Fifty Shades of Grey (Fifty Shades #1)(99)
Author: E.L. James

I shrug.

"I asked for it." And now I know. I swallow. Here goes. I need to say my piece. "I don’t think I can be everything you want me to be," I whisper. His eyes widen slightly, and he blinks, his fearful expression returning.

"You are everything I want you to be."

What?

"I don’t understand. I’m not obedient, and you can be as sure as hell I’m not going to let you do that to me again. And that’s what you need, you said so."

He closes his eyes again, and I can see a myriad of emotions cross his face. When he reopens them, his expression is bleak. Oh no.

"You’re right. I should let you go. I am no good for you."

My scalp prickles as every single hair follicle on my body stands to attention, and the world falls away from me, leaving a wide, yawning abyss for me to fall into. Oh no.

"I don’t want to go," I whisper. Fuck – this is it. Pay or play. Tears swim in my eyes once more.

"I don’t want you to go either," he whispers, his voice raw. He reaches up and gently strokes my cheek and wipes away a falling tear with his thumb. "I’ve come alive since I met you." His thumb traces the contours of my lower lip.

"Me too," I whisper, "I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian."

His eyes widen again, but this time, with pure, undiluted fear.

"No," he breathes as if I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

Oh no.

"You can’t love me, Ana. No… that’s wrong." He’s horrified.

"WrongWhy’s it wrong?"

"Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy." His voice is anguished.

"But you do make me happy." I frown.

"Not at the moment, not doing what I want to do."

Holy f**k. This really is it. This is what it boils down to – incompatibility – and all those poor subs come to mind.

"We’ll never get past that, will we?" I whisper, my scalp prickling in fear.

He shakes his head bleakly. I close my eyes. I cannot bear to look at him.

"Well… I’d better go, then," I murmur, wincing as I sit up.

"No, don’t go." He sounds panicked.

"There’s no point in me staying." Suddenly, I feel tired, really dog-tired, and I want to go now. I climb out of bed, and Christian follows.

"I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy," I say, my voice flat and empty as I leave him standing in the bedroom.

Heading downstairs, I glance at the great room, thinking how only hours before I had rested my head on his shoulder as he played the piano. So much has happened since then.

I have had my eyes opened and glimpsed the extent of his depravity, and I now know he’s not capable of love – of giving or receiving love. My worst fears have been realized. And strangely, it’s very liberating.

The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it. I feel numb. I have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual observer to this unfolding tragedy. I shower quickly and methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me. Now squeeze body wash bottle. Put body wash bottle back in rack. Rub cloth on face, on shoulders… on and on, all simple, mechanical actions, requiring simple mechanical thoughts.

I finish my shower – and as I haven’t washed my hair, I can dry myself quickly. I dress in the bathroom, taking my jeans and t-shirt out of my small suitcase. My jeans chafe against my backside, but quite frankly, it’s a pain I welcome as it distracts my mind from what’s happening to my splintering, shattered heart.

I stoop to shut my suitcase, and the bag holding Christian’s gift catches my eye, a modeling kit for a Blahnik L23 glider, something for him to build. Tears threaten. Oh no…

happier times, when there was hope of more. I take it out of the case, knowing that I need

to give it to him. Quickly, I rip a small piece of paper from my notebook, hastily scribble a note for him, and leave it on top of the box.

I gaze at myself in the mirror. A pale and haunted ghost stares back at me. I scoop my hair into a ponytail and ignore how swollen my eyelids are from the crying. My subconscious nods with approval. Even she knows not to be snarky right now. I cannot believe that my world is crumbling around me into a sterile pile of ashes, all my hopes and dreams cruelly dashed. No, no don’t think about it. Not now, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my case, and after placing the glider kit and my note on his pillow, I head for the great room.

Christian is on the phone. He’s dressed in black jeans and t-shirt. His feet are bare.

"He said what!" he shouts, making me jump. "Well, he could have told us the f**king truth. What’s his number, I need to call him… Welch, this is a real f**k-up." He glances up and doesn’t take his dark and brooding eyes off me. "Find her," he snaps and presses the off switch.

I walk over to the couch and collect my backpack, doing my best to ignore him. I take the Mac out of it and walk back toward the kitchen, placing it carefully on the breakfast bar, along with the BlackBerry and the car key. When I turn to face him, he’s staring at me, stupefied with horror.

"I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle." My voice is clear and calm, devoid of emotion… extraordinary.

"Ana, I don’t want those things, they’re yours," he says in disbelief. "Please, take them."

"No Christian – I only accepted them under sufferance – and I don’t want them anymore."

"Ana, be reasonable," he scolds me, even now.

"I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car." My voice is quite monotone.

He gasps.

"Are you really trying to wound me?"

"No." I frown staring at him. Of course not… I love you. "I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself," I whisper. Because you don’t want me the way I want you.

"Please, Ana, take that stuff."

"Christian, I don’t want to fight – I just need the money."

He narrows his eyes, but I’m no longer intimidated by him. Well, only a little. I gaze impassively back, not blinking or backing down.

"Will you take a check?" he says acidly.

"Yes. I think you’re good for it."

He doesn’t smile, he just turns on his heel and stalks into his study. I take a last lingering look around his apartment – at the art on the walls – all abstracts, serene, cool… cold, even. Fitting, I think absently. My eyes stray to the piano. Jeez – if I’d kept my mouth shut, we’d have made love on the piano. No, f**ked, we would have f**ked on the piano.

Well, I would have made love. The thought lies heavy and sad in my mind. He has never made love to me, has heIt’s always been f**king to him.

Christian returns and hands me an envelope.

"Taylor got a good price. It’s a classic car. You can ask him. He’ll take you home."

He nods in the direction over my shoulder. I turn, and Taylor is standing in the doorway, wearing his suit, as impeccable as ever.

"That’s fine, I can get myself home, thank you."

I turn to stare at Christian, and I see the barely-contained fury in his eyes.

"Are you going to defy me at every turn?"

"Why change a habit of a lifetime?" I give him a small, apologetic shrug.

He closes his eyes in frustration and runs his hand through his hair.

"Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home."

"I’ll get the car, Miss Steele," Taylor announces authoritatively. Christian nods at him, and when I glance around, Taylor has gone.

I turn back to face Christian. We are four feet apart. He steps forward, and instinctively I step back. He stops, and the anguish in his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning.

"I don’t want you to go," he murmurs, his voice full of longing.

"I can’t stay. I know what I want and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need."

He takes another step forward, and I hold up my hands.

"Don’t, please." I recoil from him. There’s no way I can tolerate his touch now, it will slay me. "I can’t do this."

Grabbing my suitcase and my backpack, I head for the foyer. He follows me, keeping a careful distance. He presses the elevator button, and the doors open. I climb in.

"Goodbye, Christian," I murmur.

"Ana, goodbye," he says softly, and he looks utterly, utterly broken, a man in agonizing pain, reflecting how I feel inside. I tear my gaze away from him before I change my mind and try to comfort him.

The elevator doors close, and it whisks me down to the bowels of the basement and to my own personal hell.