Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

Christian.”
    His eyes soften. “I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
    I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me ?
    “Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour.”
    My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount of money.
    “Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing. The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they’re nothing.” His voice is soft.
    I gaze at him. He really has no idea. Extraordinary.
    “If you were me, how would you feel about all this . . . largesse coming your way?” I ask.
    He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem in a nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silence stretches between us.  
    Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he looks genuinely bemused.
    My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes. Well, now I know.
    “It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this enough times.”
    He sighs. “I want to give you the world, Anastasia.”
    “I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”
    “They’re part of the deal. Part of what I am.”
    Oh, this is going nowhere.
    “Shall we eat?” I ask. This tension between us is draining.
    He frowns. “Sure.”
    “I’ll cook.”
    “Good. Otherwise there’s food in the fridge.”
    “Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold cuts most weekends?”
    “No.”
    “Oh?”
    He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”
    “Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? I smile sweetly at him. “What would Sir like to eat?”
    He smirks. “Whatever Madam can find,” he says darkly.

    Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide on Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study, no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He really knows no bounds.
    I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going to cook unsubmissively! I wander over to the iPod dock beside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I bet there are more of Leila’s choices on here,—I dread the very idea.  
    Where is she? I wonder. What does she want?  
    I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head around it.
    I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t sound like Christian’s taste. Crazy in Love . Oh yes ! How apt. I hit the repeat button and put it on loud.
    I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.
    Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and— Yes !—peas from the freezer. All of these will do. Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil, and go back to whisking.
    No empathy , I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women. I just don’t know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation.  
    I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if it’s still lust at first sight for them.
    One of the things I love about you .
    I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are other things? I smile for the first time since seeing Mrs. Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile.  
    Christian slips his arms around me, making me jump.
    “Interesting choice of music,” he purrs as he kisses me below my ear. “Your hair smells good.” He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.  
    Desire uncurls in my belly. No. I shrug out of his embrace.
    “I’m still mad at you.”
    He frowns. “How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks, dragging a hand through his hair.
    I shrug. “At least until I’ve eaten.”
    His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up the remote control from the counter and switches off the music.
    “Did you put that on your iPod?” I ask.
    He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I know it was her—Ghost Girl.
    “Don’t you think she was trying to tell you something back then?”
    “Well, with hindsight, probably,” he says quietly.
    QED . No empathy. My subconscious folds her arms and smacks her lips in disgust.
    “Why’s it still on there?”
    “I quite