And I’m still pissed.

At my desk, I eye the model glider that Anastasia gave me when she left. It took me a whole day to make. Unease circles my gut; maybe it’s the echo of that dream or a reminder of the desolation I felt when she was gone. I touch the wing tip, holding the cool plastic between my thumb and forefinger; I never want to feel like that again.

Ever.

I shake off the feeling and take a sip of the espresso that Andrea has prepared, followed by a bite of fresh croissant. I glance at my iMac to see an e-mail has arrived from Ana.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Eat!

Date: July 6 2011 9:22

To: Christian Grey

My dearest husband-to-be

It is not like you to skip breakfast. I missed you.

I hope you’re not hungry. I know how disagreeable that is for you.

I hope your day is a good one.

Axxx

I’m comforted by the number of small x’s at the end of her message, but I glance at her portrait on my office wall, close the e-mail, and summon Andrea into my office to go through my schedule.

I’m still pissed.

After lunch, I’m in the elevator returning from an external meeting with Eamon Kavanagh when I check my BlackBerry. There’s another e-mail from Ana.

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: Are you okay?

Date: July 6 2011 14:27

To: Christian Grey

My dearest husband-to-be

It’s not like you not to reply.

The last time you didn’t reply—your helicopter went missing.

Let me know you’re okay.

Ana

Worried of SIP

Shit. A twinge of guilt flares in my stomach, especially as there is a distinct lack of kisses on her note.

For fuck’s sake.

I’m mad at you, Anastasia.

But I don’t want her to worry. I type out a brief reply.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Are you okay?

Date: July 6 2011 14:32

To: Anastasia Steele

I’m fine.

Busy.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I press send and hope my response will alleviate her worries. Andrea eyes me warily when I exit the elevator into the outer office.

“Yes?” I snap.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Grey. I just wanted to know if you wanted any coffee?”

“Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s photocopying the reports you requested.”

“Good. And no thanks to coffee,” I add in a softer tone. Why am I being an asshole to my staff? “Get me Welch on the line.”

She nods and picks up the phone.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and head into my office. I slouch into my chair and stare despondently out of the window. The day is bright, unlike my mood.

My phone buzzes. “Grey.”

“I have Anastasia Steele on the line for you.”

Shit. Is she okay?

“Put her through.”

“Hi.” Her voice wavers, soft and breathy. She sounds uncertain and sad, and a chill grips my heart.

“What is it? Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

My relief turns to irritation. My worry is misplaced. “I’m fine, but busy.”

“Let’s talk when you get home.”

“Okay,” I reply, knowing that I’m being abrupt.

She doesn’t respond, but I hear her breathing on the other end of the line. She sounds, unsettled, and the chill I felt a moment earlier is replaced by a familiar homesickness.

What is it, Ana? What do you want to say? Silence stretches between us, full of recrimination and unspoken truths.

“Christian,” she says eventually.

“Anastasia, I have things to do. I have to go.”

“Tonight,” she whispers.

“Tonight.” I hang up and scowl at the phone.

It’s not too much to ask, Anastasia.

“Home?” Taylor asks as he takes the wheel of the Audi.

“Sure,” I murmur, distracted. Part of me doesn’t want to go home. I still don’t have a coherent argument to persuade Ana to change her mind. And I have work to do this evening. A reading project—two weighty reports from the Environmental Sciences Department at WSU—results from the test sites in Africa and Professor Gravett’s paper on the microbe responsible for nitrogen fixation in soils. Apparently, microbes are essential to soil regeneration and regeneration holds the key to carbon sequestration. Later this week, I’ll be reviewing my funding to her department.

Perhaps I should take Ana out, and we can discuss her vows at dinner. Maybe I can sway her over a glass of wine. I’m reminded of our dinner to discuss the D/s contract.

Hell. That didn’t go to plan.

Feeling glum, I stare through the privacy glass at the jostling tourists and commuters, and a sense of righteous indignation settles over me. I’m not asking for much, for fuck’s sake. It’s the only thing that I want. She can have whatever she likes. Knowing that she’ll obey me will give me a sense of security. Does she not understand?

On the sidewalk a young man in shades and loud, flowery shorts is arguing with a woman in an equally loud dress. Their fight is attracting disconcerted looks from passersby.

That will be Ana and me tonight. I know it. And the thought depresses me even more.