I’ll just have to tell her what it means to me. I need to keep her safe.

Yes. She’ll see.

The woman turns, and in a dramatic gesture raises her arms and storms off, leaving the man alone and bewildered on the sidewalk. I think he’s drunk.

Asshole.

Maybe I could fuck Ana into agreeing. That might work. The thought gives me a modicum of hope, and I settle back into my seat for the rest of the drive to Escala.

“Good evening, Mr. Grey,” Mrs. Jones chimes as I enter the living room. From the enticing aroma I know there’s a pot of her delicious Bolognese sauce bubbling on the stove. My mouth waters.

“Hello, Gail. Smells good. Where’s Ana?”

“I believe she’s in the library, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Dinner in half an hour?”

“Works for me. Thanks.” I’ll have time for a quick run on the treadmill, since I missed my workout this morning.

I head to the bedroom to change, avoiding the library.

The Boss blares in my ears as I push my body to its limits. I run three miles in twenty minutes, and I’m a panting hot mess when I come off the treadmill. Dragging air into my lungs and using the back of my hand to wipe the sweat that’s pouring off my brow, I bend over to catch my breath and stretch my hamstrings.

It feels good.

When I stand, Anastasia is leaning against the frame in the doorway, watching me, eyes wide and wary. She’s wearing a pale gray sleeveless shirt and a tight gray skirt. She looks every bit the publishing executive. But young. So young. And miserable.

Shit.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I respond between breaths.

“You didn’t say hello when you came in. Are you avoiding me?”

Ana does not beat around the bush. And in that moment, I want to banish the look of misery on her face and her wariness. “I needed to exercise,” I pant. “I can say hello now.” I open my arms and step toward her, knowing full well I’m soaked with sweat.

Ana laughs, grimacing, and raises her palms. “I’ll take a rain check.”

I bound up to her and pull her into my arms before she can retreat. She shrieks, shrinking from me, but she’s laughing, too. And it’s like a weight has lifted from my soul.

I love making her laugh.

“Oh, baby. I missed you.” I kiss her, not caring that I’m not fit for human consumption, and to my delight, she kisses me back. Her fingers tighten around my shoulders, her fingernails digging deeper into my flesh as our tongues dance the dance they know so well.

We’re both winded when we come up for air. I cradle her face and brush my thumb over her swollen lips, staring into her dazed, beautiful eyes. “Ana,” I whisper, imploring her. “Change your vows. Obey. Don’t argue with me. I hate it when we argue. Please.”

My lips hover above hers, waiting for an answer, but she blinks several times as if she’s clearing a haze, then shrugs me off and steps out of my embrace. “No. Christian. Please,” she says, condensing her frustration into four syllables.

I drop my hands to my sides as her words douse me with a cold splash of reality.

“If this is a deal breaker for you, please tell me,” she continues, her voice rising steadily. “Because it is for me, and I can stop trying to organize our wedding and go back to my apartment and get drunk with Kate.”

“You’d leave?” My voice is barely audible; her statement has knocked my world off-kilter.

“Right now. Yes. You’re behaving like a spoiled teen.”

“That’s not fair,” I retort. “I need this.”

“No, you don’t. You just think you do. We’re supposed to be grown-ups, for heaven’s sake. We’ll talk things out. Like adults do.”

We gaze at each other, over the gulf between us.

She’s not budging.

Fuck.

“I need a shower,” I mutter, and she steps out of my way to let me pass.

When I enter the living room Ana is seated at the kitchen counter, where there are two places laid for dinner. Gail hovers over the stove.

“I’m not hungry,” I announce. “And I have work to do.”

Ana frowns, and opens her mouth as if to say something but shuts it again as I walk past her. I don’t miss the look that passes between her and Mrs. Jones.

Are they conspiring?

The thought makes my blood boil, so I storm into my study and slam the door.

Shit.

The noise startles me and it’s an abrupt wake-up.

I am behaving like a spoiled teen.

Ana’s right. Hell.

And I’m hungry.

I hate being hungry.

A dark, twisted memory of fear and hunger from before I was Christian Grey threatens to resurface, but I dampen it down.

Don’t go there, Grey.

The reports are on my desk where Taylor left them. I sit down, pick up the first one, and start to read.

A gentle knock pulls my attention away from the multiple crop rotations we’re trying in Ghana, and my heart stutters.

Ana.

“Come in.”

Gail opens the door.

My disappointment is real, my momentary excitement now a sad, deflated balloon that’s lost its helium. On the plus side, she’s carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming pasta.

She says nothing as she places it on my desk.

“Thank you.”

“Ana’s idea. She knows you love spaghetti Bolognese.” Her tone is clipped, and before I can reply, she turns and leaves, taking her disapproval with her. I scowl at her departing figure. Of course it was Ana’s idea. And once again I’m in awe of her thoughtfulness. Why isn’t that enough? She says she loves me. So why do I want or need her obedience?