Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

to them. I don’t want to be late for work.
    I wrap the duvet around me and pick up my purse before making my way to the door. Unlocking it slowly, I peek outside. No sign of anyone. Oh shit . . . Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic. I roll my eyes at myself, take a deep breath, and head downstairs.
    Taylor, Sawyer, Ryan, Mrs. Jones, and Christian are all standing in the entrance to the great room, and Christian is issuing rapid-fire instructions. As one they all turn and gape at me. Christian is still wearing the clothes he slept in last night. He looks disheveled, pale, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. His large gray eyes are wide, and I don’t know if he’s fearful or angry. It’s difficult to tell.
    “Sawyer, I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes,” I mutter, wrapping the duvet tighter around me for protection.
    He nods, and all eyes turn to Christian, who is still staring intensely at me.
    “Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?” Mrs. Jones asks. I shake my head.
    “I’m not hungry, thank you.” She purses her lips but says nothing.
    “Where were you?” Christian asks, his voice low and husky. Suddenly Sawyer, Taylor, Ryan and Mrs. Jones scatter, scurrying into Taylor’s office, into the foyer, and into the kitchen like terrified rats from a sinking ship.
    I ignore Christian and march toward our bedroom.
    “Ana,” he calls after me, “answer me.” I hear his footsteps behind me as I walk into the bedroom and continue into our bathroom. Quickly, I lock the door.
    “Ana!” Christian pounds on the door. I turn on the shower. The door rattles. “Ana, open the damned door.”
    “Go away!”
    “I’m not going anywhere.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    “Ana, please.”
    I climb into the shower, effectively blocking him out. Oh, it’s warm. The healing water cascades over me, cleansing the exhaustion of the night off my skin. Oh my . This feels so good. For a moment, for one short moment, I can pretend all is well. I wash my hair and by the time I’ve finished, I feel better, stronger, ready to face the freight train that is Christian Grey. I wrap my hair in a towel, briskly dry myself with another towel, and wrap it around me.
    I unlock the door and open it and find Christian is leaning against the wall opposite, his hands behind his back. His expression is wary, that of a hunted predator. I stride past him and into our walk-in closet.
    “Are you ignoring me?” Christian asks in disbelief as he stands on the threshold of the closet.
    “Perceptive, aren’t you?” I murmur absentmindedly as I search for something to wear. Ah, yes—my plum dress. I slide it off the hanger, choose my high black stiletto boots, and head for the bedroom. I pause for Christian to step out of my way, which he does, eventually—his intrinsic good manners taking over. I sense his eyes boring into me as I walk over to my chest of drawers, and I peek at him in the mirror, standing motionless in the doorway, watching me. In an act worthy of an Oscar winner, I let my towel fall to the floor and pretend that I am oblivious to my naked body. I hear his restrained gasp and ignore it.
    “Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is low.
    “Why do you think?” My voice is velvet soft as I pull out a pretty pair of black lace La Perla panties.
    “Ana—” He stops as I shimmy into them.
    “Go ask your Mrs. Robinson. I’m sure she’ll have an explanation for you,” I mutter as I search for the matching bra.
    “Ana, I’ve told you before, she’s not my—”
    “I don’t want to hear it, Christian.” I wave my hand dismissively. “The time for talking was yesterday, but instead you decided to rant and get drunk with the woman who abused you for years. Give her a call. I am sure she’ll be more than willing to listen to you now.” I find the matching bra and slowly pull it on and fasten it. Christian walks further into the bedroom and places his hands on his hips.
    “Why were you snooping on me?” he says.
    In spite of my resolve I flush. “That’s not the point, Christian,” I snap at him. “Fact is, going gets tough and you run to her.”
    His mouth settles into a grim line. “It wasn’t like that.”
    “I’m not interested.” Picking a pair of black thigh-highs with lacey tops, I retreat to the bed. I sit, point my toe, and gently ease the gossamer material up to my thigh.
    “Where were you?” he asks, his eyes following my hands up my legs, but I continue to ignore him as I