Chapter 151 (1/2)

The elevator doors open and Ana heads straight in. She looks around at me—and for a moment her mask slips, and there it is: my pain reflected on her beautiful face.

No…. Ana. Don’t go.

“Good-bye, Christian.”

“Ana…good-bye.”

The doors close, and she’s gone.

I sink slowly to the floor and put my head in my hands. The void is now cavernous and aching, overwhelming me.

Grey, what the hell have you done?

WHEN I LOOK UP again, the paintings in my foyer, my Madonnas, bring a mirthless smile to my lips. The idealization of motherhood. All of them gazing at their infants, or staring inauspiciously down at me.

They’re right to look at me that way. She’s gone. She’s really gone. The best thing that ever happened to me. After she said she’d never leave. She promised me she’d never leave. I close my eyes, shutting out those lifeless, pitying stares, and tip my head back against the wall. Okay, she said it in her sleep—and like the fool I am, I believed her. I’ve always known deep down I was no good for her, and she was too good for me. This is how it should be.

Then why do I feel like shit? Why is this so painful?

The chime announcing the arrival of the elevator forces my eyes open again, and my heart leaps into my mouth. She’s back. I sit paralyzed, waiting, and the doors pull back—and Taylor steps out and momentarily freezes.

Hell. How long have I been sitting here?

“Miss Steele is home, Mr. Grey,” he says, as if he addresses me while I’m prostrate on the floor every day.

“How was she?” I ask, as dispassionately as I can, though I really want to know.

“Upset, sir,” he says, showing no emotion whatsoever.

I nod, dismissing him. But he doesn’t leave.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asks, much too kindly for my liking.

“No.” Go. Leave me alone.

“Sir,” he says, and he exits, leaving me slouched on the foyer floor.

Much as I’d like to sit here all day and wallow in my despair, I can’t. I want an update from Welch, and I need to call Leila’s poor excuse for a husband.

And I need a shower. Perhaps this agony will wash away in the shower.

As I stand I touch the wooden table that dominates the foyer, my fingers absentmindedly tracing its delicate marquetry. I’d have liked to fuck Miss Steele over this. I close my eyes, imagining her sprawled across this table, her head held back, chin up, mouth open in ecstasy, and her luscious hair pooling over the edge. Shit, it makes me hard just thinking about it.

Fuck.

The pain in my gut twists and tightens.

She’s gone, Grey. Get used to it.

And drawing on years of enforced control, I bring my body to heel.

THE SHOWER IS BLISTERING, the temperature just a notch below painful, the way I like it. I stand beneath the cascade, trying to forget her, hoping this heat will scorch her out of my head and wash her scent off my body.