Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

apprehension . . . of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to this poor young woman is compassion. Mentally I run through all the classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing hard, I clutch the moral high ground.
    “I know. He’s very easy to love,” I whisper.
    Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. “Yes. He is—was.” She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I can’t help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre . I glance at my watch. Deep down I know Christian will be here soon.
    “You’ll get your chance to see Christian.”
    “I thought I would. I know how protective he can be.” She smiles.
    So this is her scheme. She’s very shrewd. Or manipulative, whispers my subconscious. “This is why you’re here to see me?”
    “Yes.”
    “I see.” And Christian is playing right into her hands. Reluctantly, I have to acknowledge that she knows him well.
    “He seemed very happy. With you,” she says.
    What ? “How would you know?”
    “From when I was in the apartment.” She adds cautiously.
    Oh hell . . . how could I forget that?
    “Were you there often?”
    “No. But he was very different with you.”
    Do I want to hear this? A shudder runs through me. My scalp prickles as I recall my fear when she was the unseen shadow in our apartment.
    “You know it’s against the law. Trespassing.”
    She nods, gazing down at the table. She runs a fingernail along the edge. “It was only a few times, and I was lucky not to get caught. Again, I need to thank Mr. Grey for that. He could have had me thrown in jail.”
    “I don’t think he’d do that,” I murmur.
    Suddenly there is a flurry of activity outside the meeting room, and instinctively I know that Christian is in the building. A moment later he bursts through the door, and before he closes it, I catch Taylor’s eye as he stands patiently outside. Taylor’s mouth is set in a grim line, and he doesn’t return my tight smile. Oh hell, even he’s mad at me.
    Christian’s burning gray gaze pins first me then Leila to our chairs. His demeanor is quietly determined, but I know better, and I suspect Leila does, too. The menacing cool glint in his eyes reveals the truth—he’s emanating rage, though he hides it well. In his gray suit, with his dark tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone, he looks at once businesslike and casual . . . and hot. His hair is in disarray—no doubt because he’s been running his hands through it in exasperation.
    Leila looks nervously down at the edge of the table, running her index finger along the edge again as Christian looks from me to her and then to Prescott.
    “You,” he says to Prescott in a soft tone. “You’re fired. Get out now.”
    I blanch. Oh no—this isn’t fair.
    “Christian—” I make to stand up.
    He holds his index finger up at me in warning. “Don’t,” he says. His voice so ominously quiet that I’m immediately silenced and rooted to my seat. Bowing her head, Prescott walks briskly out of the room to join Taylor. Christian shuts the door behind her and walks to the edge of the table. Crap! Crap! Crap! That was my fault. Christian stands opposite Leila, and placing both hands on the wooden surface, he leans forward.
    “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls at her.
    “Christian!” I gasp. He ignores me.
    “Well?” he demands.
    Leila peeks up at him through long lashes, her eyes wide, her face ashen, her rosy glow gone.
    “I wanted to see you, and you wouldn’t let me,” she whispers.
    “So you came here to harass my wife?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
    Leila looks down at the table again.
    He stands, glowering at her. “Leila, if you come anywhere near my wife again, I will cut off all support. Doctors, art school, medical insurance—all of it—gone. Do you understand?”
    “Christian—” I try again. But he silences me with a chilling look. Why is he being so unreasonable? My compassion for this sad woman blooms.
    “Yes,” she says, her voice just audible.
    “What’s Susannah doing in reception?”
    “She came with me.”
    He runs a hand through his hair, glaring at her.
    “Christian, please,” I beg him. “Leila just wants to say thank you. That’s all.”
    He ignores me, concentrating his wrath on