Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,235

“I can send you some literature if you’d like to read up on it.”

I sigh. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Grey?”

“I would like to know how pregnant my wife is.”

“Can’t Mrs. Grey tell you that herself?”

What is this? Just answer the question!

“I’m asking you, Dr. Greene. That’s what I pay you for.”

“My patient is Mrs. Grey. I suggest you talk to your wife, and she can give you the details. Is there anything else you need?”

My temper reaches boiling point.

Take a deep breath, Grey.

“Please,” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Mr. Grey. Talk to your wife. Good day.” She hangs up, and I glare at the phone, expecting it to shrivel to ashes under my gaze; some bedside manner she has.

There’s a knock at my door and Sarah appears with my coffee. “Thanks,” I mutter, trying to rein in my fury at the goddamned, officious, unhelpful so-called doctor. “Ask Andrea to come in—I want to go through my schedule.”

Sarah dashes out and I stare at monochrome Ana on my wall.

Even your doctor is pissed at me.

Misery is my constant companion, all the way through my meetings, my lunch, and my kickboxing session with Bastille.

“You look like a wet weekend, Grey.”

“I feel it.”

“Let’s see if we can turn that frown upside down.”

Really?

I knock him on his ass twice; he deserves to go down for that comment alone.

By 4:30 I’ve heard nothing from my wife, not even an angry hectoring e-mail liberally sprinkled with shouty capitals. Sawyer has reported in to let me know that she had a bagel for lunch. That’s something. I have fifteen minutes before showtime with Brad Hansell, the head of the shipbuilders’ union, and Senator Blandino. This is going to be a tough meeting. I’m briefed but I can’t focus; instead, I’m sitting here staring at my computer, willing an e-mail to arrive from my wife. I can’t believe I’ve heard nothing from Ana all day. Nothing.

I don’t like this. I don’t like being the object of her anger. I put my head in my hands. Maybe…maybe I should apologize. What did Flynn say? It’s better to concede the battle to win the war.

And deep down, I know I’ve fucked up. But I’d hoped that she would have forgiven me by now.

I type out an e-mail.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: I’m Sorry

Date: September 14 2011 16:45

To: Anastasia Grey

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I fucked up. Please forgive me.

Christian Grey

CEO & Penitent Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I don’t want to go home to face her anger again. I want her smiles, her laughter, and her love. I gaze up at her smiling face in the photo. I want her to look at me like she does in this portrait. I return to the e-mail, wondering whether to hit send. This meeting could go on for a while. I call Mrs. Jones.

“Mr. Grey.”

“I may not be home for dinner. Please make sure Mrs. Grey eats.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cook her something nice.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Gail.” I hang up and delete the e-mail—it’s not going to be enough. I could try jewelry. Flowers? My phone buzzes.

“Yes, Andrea.”

“Mr. Hansell and Senator Blandino are here with their teams.”

“Call Ros and Samir to join us.”

“Yes, sir.”

This will be a fight about layoffs. I grit my teeth. Sometimes I hate my job.

Blandino is appealing for calm. “These are our economic realities in 2011,” she says to Hansell, who sits red-faced on the other side of my boardroom table.

I just want to go home. But we’re not finished here.

My phone buzzes, and my heart rate spikes. It’s my wife. “Excuse me.” I rise from the table, feeling seven pairs of eyes on me as I exit the room.

She’s called. I’m almost giddy with relief—my heart feels like it will escape my chest. “Ana!”

“Hi.” It’s so good to hear her voice.

“Hi.”

I can’t think what else to say, but I want to beg her to stop being mad at me.

Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.

“Are you coming home?” she asks.

“Later.”

“Are you in the office?”

I frown. “Yes. Where did you expect me to be?”

“I’ll let you go.”

What? But— There’s so much I want to say, but neither of us speaks. The silence is a chasm between us and I