Cover.html

“Looked like you were gossiping with your assistant to me.” My cheeks heat. “We were going through our schedules,” I snap. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I shout, too loudly.

Hannah opens the door and brings in a small tray. Milk jug, sugar bowl, coffee in a French press—she’s gone all out. She places the tray on my desk.

“Thank you, Hannah,” I mutter, embarrassed that I have just shouted so loudly.

“Do you need anything else, Mr. Grey?” she asks all breathless. I want to roll my eyes at her.

“No, thank you. That’s all.” He smiles his dazzling, panty-dropping smile at her. She flushes and exits simpering. Christian turns his attention back to me.

144/551

“Now, Ms. Steele, where were we?”

“You were rudely interrupting my work day to fight with me about my name.”

Christian blinks once—surprised, I think, by the vehemence in my voice.

Deftly, he picks at an invisible piece of lint on his knee with long skilled fingers.

It’s distracting. He’s doing it on purpose. I narrow my eyes at him.

“I like to make the odd impromptu visit. It keeps management on their toes, wives in their place. You know.” He shrugs, his mouth set in an arrogant line.

Wives in their place! “I had no idea you could spare the time,” I snap.

His eyes frost. “Why don’t you want to change your name here?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.

“Christian, do we have to discuss this now?”

“I’m here. I don’t see why not.”

“I have a ton of work to do, having been away for the last three weeks.” He gazes at me, his eyes cool and assessing—distant even. I marvel that he can appear so cold after last night, after the last three weeks. Shit. He must be so mad—really mad. When will he learn not to overreact?

“Are you ashamed of me?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“No! Christian, of course not.” I scowl at him. “This is about me—not you.” Jeez, he’s exasperating sometimes. Silly overbearing megalomaniac.

“How is this not about me?” He cocks his head to one side, genuinely perplexed, some of his detachment slipping as he stares at me with wide eyes, and I realize that he’s hurt. Holy fuck. I’ve hurt his feelings. Oh no . . . he’s the last person I want to hurt. I have to make him see my logic. I have to explain my reason-ing for my decision.

“Christian, when I took this job, I’d only just met you,” I say patiently, struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t know you were going to buy the company—”

What can I say about that event in our brief history? His deranged reasons for doing so—his control freakery, his stalker tendencies gone mad, given completely free rein because he is so wealthy. I know he wants to keep me safe, but it’s his ownership of SIP that is the fundamental problem here. If he’d never interfered, I could continue as normal and not have to face the disgruntled and whispered re-criminations of my colleagues. I put my head in my hands just to break eye contact with him.

145/551

“Why is it so important to you?” I ask, desperately trying to hold on to my fraying temper. I look up at his impassive stare, his eyes luminous, giving nothing away, his earlier hurt now hidden. But even as I ask the question, deep down I know the answer before he says it.

“I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

“I am yours—look.” I hold up my left hand, showing my wedding and engagement rings.

“It’s not enough.”

“Not enough that I married you?” My voice is barely a whisper.

He blinks, registering the horror on my face. Where can I go from here?

What else can I do?

“That’s not what I mean,” he snaps and runs a hand through his overlong hair so that it flops onto his forehead.

“What do you mean?”

He swallows. “I want your world to begin and end with me,” he says, his expression raw. His comment completely derails me. It’s like he’s punched me hard in the stomach, winding and wounding me. And the vision comes to mind of a small, frightened, copper-haired gray-eyed boy in dirty, mismatched, ill-fitting clothes.

“It does,” I say without guile, because it’s the truth. “I’m just trying to establish a career, and I don’t want to trade on your name. I have to do something, Christian. I can’t stay imprisoned at Escala or the new house with nothing to do.

I’ll go crazy. I’ll suffocate. I’ve always worked, and I enjoy this. This is my dream job; it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But doing this doesn’t mean I love you less.

You are the world to me.” My throat swells and tears prick the back of my eyes. I must not cry, not here. I repeat it over and over in my head. I must not cry. I must not cry.

He stares at me, saying nothing. Then a frown crosses his face as if he’s considering what I’ve said.

“I suffocate you?” His voice is bleak, and it’s an echo of a question he’s asked me before.

“No . . . yes . . . no.” This is such an exasperating conversation—not one that I want to have now, here. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, trying to fathom how we got to this.

146/551