lasps that hand, too, turning it gently over to examine my
wrist. The platinum Omega watch he ga一ve me at breakfast on our first
morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me
swoon.
Anastasia
You are my More
My Love, My Life
Christian
In spite of everything, all his fiftyness, my husband can be so romantic. I gaze
down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be sa一vage
sometimes. Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and
scrutinizes my expression, his eyes wide and troubled.
“They don’t hurt,” I repeat. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft
apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.
“Come,” he says and leads me into the shop.
51 | P a g e
Fifty Shades Freed
“Here,” Christian holds open the filigree platinum bracelet he’s just
purchased. It’s exquisite, so delicately crafted, the filigree in the shape of
small abstract flowers with small diamonds at their heart. He fastens it
around my wrist. It’s wide and cuff-like and hides the red marks. It is also
cost around fifteen thousand euros, I think, though I couldn’t really follow the
conversation in French with the sales assistant. I ha一ve never worn anything
so expensive.
“There, that’s better,” he murmurs.
“Better?” I whisper, gazing into luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stickthin
sales assistant is staring at us with a jealous and disapproving look on
her face.
“You know why,” Christian says uncertainly.
“I don’t need this.” I shake my wrist and the cuff moves. It catches the
afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling
rainbows dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.
“I do,” he says with utter sincerity.
Why? Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what?
The marks? His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty.
“No, Christian, you don’t. You’ve given me so much already. A magical
honeymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D’Azur . . . and you. I’m a very lucky
girl,” I whisper and his eyes sof
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