Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,5

responds.

“Okay,” she says, and she walks toward the bed and unzips the bag.

I’ve eaten my fill. My parents have returned from Mass and my mother has cooked her traditional brunch: a delicious, coronary-inducing plate of bacon, sausage, hash browns, eggs, and English muffins. Grace is a little quiet, and I suspect that she might have a hangover.

Throughout the morning I have avoided my father.

I haven’t forgiven him for last night.

Ana, Elliot, and Kate are in a heated debate—about bacon, of all things—and arguing over who should have the last sausage. I half listen with amusement while I read an article about the failure rate of local banks in the Sunday edition of The Seattle Times.

Mia shrieks and reclaims her place at the table, holding her laptop. “Look at this. There’s a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged, Christian.”

“Already?” Mom says, surprised.

Don’t these assholes have anything better to do?

Mia reads the column out loud. “‘Word has reached us here at the Nooz that Seattle’s most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up, and wedding bells are in the air.’”

I glance at Ana, who pales as she stares, doe-eyed, from Mia to me.

“‘But who is the lucky, lucky lady?’” Mia continues. “‘The Nooz is on the hunt. Bet she’s reading one helluva prenup.’” Mia starts giggling.

I glare at her. Shut the fuck up, Mia.

She stops and presses her lips together. Ignoring her, and all the anxious looks exchanged at the table, I turn my attention to Ana, who blanches even more.

“No,” I mouth, trying to reassure her.

“Christian,” Dad says.

“I’m not discussing this again,” I snarl at him. He opens his mouth to say something. “No prenup!” I snap with such vehemence that he closes his mouth.

Shut up, Carrick!

Picking up the paper, I find myself rereading the same sentence in the banking article over and over while I fume.

“Christian,” Ana murmurs. “I’ll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want.”

I look up and she’s beseeching me, a sheen of unshed tears reflecting in her eyes.

Ana. Stop.

“No!” I exclaim, imploring her to drop this subject.

“It’s to protect you.”

“Christian, Ana—I think you should discuss this in private,” Grace chastises us and scowls at Carrick and Mia.

“Ana, this is not about you,” Dad mumbles. “And please call me Carrick.”

Don’t try and make it up to her now. I seethe, inwardly, and suddenly there’s a burst of activity. Kate and Mia get up to clear the table and Elliot quickly stabs the last remaining sausage with his fork.

“I definitely prefer sausage,” he roars with forced levity.

Ana is staring at her hands. She looks crestfallen.

Jesus. Dad. Look what you’ve done.

I reach over and grasp both her hands in mine, and whisper so only she can hear me, “Stop it. Ignore my dad. He’s really pissed about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth shut.”

“He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to our marriage but my student loans.”

Baby, I’ll have you any way I can get you. You know this!

“Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.”

“That was different,” she mumbles. And she frowns once more. “But, you might want to leave me.”

Now she’s being ridiculous.

“Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid—and you…” She stops.

Ana, I think that’s highly unlikely. “Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed. We’re not discussing it anymore. No prenup. Not now—not ever.”

I scramble through my thoughts, trying to find safer ground, and inspiration hits me. Turning to Grace, who’s wringing her hands and looking anxiously at me, I ask, “Mom, can we have the wedding here?”

Her expression shifts from alarm to joy and gratitude. “Darling. That would be wonderful.” And she adds as an afterthought, “You don’t want a church wedding?”

I give her a sideways look and she capitulates immediately.

“We’d love to host your wedding. Wouldn’t we, Cary?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” My father smiles benignly at both Ana and me, but I can’t look at him.

“Have you a date in mind?” Grace asks.

“Four weeks.”

“Christian. That’s not enough time!”

“It’s plenty of time.”

“I need at least eight!”

“Mom. Please.”

“Six?” she pleads.

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Grey,” Ana pipes up, and shoots a warning glance at me, daring me to contradict her.

“Six it is,” I state. “Thanks, Mom.”

Ana is quiet on the drive back to Seattle. She’s probably thinking about my outburst at Carrick this morning. Our argument from last