Total pages in book: 262
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
Subject: Visitors
Date: September 6 2011 15:27
To: Christian Grey
Christian
Leila is here to see me. I will see her with Prescott.
I’ll use my newly acquired slapping skills with my now-healed hand, should I need to.
Try, and I mean try, not to worry.
I am a big girl.
Will call once we’ve spoken.
A x
Anastasia Grey
Editor, SIP
What!
Leila?
Fuck!
I dial Ana’s number immediately.
No fucking way is she meeting with Leila.
The phone rings and rings, ignored by Ana, and my blood pressure climbs with each unanswered chime until it reaches a dizzying height. Eventually her voice mail kicks in, asking me to leave a message. I hang up, not trusting myself to speak.
Hell.
I check Taylor’s text.
TAYLOR
Mrs. Grey is meeting with Leila Williams.
Prescott is attending the meeting.
I’m heading to the car.
Prescott must have told him. “Andrea!” My bellow practically shakes the window behind me. I text Taylor back.
You going to SIP?
Andrea doesn’t bother to knock and comes barreling into my office.
“Mr. Grey?”
“Get me Ana’s assistant on the line. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
What the hell is Leila playing at? She knows this is forbidden. And as for Prescott—Leila is on the watch list, she knows this is prohibited.
My office phone buzzes and Andrea puts Hannah through.
“Mr. Grey, good afternoon.” Hannah sounds irritatingly cheery.
“I need to speak to my wife. Now.” I am not in the mood for pleasantries.
“Oh. Um. I’m afraid she’s in a meeting.”
I’m going to have a coronary. “I’m fully aware of that. Get her out of the meeting.”
“Um. I’m not—”
“Do it, now, or you’re fired,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaks, and the phone clatters to her desk, the noise an assault on my eardrum.
Shit.
I’m left hanging. Waiting once more for Anastasia Stee—Grey.
My fingers drum a frantic tattoo on my desk.
Perhaps I should just get up and go.
That’s absurd.
Did John speak to Leila?
My BlackBerry buzzes.
TAYLOR
I’m in the car. Outside.
Wait for me.
TAYLOR
Copy.
I don’t understand what Prescott is playing at. How did she let this happen?
The phone scrapes along the desk and is dropped back onto the hard surface, the noise deafening again.
Fucking hell. Hannah is clumsy!
“Um. M-Mr. Grey?”
“Yes.” The word hisses out at her in frustration.
Get on with it!
“Ana says she’s sorry, but she’s b-busy and she’ll c-call you b-back shortly.”
Jesus Christ. She’s a tongue-tied mess.
“Fine,” I snap, and hang up.
Shit. What to do?
Prescott! Of course.
Ana said Prescott would be in the meeting with her. She has a phone, though I don’t think I have her number. “Andrea!” I shout once more, and a moment later she’s in the doorway, her demeanor tentative. “Get me Prescott on her mobile.”
Andrea looks momentarily baffled, and I think I’m going to explode.
“Belinda Prescott, Ana’s security,” I snap. “Now!”
“Ah, yes.” Andrea disappears.
Don’t be an asshole, Grey.
Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm myself, I get up and pace behind my desk, knowing it will be a moment before Andrea has Prescott’s number. I’m suffocated by my anxiety. Loosening my tie, I undo my top button to ameliorate the situation. But an image of Leila—bedraggled and destitute, holding a gun at Ana—remains at the forefront of my mind.
It’s torture.
My anger and apprehension rise several notches on the Richter scale.
When my phone rings, I grab it. “Mrs. Grey’s security for you,” Andrea says.
“Mr. Grey,” Prescott says.
“Prescott, I cannot begin to articulate how disappointed I am in you right now. Let me talk my wife.”
“Yes, sir,” she answers.
There’s a beat of muffled chatter. “Christian,” Ana snaps, and from her tone I know she’s on her high-fucking-horse, condescending to talk to me.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” I bark down the phone.
“Don’t shout at me.” Her retort only fuels my temper.
“What do you mean, don’t shout at you?” My voice bellows around the room and into the phone. “I gave specific instructions, which you have completely disregarded—again. Hell, Ana, I am fucking furious.”
“When you are calmer, we will talk about this.”
Oh, no! “Don’t you hang up on me!”
“Good-bye, Christian.”
“Ana! Ana!” The line is dead, and I think I’m going to erupt like Mount St. Helens. Incandescent with fury, I grab my jacket and my phone, and storm out of my office. “Cancel the rest of my meetings today,” I growl at Andrea. “And let Taylor know I’m on my way down.”
“Yes, sir.”
The elevator takes an eternal sixteen seconds to arrive. I know because I count each and every one in an effort to rein in my temper. After I step in and jab the button for the lobby, I clench my fists so tightly that my fingernails dig into my palms, and I know I have lost the fight. Andrea glances up, consternation writ large on her face, but I remain impassive, ignoring her as the doors close.
I am ready to do battle.
With my wife.
Again.
And with Leila. What the fuck is she thinking?
Taylor is standing by the car, holding the door open. I’m grateful that at least he’s on the case. We drive in silence to SIP as my anger simmers, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. From the back of the car I call Flynn’s office, but I get his secretary Janet’s voice mail. I hang up, frustrated that I can’t even vent my anger on Flynn.