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Very quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, I tell him about our weekend in Aspen and about last weekend when we were soaring and sailing aboard The Grace. I tell him about our new house, our plans, about how we hope to make it ecologically sustainable. I promise to take him with us to Aspen so he can go fishing with Christian and assure him that Mr. Rodriguez and José will both be welcome, too . Please be here to do that, Daddy. Please.

Ray remains immobile, the ventilator sucking and expelling and the monotonous but reassuring beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor his only response.

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When I look up, Christian is sitting quietly at the end of the bed. I don’t know how long he’s been there.

“Hi,” he says, his eyes glowing with compassion and concern.

“Hi.”

“So, I’m going fishing with your dad, Mr. Rodriguez, and José?” he asks.

I nod.

“Okay. Let’s go eat. Let him sleep.”

I frown. I don’t want to leave him.

“Ana, he’s in a coma. I’ve given our cell numbers to the nurses here. If there’s any change, they’ll call us. We’ll eat, check into a hotel, rest up, then come back this evening.”

The suite at the Heathman looks just as I remember it. How often have I thought about that first night and morning I spent with Christian Grey? I stand in the entrance to the suite, paralyzed. Jeez, it all started here.

“Home away from home,” says Christian, his voice soft, putting my briefcase down beside one of the overstuffed couches.

“Do you want a shower? A bath? What do you need, Ana?” Christian gazes at me, and I know he’s rudderless—my lost boy dealing with events beyond his control. He’s been withdrawn and contemplative all afternoon. This is a situation he cannot manipulate and predict. This is real life in the raw, and he’s kept himself from that for so long, he’s exposed and helpless now. My sweet, sheltered Fifty Shades.

“A bath. I’d like a bath.” I murmur, aware that keeping him busy will make him feel better, useful even. Oh, Christian—I’m numb and I’m cold and I’m scared, but I’m so glad you’re here with me.

“Bath. Good. Yes.” He strides into the bedroom and out of sight into the pala-tial bathroom. A few moments later, the roar of water gushing to fill the tub echoes from the room.

Finally, I galvanize myself to follow him into the bedroom. I’m dismayed to see several bags from Nordstrom on the bed. Christian reenters, sleeves rolled up, tie and jacket discarded.

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“I sent Taylor to get some things. Nightwear. You know,” he says, eyeing me warily.

Of course he did. I nod my approval to make him feel better. Where is Taylor?

“Oh, Ana,” Christian murmurs. “I’ve not seen you like this. You’re normally so brave and strong.”

I don’t know what to say. I merely gaze wide-eyed at him. I have nothing to give right now. I think I’m in shock. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep the pervading cold at bay, even though I know it’s a fruitless task as this cold comes from within. Christian pulls me into his arms.

“Baby, he’s alive. His vital signs are good. We just have to be patient,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. Gently, he slips my jacket off my shoulders and places it on the bathroom chair, then turning back, he undoes the buttons on my shirt.

The water is deliciously warm and fragrant, the smell of lotus blossom heavy in the warm, sultry air of the bathroom. I lie between Christian’s legs, my back to his front, my feet resting on top of his. We’re both quiet and introspective, and I’m finally feeling warm. Intermittently Christian kisses my hair as I absentmindedly pop the bubbles in the foam. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders.

“You didn’t get into the bath with Leila, did you? That time you bathed her?” I ask.

He stiffens and snorts, his hand tightening on my shoulder where it rests.

“Um . . . no.” He sounds astounded.

“I thought so. Good.”

He tugs gently at my hair knotted in a crude bun, tilting my head around so he can see my face. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “Morbid curiosity. I don’t know . . . seeing her this week.” His face hardens. “I see. Less of the morbid.” His tone is reproachful.

“How long are you going to support her?

“Until she’s on her feet. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Why?”

“Are there others?”

“Others?”

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“Exes who you support.”

“There was one, yes. No longer though.”

“Oh?”

“She was studying to be a doctor. She’s qualified now and has someone else.”

“Another Dominant?”

“Yes.”

“Leila says you have two of her paintings,” I whisper.

“I used to. I didn’t really care for them. They had technical merit, but they were too colorful for me. I think Elliot has them. As we know, he has no taste.” I giggle, and he wraps his other arm around me, sloshing water over the side of the bath.

“That’s better,” he whispers and kisses my temple.

“He’s marrying my best friend.”

“Then I’d better shut my mouth,” he says.