E p i l o g u e-1

6 days later... I look at my watch again. She'd be halfway across the Atlantic by now. She'd be sitting in first class, sipping her champagne and mentally adjusting to her new life in London. Her new life that didn't involve me. And what was I doing? Staring out the window at yet another dreary Seattle day, pining for her like some lovesick teenager. Again. I turn around to gaze again at the large painting on the far wall of my office. The Trouton. It had arrived three days ago with a note: I know you liked this one. Think of me when you look at it, please. I'll never forget what you mean to me. I'll never forget you. You know why I need to do this. Thank you for New York. Yours, always C ~ xx I'd memorised that note. I'd run what had felt like the circumference of Seattle with that note clutched in my hand like it was part of her. It hadn't changed a fucking thing. I didn't know why she had to do it. I knew nothing except that she was still gone. That's what I felt when I looked at the Trouton. Hopefully time would change that. She wasn't dead, but she may as well be. She hadn't chosen me. She'd chosen another life. And for that I couldn't blame her. Not really. When I'd suggested to her that night at The Bowery that we could have the fairytale she'd asked me to tell her what it looked like. Our Fairytale. I couldn't answer her. I'd simply stared at her in silence until she'd smiled that sad smile and asked if she'd be able to touch me in our fairytale. I hadn't been able to answer that either. I wanted her to touch me - I knew that much. So I'd said that, eventually. But in the end I hadn't been able to convince her that we could make it work. I hadn't convinced her that I could give her what she needed and wanted. Worse though, was that I also hadn't been able to tell her that I loved her. Those words had died on my tongue, helpless and wasted. I was a fucking coward. I'd been a coward 8 years ago and I'd been a coward six days ago, and I was still a coward today. Yet more proof that Gideon was right. People didn't change. The sound of the door opening rips me from my thoughts, thoughts as bleak as the weather and as dark as my fucking soul. Oh so I was poetic as well. The sound of a human toppling onto the marble floor by the door an instant later distracts me further. As I cross the room towards the noise, the delicate heap of crumpled limbs looks up at me, clearly mortified. Her eyes widen as she drinks me in, taking the measure of me. She looks surprised, perhaps even a little awed. Her face is one of powder blue eyes framed by pale skin and dark hair. Pretty. Innocent looking, and from her place on the floor gazing up at me from behind those wide eyes... submissive. "Miss Kavanagh, are you all right?" I stretch my hand down to her. She just gapes at me as though I've spoken a foreign language, before taking my hand, allowing me to pull her to her feet. "Christian Grey," I confirm, shaking her hand lightly. It's small and soft in mine and the tips cold. "I'm Anastasia Steele," she says quietly. Who? Where was Kavanagh's daughter? "Miss Kavanagh has the flu. She asked me to fill in for her, I hope you don't mind Mr Grey?" she asks. She sounds nervous, timid. I tilt my head and regard her curiously. "So then, you're studying journalism as well?" "No," she shakes her head. "English Lit... Kate's my roommate." Great. Just what I need - vacuous perfunctory questions from an unpracticed English Major. I had some more self-loathing to do before my next meeting which I suppose I'd now have to take out on her. "I see. As I said, I only have ten minutes, please, have a seat Miss Steele," I tell her as I motion for her to follow me, where she takes a seat across from my desk as I sit behind it. Her eyes go immediately to the Trouton Charlie sent me, apparently intrigued by it. As she stares at it, I stare at her. I suppose she's pretty in a mousey kind of way - delicate features with long dark hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail which would look better as a braid. She's about medium height with pale skin that reminds me of Charlie's. What colour were her eyes again? I'm not sure if I want them to be green or not. "Miss Steele?" I prompt and her head whips around to face me. Blue. Not green. Yes, that was better. Better for what Grey? Once she's fumbled her way through setting up the Dictaphone she hits me with her opening gambit. Which is of course to ask what I owe my success to. I have to stifle the urge to yawn. Seriously? This was the best she had? They'd harangued my people for this interview for months and this was the best she could come up with? I roll my eyes and give her the answer I usually give. That it was about being good at people. Not the real answer - which I now knew was to impress a girl. A girl who didn't want me. A girl who was gone. I tell her that motivating talented individuals was undoubtedly the key to success and ramble of some of my most used lines. The ones I gave all the time. The ones she could have looked up online. She's wasting my time. "So, you're a control freak?" She says, catching me off guard. I ponder the answer and try hide my smirk. "Oh, I exercise control in all things Miss Steele." I tell her. At that very moment a devilish image seeps into my mind, lightening some of the dark thoughts. One involving a cane and the backside of this pretty, pale girl sitting in front of me. I feel a tremor between my legs at the notion. Ok, now she has my attention. The girl is clearly smart, with a sharp mind and an attractive body that for some reason she's decided to hide behind a meek expression and dowdy clothes. But her eyes give her away. Behind them is something different, something more. They look innocent and submissive, yet with a boldness just dying to leap out. An intriguing combination. Just then, she bites delicately on her bottom lip as she goes back to asking me another predictable question, this time about my being adopted as a child. The sight of her biting her plump bottom lip exactly like Ch —. The sight of her doing that sends a jolt of heat straight between my legs like I hadn't felt in days. Six days to be precise. "That's a matter of public record." I tell her, distracted. Standing, I walk around the desk to stop in front of her, perching on the edge of it to watch as she reviews her next predictable question. The sight of her head bowed like that further ignites something deep inside of me. Who the fuck is this girl? "Do you have an actual question Miss Steele?" I ask, glancing briefly at my watch as encouragement. "Yes," she mutters looking up at me. "Are you gay?" Excuse me?