My coffee was waiting on my desk when I walked inside. The
basket on the counter contained the manuscripts my editor in chief and
assistant editor had already perused before they handed them over for my
opinion.
The manuscript I had been reading yesterday sat in the
center of my desk. The sticky note was absent this time.
I sat down and sipped my coffee before I shoved the
manuscript to the edge. I had emails to write before I could indulge in the
rest of this fantastic story Mr. Colton wrote.
Denise rapped her knuckles on the door before she walked
inside. “Good morning, Ana.”
“Good morning, Denise.” I gave her a beaming smile. Denise
was one of my favorite people in the world. She made my job a million times
easier. Without her, I wouldn’t know what to do. “Were you able to get a
meeting with Mr. Colton?”
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.” She shut the
door behind her before she approached my desk. She lowered her voice even
though no one else could hear our conversation. “He’s no longer interested in
publishing with Grey Publishing House.”
I stared at her blankly, feeling my heart drop straight into
my stomach. The disappointment was paramount, and that made me realize how much
I had to have this book. I’d never been so emotionally attached to anything
since Jane Eyre. “Did he say why?”
Denise shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. He just said he
was no longer interested but flattered to be considered. He was very polite.”
Why submit a manuscript then reject an offer? It didn’t make
any sense. “Can you give me his contact information?”
“Of course.” She retrieved the note before she set it on my
desk. “Anything else, Ana?”
“No. That will be all.”
Denise smiled before she walked out.
I grabbed the paper and stared at the phone number
underneath his name. The area code implied he lived in Washington, possibly Seattle.
I steeled my nerve before I picked up the phone and made the call.
After the fourth ring, he answered. “Colton.”
Without seeing his face, I pictured a man of my own age. His
voice belied his youth. After reading the manuscript, I assumed he was middle
aged, a man with years of wisdom under his belt. “Hi. My name is Ana.” His
voice caught me off guard. I was expecting one thing and got something
completely different.
“Hi, Ana.” He spoke with confidence, like my awkward
introduction wasn’t weird. “How may I help you?”
“I’m calling from Grey Publishing House. You submitted your
manuscript to us just a few weeks ago. I have to say, I was really mesmerized
with it. We get a lot of great books here, but I’m particularly fascinated with
yours.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” He remained polite, but he
didn’t seem to care about what I said. It meant nothing to him, it seemed. “It
took me two years to write, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
“And thank you for writing it.” If it never saw publication,
at least I got to enjoy it. “I was hoping you and I could get together and talk
about it. Do you have some time this afternoon? Perhaps tomorrow?” I wasn’t a
salesman, but I knew I had to be a little aggressive.
“I spoke to Denise yesterday and told her I wasn’t
interested in going further in the process. However, I am flattered you took
interest in my story. Thank you for calling, Ana.”
If a publishing house called me about my manuscript, I’d be
over-the-moon. The fact he didn’t care at all was shocking. “Wait, hold on.” I
listened for the click at the end of the line but it never came. “I would still
love to meet the man who authored this fine piece of work. Surely, you can
spare a moment for a cup of coffee?” He seemed confident but not cold. He might
agree.
“Wow. It’s not every day that you catch the eye of the owner
of a publishing house.”
How did he know I owned it? Or at least my husband did? “Is
that a yes?”
He sighed into the phone. “Well, I do have some time in
about an hour. Does that work for you?”
“Absolutely.” I was making this deal happen. It didn’t
matter what it cost. “How about The Roast in Pike’s Market?”
“Good choice,” he said. “They have great coffee.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Alright.” He hung up.
I returned the phone to the receiver and tried to think of a
way I was going to convince this man to hand over his manuscript. Sometimes
authors didn’t trust the way a publisher would handle their books. But I needed
this man to trust me. Because this was a book every person in the world should
read. Yes, it was that good.
Denise walked into my office with a stack of folders I
needed to look through. “Mr. Grey is on the line for you.”
Seriously? I just saw him less than an hour ago. “Thank
you.”
She walked out and shut the door.
I picked up the phone. “Hello.”
He paused before he spoke. “Hello.”
Silence. Tense silence. We hadn’t said a word to each other
since he spanked me and fucked me in his playroom. We went home and spent time
with our two children before bed. Then we went to work the next morning, both
satisfied and spent.
Christian broke the silence. “I hope you aren’t
uncomfortable today.”
I knew what he was referring to. “My behind feels fine.
Thanks for asking.”
“You know I’m always considerate.” He went silent over the
line, his eyes probably gazing across the city. He was looking at my building
just a few blocks over. Somehow, I could feel his gaze.
“Anything else you want to say?”
“Do I need a reason to call my wife?”
“When I just saw you an hour, you didn’t seem talkative.”
“Because I was busy looking at you.”
I let his words echo in my mind long after he said them.
“I want to meet at the apartment after work.” He didn’t ask
me. He didn’t give me a choice. He bossed me around—like always.
“That’s nice.” I always called him out on his behavior. He
continually tried to control me. And I sidestepped every attempt. “Maybe I’ll
meet you there. Maybe I won’t. I haven’t been asked yet.”
His irritation was palpable. “Anastasia, would you like to
meet at the apartment this afternoon?”
“No.” I loved our fun in the playroom. I loved the places he
took my body. He could make me writhe in an orgasm that made me scream at the
top of my lungs. But he wanted that playroom a lot more lately. And I wanted
something else. “Vanilla.”
“Vanilla.” His disappointment flooded over the line. “You
got vanilla earlier this week.”
“I want dinner. I want flowers.” A nice spanking always felt
good. But a romantic dinner with my husband sounded better. “You can pick me up
at six.”
Christian remained silent as he deliberated my offer. He
could argue his point or just accept the fact I wanted something different
tonight. If he fought me, I would just fight harder. The ball was in his court.
“Where would you like to go?”
I smiled in victory. “You know I leave those choices up to
you.”
***
I arrived at the coffee shop with the manuscript stashed in
my purse. I had no idea what this man looked like, so I searched for a
stereotypical nerd. Someone with glasses and a jacket made of tweed.
I stepped further inside the café and listened to the piano
music playing overhead. The blender went on randomly, disturbing the soft noise
of the café with chopping ice.
I spotted a man sitting in the corner. He had dark brown
hair with fair skin. He wore a white t-shirt with a faint design on the front.
He seemed young enough to be in college, possibly getting his master’s degree.
Was it him?
When he felt my gaze, he looked up and spotted me. He looked
me over before he waved me over.
Did he know who I was?
I approached the table with my purse over my shoulder.
“Hi…Colton?”
“That’s me.” He stood up and shook my hand. “I thought you
might be Ana. You definitely looked like you were searching for someone.” He
sat down again and closed his laptop.
Was he writing another story?
I sat down too and pulled the manuscript out of my purse.
“Thanks for meeting me.”
“I didn’t have a choice. You were adamant.” He smiled with
his eyes so I knew he was teasing.
“I’m not normally adamant. I’m just in love with your
story.”
“Thank you. I’ve never showed it to anyone before, so you’re
my only feedback.”
My mouth gaped open. “You’ve never shown this to anyone?”
He shook his head. “You’re the first.”
“I feel more special now.”
He stared at the thick slab of paper between us.
“Can I ask you a few questions about it?”
“Fire away.”
Now that I had the floor, I asked questions about the story
and his writing process. The characters were so well detailed they seemed to be
real. His craftsmanship was timeless, but his story was so modern. It was
disconcerting but impressive at the same time.
“I’ve always wanted to write a book so I did it. But now
that I’ve done it, I’m ready to move on.”
My mouth fell open again. “But you’re a phenomenal writer.”
“Thank you for saying that. But I honestly don’t think I
have the motivation to write another book. I put all my ideas and thoughts into
this one piece. I don’t have any juice left.”
“Maybe you would feel differently if you sat down and gave
it a try.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I knew I overstepped. “I’m sorry. I’m just an obsessive fan.”
“Do you write, Ana?”
“No…just read.” I didn’t have the talent or the patience to
put something on paper. I could read stories and critique them—but that was it.
“Writing is a painful process. Every emotion your characters
feel, you feel it too. It’s not something to take lightly. Perhaps if I were
writing a comedy, I’d feel differently about it.”
“I couldn’t even begin to imagine…”
“Thank you for your interest, but I don’t think I’m going to
share that with the world. It was a personal project. Something to check off my
bucket list.”
“Then why did you submit it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I was curious to see
what happened.”
“So you were never serious about publishing?”
“I wouldn’t say that. In the beginning I was. But after
months with no response, I gave up on the idea.”
He submitted this months ago? “We receive a high volume of
submissions every day. It’s difficult to get to each one in a timely manner.”
“I understand that,” he said. “But I’ve moved on with my
life and stopped thinking about it.”
How did I change his mind? “I really think this could sell.
I think this could be the next great American novel.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m no longer interested.”
There was something he wasn’t telling me. “May I ask why?”
“I don’t mean this in an offensive way so please don’t take
it as such…”
I steeled my nerve and protected my ego.
“I don’t feel comfortable handing my story over to a
publishing house. I’ve heard horror stories about it. Authors don’t have any
input on the cover, the manuscript is changed against their will, and there’s
always something in the fine print.”
“I don’t know where you’ve heard these stories, but I can
promise you Grey Publishing House is nothing like that.”
He shrugged slightly, unresponsive. “I appreciate what
you’re trying to do. And truly, I’m flattered. But you’re wasting your time,
Ana.” He grabbed the manuscript sitting on the table and tucked it under his
arm. “Have a good day.” He excused himself and walked out, leaving me to stare
at the wall where his head had been just a moment before.
***
When Christian walked in the door, I knew he was angry. That
dark look was in his eyes, changing his them from gray to endless black. His
jaw was tense and his shoulders were stiff.
“What?”
He stood with his arms by his sides.
I was still disappointed by losing a potential client. There
was nothing I could offer him because he didn’t want anything. He was both
infuriating and respectable. My mood had been sour all afternoon.
And now it was going to become even more sour.
I grabbed my purse and walked out with Christian walking
beside me. His hands remained at his sides, and he didn’t wrap his arm around
my waist like he normally would. He was keeping his distance—for a reason.
We got into the R8 at the street, and Taylor drove us to the
restaurant. Christian rested his hands on his thighs and stared out the window.
Like the weather was intentionally mirroring his emotions, it started to rain.
Drops splattered against the window as we drove through the city. I tightened my
jacket around me to fight the cold.
Without looking at me, Christian spoke. “Taylor, turn up the
heat. Mrs. Grey is cold.”
Taylor did as he asked.
I could have asked myself. He didn’t need to be my voice.
But I didn’t have the energy to argue. I needed to reserve it for whatever
Christian had in mind.
We arrived at the restaurant and walked inside. The host
immediately guided us to a table even though there were several people waiting
in the lobby. We were guided to a private table near the back corner, away from
prying eyes.
Chivalrous, he pulled out my chair and helped me sit down
before he sat across from me. He ordered the wine without asking what I wanted,
and he immediately ordered an appetizer on top of that. He was probably in a
hurry to get this date over with.
A piano played in the background and filled the air in the
restaurant with quiet tunes. People spoke together at nearby tables, and the
sound of their knives and forks rubbed against the pristine dishes.
Christian stared at me hard—a nightmare deep in his eyes.
I held his gaze and refused to back down. The only way to
deal with the beast was to look him in the eye and hold my ground.
He finally spoke, his voice heavy with disdain. “Who is he?”
Cryptic as ever. “Be more specific.”
“There’s more than one?” He didn’t touch his wine even
though he would have normally finished half of it by now. “I don’t think taking
you over my knee will be enough this time.”
“Spit it out, Christian.”
His eyes narrowed, both in heat and anger. “The man you had
coffee with at 12:05.” His fingers rested on the table and he slowly drummed
his fingers across the surface. The gesture was slight but just as threatening.
“He’s an author.” His jealousy and possessiveness would
never disappear. As the wife and mother of his children, he was borderline
insane. If someone even looked at me wrong, it rubbed him the wrong way.
“And you couldn’t speak to him at Grey Publishing House? You
had to go out for a drink?”
“Not a drink. Coffee.”
“Last time I checked, coffee was a drink.”
I didn’t bother asking how he got his information. Taylor
probably followed me—as instructed. “He’s not interested in publishing with us.
I was trying to persuade him to change his mind.”
That was obviously the wrong thing to say because he looked
angrier. “And you don’t have a secretary to do that? Other employees?”
“He wouldn’t meet with them. So I got involved.”
He tapped his knuckles harder. “And what did you
accomplish?”
“Nothing.” Unfortunately. “He doesn’t want to publish his
book at all. And that’s a shame because it’s one of the best books I’ve ever
read.”
Christian was silent, his anger palpable.
“We talked for thirty minutes before he left. There’s
nothing else to say.”
He wasn’t satisfied with that. It was clear in his eyes.
“You should return to having your meetings in the conference room or in your
office—not out in public on a date.”
“You should stop spying on me.”
His fingers froze. “I exercise control in all things, Ana.
You know that.”
“I’m not a thing—you
know that.”
He tilted his head slightly, impressed by what I said.
“You’re my wife. You’re my possession. And I take care of things that belong to
me.”
“Spying isn’t synonymous with caring for someone.”
“I wasn’t spying, Mrs. Grey.”
“If Taylor followed me and conveyed that information, then
yes, you were spying.”
“There’s nothing wrong with keeping you safe.”
I finally took a sip of my wine, eager for the alcohol to
kick in. “Can we have a nice dinner now? You’ve interrogated me enough.”
“You won’t see him again.” He narrowed his eyes, exerting
his control subtly.
“Probably not.”
“Probably?” he asked coldly.
“If he changes his mind about the book, I’d love to have him
as a client. He’s a young man but has the soul of someone decades beyond his
age. It’s fascinating.”
“Fascinating?” His hand balled into a fist.
“You have no reason to be jealous, Christian. I wear my
wedding ring everywhere I go. And most people recognize me as your wife
anyway.”
“That’s the problem, Mrs. Grey. Most men don’t care.”
“And not every man is attracted to me.” I could tell Colton
wasn’t. He viewed me as a nuisance.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Every man wants to fuck you—just
the way I do.” He finally grabbed his wine and took a drink.
I watched his throat as the wine moved down it. He didn’t
shave that morning and his five o’ clock shadow was coming in thick. “I’m done
with this conversation.” I finally grabbed an oyster from the plate between us
and tried to ignore his haughty stare.
“You’ll be punished for this later, Ana.”
I didn’t falter in my movements. “Then you should be
punished for having beautiful employees like Andrea all over the place. This is
a two-way street. I could easily be jealous of all the women in your life. But
I’m not. If I can get over that, you can get over this.”
“Not the same thing.
You know I don’t care for blondes.”
“But they care for you.”
***
Phoebe fell asleep against my chest while I lay on the
couch. The book was open in one hand, and I read the lines and tried to turn the
page with my thumb. My other hand was tucked her bottom so she wouldn’t
roll off.
Christian sat on the floor with Teddy. A race car track was
in front of them, battery powered so the cars would drive around the track
endlessly.
“Dad, you wanna race?”
Christian studied his son, seeing the gray eyes that matched
his own. He was quiet with the children, observing them with thoughtfulness. Sometimes, he seemed distant, like he couldn’t comprehend they
were truly in front of him. He watched every move he made before he interacted
with them. “Sure.”
Teddy picked the red car, his favorite one. “This is mine.”
He rolled it around the hardwood floor and accidentally let it slip under the
couch.
Christian froze, his eyes wide open and a shadow of a thought
passing across them. He stiffened noticeably, his eyes turning gray with
pain.
“Stupid car.” Teddy crawled across the ground until he stuck
his arm under the couch. He fished for his car until he pulled it out.
Christian didn’t move.
“What car are you going to race?” Teddy returned to the race
track and set his car in the starting position.
Christian was silent.
Teddy looked up. “Daddy?”
Christian finally snapped out of it. “The blue one.” He
grabbed the car and placed it beside Teddy’s.
“3…2…1…go!”
***
Christian got ready for bed. He wore his pajama bottoms
without a shirt. His face was clean-shaven, but he still appeared rugged.
I closed the book I was reading and placed it on the
nightstand. “What happened earlier?”
“Nothing.” He pulled back the covers and got into bed beside
me. He stuck to his side of the bed, distant all over again.
“With the car. I saw your face.”
“You didn’t see anything.”
“Yes, I did.” I couldn’t read his mind, but I understood his moods.
They infected the air around him, announcing his anger like a blaring alarm.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
He stared at the ceiling while his hand rested on his
stomach. “I remember playing with toy cars when I was with the crack whore.
They were the only toys I had.” He fell silent, telling me that was all he was
willing to share.
“You aren’t your mother.” I never wanted him to think such a
thing. He was great with our two children. Some days he was closed off and the
kids didn’t understand why, but most of the time, he was there—emotionally
ready for them.
“I know, Ana. They say your demons die and your nightmares
fade away…but they never do.”
I moved to his side of the bed and curled up against his side. I
ran my fingers through the small patch of hair on his chest. I pressed my lips
against his shoulder, wanting to comfort him in the only way I knew how.
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