raordinary.
“If you were me, how would you feel about all this . . .
largesse coming your way?” I ask.
He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem in
a nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silence
stretches between us.
Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he
looks genuinely bemused.
My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades,
surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes. Well, now I
know.
“It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous,
but it makes me uncomfortable. I ha一ve told you this
enough times.”
He sighs. “I want to give you the world, Anastasia.”
“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”
“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”
“They’re part of the deal. Part of what I am.”
Oh, this is going nowhere.
“Shall we eat?” I ask. This tension between us is
draining.
He frowns. “Sure.”
“I’ll cook.”
“Good. Otherwise there’s food in the fridge.”
“Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold
cuts most weekends?”
“No.”
“Oh?”
He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”
“Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? I
smile sweetly at him. “What would Sir like to eat?”
He smirks. “Whatever Madam can find,” he says
darkly.
Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide
Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide
on Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—
perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study,
no doub一t invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy
and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and
lea一ves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He
really knows no bounds.
I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going to
cook unsubmissively! I wander over to the iPod dock
beside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I bet
there are more of Leila’s choices on here,—I dread the
very idea.
Where is she? I wonder. What does she want?