rong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake
my head, confused.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you
back, and I want you healthy,” he says softly.
What? What does that mean? “But nothing’s
changed.” You’re still fifty shades.
“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian
climbs out, lea一ving me speechless. He opens the car door
climbs out, lea一ving me speechless. He opens the car door
for me, and I clamber out.
“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I
expected.
“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.
“Say something like that and then just stop.”
“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s
do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in
the street.”
I flush and glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I
press my lips together as he glares down at me.
“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me
into the building.
We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark
wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It’s airy
and modern, and there are several people wandering
across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’s
work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp
that José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!
“Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’s
show.” A young woman dressed in black with very short
brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings
greets us. She glances briefly at me, then much longer than
is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me,
blinking as she blushes.
My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard not
to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks
again.
“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this,
too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to
too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to
a table laden with drinks and snacks.
How does she know my name?
“You know her?” Christian frowns.
I shake my head, equally puzzled.
He shrugs
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