Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

I settle into the chair and match my breathing to Ana's. The rhythm soothes me, that and my proximity to her. For the first time since I woke up this morning I feel a little calmer. The last time I sat and watched her sleep was when Hyde broke into our apartment; she'd been out with Kate. I was mad as hell then.

Why do I spend so much time mad at my wife?

I love her.

Even though she never does as she's told.

That's why.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;

The courage to change the things I can;

And the wisdom to know the difference.

I grimace as Dr Flynn's oft-quoted serenity prayer pops into my head: a prayer for alcoholics and fucked-up businessmen. I check my watch, though I know it's far too late to call him in New York. I'll try him tomorrow. I can discuss my impending fatherhood with him.

I shake my head.

Me, a dad?

What could I possibly offer a child? I undo my tie and the top button of my shirt as I lean back. I suppose there's the material wealth. At least he won't go hungry. No-not on my fucking watch. Not my child. She says she'll do this on her own. How could she? She's too...and I want to say fragile, because sometimes she looks fragile, but she's not. She's the strongest woman I know, stronger even than Grace. Gazing at her as she lies here, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I realize what an asshole I was yesterday. She's never backed down from a challenge, ever. She was hurt by what I said and what I did. I see that now. She knew I'd overreact when she told me about the baby.

She knows me better than anyone.

Did she find out before we were in Portland? I don't think so; she would have told me. She must have found out yesterday. And when she told me, everything turned to shit. My fear took over. How am I going to make it up to her?

"I'm sorry, Ana. Forgive me," I whisper. "You scared the living shit out of me yesterday." Leaning forward, I kiss her forehead.

She stirs and frowns. "Christian," she murmurs, her voice wistful and full of longing. The hope kindled by her earlier call ignites into a fire.

"I'm here," I whisper.

But she turns over, sighs, and falls back into a deep slumber. I'm so tempted to strip down and join her, but I don't think I'd be welcome. "I love you, Anastasia Grey. I'll see you in the morning."

Damn. No, I won't.

I have to fly to Portland and see the finance committee at WSU in Vancouver. That means leaving early.

I place my favorite tie beside her on the pillow so she'll know I've been here. As I do, I recall the first time I tied her hands. The thought travels straight to my cock.

I wore it to tease her at her graduation.

I wore it at our wedding.

I'm a sentimental fool. "Tomorrow, baby," I whisper. "Sleep well."

I forgo the piano, even though I want to play. I don't want to wake her. But as I head alone into our bedroom, I'm more hopeful. She whispered my name.

Yes. There's hope for us yet.

Don't give up on me, Ana.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

It's 5:30 in the morning and I'm in the gym, pounding away on the treadmill. Sleep eluded me last night, and when I did drift off, I was haunted by my dreams:

Ana disappearing into the garage at The Heathman without looking back at me.

Ana an enraged siren, holding a thin cane, eyes blazing, wearing nothing but expensive lingerie and leather boots, her angry words like barbs.

Ana lying unmoving on a sticky green rug.

I shake off that last image and run harder, pushing my body to its limits. I don't want to feel anything except the pain of my bursting lungs and aching legs. With Bloomberg's rolling business news on the TV and "Pump It" in my ears, I blot out the world... I blot out thoughts of my wife, sleeping soundly two rooms away from me.

Dream of me, Ana. Miss me.

In the shower while I hose off my workout sweat, I contemplate waking her just to say good-bye. I fly to Portland in Charlie Tango this morning, and I'd like a sweet smile to take with me. Let her sleep, Grey.

And given how pissed she is at me, there's no guarantee of a sweet smile.

Mrs. Jones is still giving me the cold shoulder, but I grill her anyway. "Did Ana eat last night?"

"She did." Mrs. Jones's attention is on the omelet she's preparing for me. I think that's all the information I'm going to get this morning. I sip my coffee and sulk, feeling fifty shades of miserable. In the car on the way to Boeing Field I write an e-mail to Ana.

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