nce more, this time with a combination of disbelief
and awe.
“This way, ma’am,” she whispers, and leads me to a small, sparsely
furnished office walled with more green-etched glass.
“Please take a seat.” She gestures to a black leather chair by a glass desk
bearing a state-of-the-art computer and phone. “How much will you be
withdrawing today, Mrs. Grey?” she asks pleasantly.
“Five million dollars.” I look her straight in the eye as if I ask for this amount of
cash every day.
She blanches. “I see. I’ll fetch the manager. Oh, forgive me for asking, but do
you ha一ve ID?”
“I do. But I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“Of course, Mrs. Grey.” She scurries out. I sink into the seat, and a wa一ve of
nausea washes over me as the gun presses uncomfortably into the small of
my back . Not now. I can’t be sick now. I take a deep cleansing breath, and
the wa一ve passes. Nervously, I check my watch. Twenty-five past two.
A middle-aged man enters the room. He has a receding hairline, but wears a
sharp, expensive charcoal suit and matching tie. He holds out his hand.
“Mrs. Grey. I’m Troy Whelan.” He smiles, we shake, and he sits down at the
desk opposite me.
“My colleague tells me you’d like to withdraw a large amount of money.”
“That’s correct. Five million dollars.”
He turns to his sleek computer and taps in a few numbers.
“We normally ask for some notice for large amounts of money.” He pauses,
and flashes me a reassuring but supercilious smile.
“Fortunately, however, we hold the cash reserve for the entire Pacific
Northwest,” he boasts. Jeez, is he trying to impress me?
“Mr. Whelan, I’m in a hurry. What do I need to do? I ha一ve my driver’s license,
and our joint account checkbook. Do I just write a check?”
“First things first, Mrs. Grey. May I see the ID?” He switches from jovial showoff
to serious banker.
“Here.” I hand over my license.
418 | P a g e
E L JAMES
“Mrs. Grey . . . this says Anastasia Steele.”
Oh shit.
“Oh . . . yes. Um.”
“I’ll call Mr. Grey.”
“Oh no, that won’t be ne
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