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“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

He gazes down at me, eyes soft. “I can hardly believe he’s been with us for two years.”

“I know.” I kiss him, and for a moment, I’m transported back to Teddy’s birth: the emergency caesarian, Christian’s crippling anxiety, Dr. Greene’s no-nonsense calm when my Little Blip was in distress. I shudder inwardly at the memory.

“Mrs. Grey, you’ve been in labor for fifteen hours now. Your contractions have slowed in spite of the Pitocin. We need to do a C-section—the baby is in distress.” Dr. Greene is adamant.

“About fucking time!” Christian growls at her. Dr. Greene ignores him.

518/551

“Christian, quiet.” I squeeze his hand. My voice is low and weak and everything is fuzzy—the walls, the machines, the green-gowned people . . . I just want to go to sleep. But I have something important to do first . . . Oh yes. “I wanted to push him out myself.”

“Mrs. Grey, please. C-section.”

“Please, Ana,” Christian pleads.

“Can I sleep then?”

“Yes, baby, yes.” It’s almost a sob, and Christian kisses my forehead.

“I want to see the Lil’ Blip.”

“You will.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Finally,” Dr. Greene mutters. “Nurse, page the anesthesiologist. Dr. Miller, prep for a C-section. Mrs. Grey, we are going to move you to the OR.”

“Move?” Christian and I speak at once.

“Yes. Now.”

And suddenly we’re moving—quickly, the lights on the ceiling blurring into one long bright strip as I’m whisked across the corridor.

“Mr. Grey, you’ll need to change into scrubs.”

“What?”

“Now, Mr. Grey.”

He squeezes my hand and releases me.

“Christian,” I call, panic setting in.

We are through another set of doors, and in no time a nurse is setting up a screen across my chest. The door opens and closes, and there’s so many people in the room. It’s so loud . . . I want to go home.

“Christian?” I search the faces in the room for my husband.

“He’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs. Grey.”

A moment later, he’s beside me, in blue scrubs, and I reach for his hand.

“I’m frightened,” I whisper.

“No, baby, no. I’m here. Don’t be frightened. Not my strong Ana.” He kisses my forehead, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that something’s wrong.

“What is it?”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

519/551

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Baby, you’re just exhausted.” His eyes burn with fear.

“Mrs. Grey, the anesthesiologist is here. He’s going to adjust your epidural, and then we can proceed.”

“She’s having another contraction.”

Everything tightens like a steel band around my belly. Shit! I crush Christian’s hand as I ride it out. This is what’s tiring—enduring this pain. I am so tired. I can feel the numbing liquid spread . . . spread down. I concentrate on Christian’s face. On the furrow between his brows. He’s tense. He’s worried. Why is he worried?

“Can you feel this, Mrs. Grey?” Dr. Greene’s disembodied voice is coming from behind the curtain.

“Feel what?”

“You can’t feel it.”

“No.”

“Good. Dr. Miller, let’s go.”

“You’re doing well, Ana.”

Christian is pale. There is sweat on his brow. He’s scared. Don’t be scared, Christian. Don’t be scared.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Oh, Ana,” he sobs. “I love you, too, so much.” I feel a strange pulling deep inside. Like nothing I’ve felt before. Christian looks over the screen and blanches, but stares, fascinated.

“What’s happening?”

“Suction! Good . . .”

Suddenly, there’s a piercing angry cry.

“You have a boy, Mrs. Grey. Check his Apgar.”

“Apgar is nine.”

“Can I see him?” I gasp.

Christian disappears from view for a second and reappears a moment later, holding my son, swathed in blue. His face is pink, and covered in white mush and blood. My baby. My Blip . . . Theodore Raymond Grey.

When I glance at Christian, he has tears in his eyes.

“Here’s your son, Mrs. Grey,” he whispers, his voice strained and hoarse.

“Our son,” I breathe. “He’s beautiful.”

520/551

“He is,” Christian says and plants a kiss on our beautiful boy’s forehead beneath a shock of dark hair. Theodore Raymond Grey is oblivious. Eyes closed, his earlier crying forgotten, he’s asleep. He is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. So beautiful, I begin to weep.

“Thank you, Ana,” Christian whispers, and there are tears in his eyes too.

“What is it?” Christian tilts my chin back.

“I was just remembering Ted’s birth.”

Christian blanches and cups my belly.

“I am not going through that again. Elective caesarian this time.”

“Christian, I—”

“No, Ana. You nearly fucking died last time. No.”

“I did not nearly die.”

“No.” He’s emphatic and not to be argued with, but as he gazes down at me, his eyes soften. “I like the name Phoebe,” he whispers, and runs his nose down mine.

“Phoebe Grey? Phoebe . . . Yes. I like that, too.” I grin up at him.

“Good. I want to set up Ted’s present.” He takes my hand, and we head downstairs. His excitement radiates off him; Christian has been waiting for this moment all day.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” His apprehensive gaze meets mine.

“He’ll love it. For about two minutes. Christian, he’s only two.” 521/551