Taylor pulls up outside GEH, and I brace myself for a long day.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.” Andrea smiles as I step out of the elevator, but her smile fades when she sees my expression.

“Get me Dr. Greene on the line and tell Sarah to bring me some coffee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After I’ve finished with Greene, I need to talk to Flynn. Then you can bring in my schedule for the day. Has Ros spoken to you about Hansell and Blandino?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Dr. Flynn left for a conference in New York early this morning.”

Fuck! “I forgot. See if he can find a moment for me on the phone.”

“Will do. The flat screen you requested for Mr. Steele will be installed this afternoon.”

“And the additional PT?”

“That will start tomorrow.”

“Okay. Put Dr. Greene through when you have her.” I don’t wait for an answer, but stalk into my office and sit down, under the watchful gaze of my wife. I let out a long, slow breath, wondering if her photographer friend ever witnessed her the way she was this morning. From Aphrodite to Athena, goddess of war—a scolding, angry, alluring Athena.

My phone buzzes. “I have Dr. Greene for you.”

“Thanks, Andrea. Dr. Greene?”

“Mr. Grey, what can I do for you?”

“I thought the shot was a reliable form of contraceptive,” I hiss. There’s a prolonged silence on the other end of the line. “Dr. Greene?”

“Mr. Grey, no form of contraception is one hundred percent effective. That would be abstinence, or sterilization for yourself or your wife.” Her tone is icy. “I can send you some literature if you’d like to read up on it.”

I sigh. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Grey?”

“I would like to know how pregnant my wife is.”

“Can’t Mrs. Grey tell you that herself?”

What is this? Just answer the question!

“I’m asking you, Dr. Greene. That’s what I pay you for.”

“My patient is Mrs. Grey. I suggest you talk to your wife, and she can give you the details. Is there anything else you need?”

My temper reaches boiling point.

Take a deep breath, Grey.

“Please,” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Mr. Grey. Talk to your wife. Good day.” She hangs up, and I glare at the phone, expecting it to shrivel to ashes under my gaze; some bedside manner she has.

There’s a knock at my door and Sarah appears with my coffee. “Thanks,” I mutter, trying to rein in my fury at the goddamned, officious, unhelpful so-called doctor. “Ask Andrea to come in—I want to go through my schedule.”

Sarah dashes out and I stare at monochrome Ana on my wall.

Even your doctor is pissed at me.

Misery is my constant companion, all the way through my meetings, my lunch, and my kickboxing session with Bastille.

“You look like a wet weekend, Grey.”

“I feel it.”

“Let’s see if we can turn that frown upside down.”

Really?

I knock him on his ass twice; he deserves to go down for that comment alone.

By 4:30 I’ve heard nothing from my wife, not even an angry hectoring e-mail liberally sprinkled with shouty capitals. Sawyer has reported in to let me know that she had a bagel for lunch. That’s something. I have fifteen minutes before showtime with Brad Hansell, the head of the shipbuilders’ union, and Senator Blandino. This is going to be a tough meeting. I’m briefed but I can’t focus; instead, I’m sitting here staring at my computer, willing an e-mail to arrive from my wife. I can’t believe I’ve heard nothing from Ana all day. Nothing.

I don’t like this. I don’t like being the object of her anger. I put my head in my hands. Maybe…maybe I should apologize. What did Flynn say? It’s better to concede the battle to win the war.

And deep down, I know I’ve fucked up. But I’d hoped that she would have forgiven me by now.

I type out an e-mail.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: I’m Sorry

Date: September 14 2011 16:45

To: Anastasia Grey

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I fucked up. Please forgive me.

Christian Grey

CEO & Penitent Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I don’t want to go home to face her anger again. I want her smiles, her laughter, and her love. I gaze up at her smiling face in the photo. I want her to look at me like she does in this portrait. I return to the e-mail, wondering whether to hit send. This meeting could go on for a while. I call Mrs. Jones.

“Mr. Grey.”

“I may not be home for dinner. Please make sure Mrs. Grey eats.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cook her something nice.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Gail.” I hang up and delete the e-mail—it’s not going to be enough. I could try jewelry. Flowers? My phone buzzes.