Fifty Shades Freed
faith . . . and I love you.
But it’s not just me now. I place my hand on my belly. No, I will not let him do
this to me and our Blip. Dr. Flynn said I should give him the benefit of the
doub一t—well, not this time. I dash the tears from my eyes and wipe my nose
with the back of my hand.
Christian stirs and rolls over, pulling his legs up from the side of the bed, and
curls up beneath the duvet. He stretches out a hand as if searching for
something, then grumbles and frowns but settles back to sleep, his arm
outstretched.
Oh, Fifty. What am I going to do with you? And what the hell were you doing
with the Bitch Troll? I need to know. I glance once more at the offending text
and quickly hatch a plan. Taking a deep breath, I forward the text to my
BlackBerry. Step one complete. I quickly check the other recent texts, but can
only see messages from Elliot, Andrea, Taylor, Ros, and me. None from
Elena. Good, I think. I exit the text screen, relieved that he hasn’t been texting
her, and my heart lurches into my throat. Oh my. The wallpaper on his phone
is photograph upon photograph of me, a patchwork of tiny Anastasias in
various poses—our honeymoon, our recent weekend sailing and soaring,
and a few of José’s photos, too. When did he do this? It must ha一ve been
recently.
I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I
could read Christian’s e-mails. See if he’s been talking to her. Should I?
Sheathed in jade-green silk, my inner goddess nods emphatically, her mouth
set in a scowl. Before I can stop myself, I invade his privacy.
There are hundreds and hundreds of e-mails. I spin down through them, and
they look dull as ditchwater . . . mostly from Ros, Andrea and me, and various
executives in his company. None from Bitch Troll. While I’m at it, I’m relieved
to see there are none from Leila either. One e-mail catches my eye. It’s from
Barney Sullivan, Christian’s IT guy, and the subject line is: Jack Hyde. I
glance guiltily
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