her eyes; she doesn’t believe me.

I exhale and confess. “She wants children.”

“Ah,” Elena says, as if she’s solved the riddle of the Sphinx. “This shouldn’t be a surprise to you. Though I will say she’s a little young to be producing your spawn.”

“Spawn?” I scoff, because she’s said the last word with such malicious invective. Elena’s never wanted children. I suspect she doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.

“Baby Grey,” she muses. “That will put an end to your predilections.” She looks amused. “Or maybe they’ve come to an end already.”

I scowl at her. “Elena. Shut up. I’m not here to discuss my sex life with you.” I drain my glass and pour more wine for us both, finishing the bottle. The pinot noir is beginning to work its magic. I’m already feeling hazy around the edges. It’s not a sensation I normally enjoy, but right now, I welcome the oblivion that beckons from the bottom of my glass. I signal the waitress for another bottle.

“Has she done something specific to upset you? I haven’t seen you drink like this in years.” Elena sounds most disapproving. But I don’t give a fuck.

“How’s Isaac?” I ask, to move the focus to her lover and away from my wife. My marriage is none of her business.

She half smiles and folds her arms. “Okay. I get it. You really don’t want to talk.” She pauses, and I know she’s waiting for me to spill my guts. But my secrets are mine. Not hers.

“Isaac is fine,” she continues, finally. “Thank you for asking. In fact, we’re really good at the moment.” She launches into a tale of their latest sexual escapade, but to what end, I don’t know. I half listen and half let the wine carry me away.

“So, is it the business? Is that your issue?” she asks when I don’t react.

“No, it’s going great. I bought a shipyard.”

She nods, impressed, I think, and I refill both our glasses from the latest bottle, and give her a rundown of what I’ve been doing at work: the solar-powered tablet, the fiber-optic business takeover, Geolumara, and of course the shipyard.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Always.”

“So, you’re talkative about your business, but not your wife.”

“And?” Is this a problem?

“I knew you’d come back,” she whispers.

What?

“Why are you drinking so much?”

“Because I’m thirsty.” And I want to forget how I behaved two hours ago.

She regards me through half-closed eyes. “Thirsty?” she breathes. “How thirsty?” She leans in and reaches over, taking my hand. I tense as her fingers slide under my palm, and beneath the cuffs of my jacket and shirt. Her fingernails digging into my flesh over my pulse. “Maybe I could make you feel better? I’m sure you miss it.” Her breath is stale, not sweet like Ana’s. Her hand tightens around my wrist, and from nowhere the darkness circles my chest and starts spiraling into my throat. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced for a while, and now it’s back, amplified, echoing through my body and screaming for release.

“What are you doing?” I squeeze the words out.

It’s tightening its hold on me.

Don’t touch me.

This was how it was.

Always.

Me fighting my fear as she laid her hands on me.

“Don’t touch me.” I withdraw my hand from hers.

She pales and frowns, her eyes on mine. “Isn’t this what you want?”

“No!”

“That’s not why you’re here?”

“No, Elena. No. I haven’t thought about you like that for years.” I shake my head, wondering how she could have so badly misread my intentions, but my thoughts aren’t as clear as they should be. “I love my wife,” I whisper.

Ana.

Elena studies me, her formerly pale cheeks reddening with wine or embarrassment or both. She frowns and looks down at the table. “I’m sorry,” she mutters.

Apology number three.

My cup runneth over.

“I don’t know…what came over me.” She laughs—but her laughter is loud, forced. “I have to go.” She gathers her purse. “Christian, I wish you and your wife well.” She stops and looks me squarely in the eye. “I miss you, though. More than you know.”

“Good-bye, Elena.”

“The way you say that has a finality about it.”

I don’t answer her.

She nods. “It would be difficult. I get it. I’m glad you came to see me. I think we’ve cleared the air.”

Have we? Cleared the air about what? Us? There is no us.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Lincoln.” I know it’s the last time I’ll ever say these words to her.

She nods. “Good luck, Christian Grey.” She slides out of the booth. “It was good to see you. I hope whatever it is that’s bothering you sorts itself out. I’m sure it will. If it’s about being a dad, you’ll do great.” She tosses her sleek hair over her shoulder and exits the bar without a backward glance, leaving me with a half-empty bottle of pinot noir and an uneasy feeling of guilt.