The Life of Mrs. Fifty Shades | Chapter 4

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.

He tensed noticeably underneath me, the affection twisting his insides. When he couldn’t handle it any longer, he grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away. Sometimes he could handle my touch. And other times he couldn’t.


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