Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 217

I don’t like this. I don’t like being the object of her anger. I put my head in my hands. Maybe…maybe I

should apologize. What did Flynn say? It’s better to concede the battle to win the war.

And deep down, I know I’ve fucked up. But I’d hoped that she would have forgiven me by now.

I type out an e-mail.

From: Christian Grey

Subject: I’m Sorry

Date: September 14 2011 16:45

To: Anastasia Grey

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

I fucked up. Please forgive me.

Christian Grey

CEO & Penitent Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

I don’t want to go home to face her anger again. I want her smiles, her laughter, and her love. I gaze up

at her smiling face in the photo. I want her to look at me like she does in this portrait. I return to the e-

mail, wondering whether to hit send. This meeting could go on for a while. I call Mrs. Jones.

“Mr. Grey.”

“I may not be home for dinner. Please make sure Mrs. Grey eats.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cook her something nice.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Gail.” I hang up and delete the e-mail—it’s not going to be enough. I could try jewelry.

Flowers? My phone buzzes.

“Yes, Andrea.”

“Mr. Hansell and Senator Blandino are here with their teams.”

“Call Ros and Samir to join us.”

“Yes, sir.”

This will be a fight about layoffs. I grit my teeth. Sometimes I hate my job.

Blandino is appealing for calm. “These are our economic realities in 2011,” she says to Hansell, who

sits red-faced on the other side of my boardroom table.

I just want to go home. But we’re not finished here.

My phone buzzes, and my heart rate spikes. It’s my wife. “Excuse me.” I rise from the table, feeling

seven pairs of eyes on me as I exit the room.

She’s called. I’m almost giddy with relief—my heart feels like it will escape my chest. “Ana!”

“Hi.” It’s so good to hear her voice.

“Hi.”

I can’t think what else to say, but I want to beg her to stop being mad at me.

Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.

“Are you coming home?” she asks.

“Later.”

“Are you in the office?”

I frown. “Yes. Where did you expect me to be?”

“I’ll let you go.”

What? But— There’s so much I want to say, but neither of us speaks. The silence is a chasm between

us and I have a boardroom of people locked in crisis talks waiting for me.

“Good night, Ana.” I love you.

“Good night, Christian.” I hang up before she can, thinking about all those times we’ve stayed on the

line and neither of us hangs up. I couldn’t bear to hear her end the call first. I stare despondently at my

phone. At least she asked if I was coming home. Perhaps she misses me. Or she’s checking up on me.

Either way. She cares. Maybe. A small ember of hope glows deep in my heart. I need to wrap this

meeting up and get home to my wife.

It’s late when we agree on a potential compromise. With hindsight, I see that confrontation with the

union was inevitable, but it’s been good for all sides to air their grievances. Samir and Ros will now

take the negotiations from here and hammer out a deal. Compared to the battle I’m facing at home, this

wasn’t so bad. Ros was an impressive negotiator, and I’ve persuaded her to go to Taiwan tomorrow

evening without me.

“Okay, Christian. I’ll go. But they’ll really want you there.”

“I’ll find time. Later this month.”

Her lips tighten, but she says nothing.

I can’t tell her that I don’t want to leave Ana when she’s not even talking to me. Deep down, I know it’s

because I’m petrified my wife might not be there when I return.

The apartment is dark when I get home; Ana must be in bed. I head into our bedroom, and my heart

sinks when I find she’s not there. Stifling my panic, I head upstairs. In the dim light from the hallway, I

make out her form curled up beneath the duvet in her old bedroom.

Old bedroom?

It’s hardly that; she’s slept in it, what, twice?

She looks so small. I flick the dimmer switch on to see her better, but keep the lights low, and carry the

armchair over so I can sit down and gaze at her. Her skin is pale, translucent, almost. She’s been

crying; her eyelids and lips are swollen. My heart freefalls through my body with despair.

Oh, baby—I’m sorry.

I know how soft her lips are to kiss when she’s been crying…when I make her cry. I want to climb in

beside her, to pull her into my arms and hold her, but she’s asleep, and she needs her sleep, especially

now.

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