“This is going to sound cold, but—they’re an insurance policy,” he whispers steeling

himself for my response.

“Insurance policy?”

“Against exposure.”

The penny drops and rattles uncomfortably round and round in my empty head.

“Oh,” I murmur, because I can’t think of what else to say. I close my eyes. This is it.

This is Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up, right here, right now. “Yes. You’re right,” I mutter.

“That does sound cold.” I stand to clear our dishes. I don’t want to know any more.

“Ana.”

“Do they know? The girls . . . the subs?”

He frowns. “Of course they know.”

Oh, well, that’s something. He reaches out, grabbing me and pulling me to him.

“Those photos are supposed to be in the safe. They’re not for recreational use.” He

stops. “Maybe they were when they were taken originally. But—” He stops, imploring me.

“They don’t mean anything.”

“Who put them in your closet?”

“It could only have been Leila.”

“She knows your safe combination?”

He shrugs. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s a very long combination, and I use it so rarely.

It’s the one number I have written down and haven’t changed.” He shakes his head. “I

wonder what else she knows and if she’s taken anything else out of there.” He frowns, then

turns his attention back to me. “Look, I’ll destroy the photos. Now, if you like.”

“They’re your photos, Christian. Do with them as you wish,” I mutter.

“Don’t be like that,” he says, taking my head in his hands and holding my gaze to his.

“I don’t want that life. I want our life, together.”

Holy cow. How does he know that beneath my horror about these photos is the fact

that I’m paranoid?

“Ana, I thought we exorcised all those ghosts this morning. I feel that way. Don’t you?”

I blink at him, recalling our very, very pleasurable and romantic and downright dirty

morning in his playroom.

“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, I feel like that, too.”

“Good.” He leans forward and kisses me, folding me in his arms. “I’ll shred them,” he

murmurs. “And then I have to go to work. I’m sorry, baby, but I have a mountain of busi-

ness to get through this afternoon.”

“It’s cool. I have to call my mother.” I grimace. “Then I want to do some shopping and

bake you a cake.”

He grins and his eyes light up like a small boy’s.

“A cake?”

I nod.

“A chocolate cake?”

“You want a chocolate cake?” His grin is infectious.

He nods.

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Grey.”

He kisses me once more.

Carla is stunned into silence.

“Mom, say something.”

“You’re not pregnant, are you, Ana?” she whispers in horror.

“No, no, no, nothing like that.” Disappointment slices through my heart, and I’m sad-

dened that she would think that of me. But then I remember with an ever-sinking feeling

that she was pregnant with me when she married my father.

“I’m sorry, darling. This is just so sudden. I mean, Christian is quite a catch, but you’re

so young, and you should see a little of the world.”

“Mom, can’t you just be happy for me? I love him.”

“Darling, I just need to get used to the idea. It’s a shock. I could tell in Georgia that

there was something very special between you two, but marriage . . . ?”

In Georgia he wanted me to be his submissive, but I won’t tell her that.

“Have you set a date?”

“No.”

“I wish your father was alive,” she whispers. Oh no . . . not this. Not this, now.

“I know, Mom. I would have liked to know him, too.”

“He only held you once, and he was so proud. He thought you were the most beautiful

girl in the world.” Her voice is a deathly hush as the familiar tale is retold . . . again. She

will be in tears next.

“I know, Mom.”

“And then he died.” She sniffs, and I know this has set her off as it does every time.

“Mom,” I whisper, wanting to reach down the phone and hold her.

“I’m a silly old woman,” she murmurs and she sniffs again. “Of course I am happy for

you, darling. Does Ray know?” she adds, and she seems to have recovered her equilibrium.

“Christian’s just asked him.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. Good.” She sounds melancholic, but she’s making an effort.

“Yes, it was,” I murmur.

“Ana, darling, I love you so much. I amhappy for you. And you must both visit.”

“Yes, Mom. I love you, too.”

“Bob is calling me, I have to go. Let me have a date. We need to plan . . . are you hav-

ing a big wedding?”

Big wedding, crap. I haven’t even thought about that. Big wedding? No. I don’t want

a big wedding.

“I don’t know yet. As soon as I do, I’ll call.”

“Good. You take care now and be safe. You two need to have some fun . . . plenty of

time for kids later.”

Kids! Hmm . . .and there it is again—a not-so-veiled reference to the fact that she had

me so early.

“Mom, I didn’t really ruin your life, did I?”

She gasps. “Oh no, Ana, never think that. You were the best thing that ever happened

to your father and me. I just wish he was here to see you so grown up and getting married.”

She’s wistful and maudlin again.

“I wish that, too.” I shake my head thinking about my mythical father. “Mom, I’ll let

you go. I’ll call soon.”

“Love you, darling.”

“Me, too, Mom. Good-bye.”

Christian’s kitchen is a dream to work in. For a man who knows nothing about cooking, he

seems to have everything. I suspect Mrs. Jones loves to cook, too. The only thing I need is

some high quality chocolate for the frosting. I leave the two halves of the cake on a cooling

rack, grab my purse, and pop my head around Christian’s study door. He’s concentrating

on his computer screen. He looks up and smiles at me.

“I’m just heading to the store to pick up some ingredients.”

“Okay.” He frowns at me.

“What?”

“You going to put some jeans on or something?”

Oh, come on. “Christian, they’re just legs.”

He gazes at me, unamused. This is going to be a fight. And it’s his birthday. I roll my

eyes at him, feeling like an errant teenager.

“What if we were at the beach?” I take a different tack.

“We’re not at the beach.”

“Would you object if we were at the beach?”

He considers this for a moment. “No,” he says simply.

I roll my eyes again and smirk at him. “Well, just imagine we are. Laters.” I turn and

bolt for the foyer. I make it to the elevator before he catches up with me. As the doors close,

I wave at him, grinning sweetly as he watches, helpless—but fortunately amused—with

narrowed eyes. He shakes his head in exasperation, then I can see him no more.

Oh, that was exciting. Adrenaline is pounding through my veins, and my heart feels

like it wants to exit my chest. But as the elevator descends, so do my spirits. Shit, what

have I done?

I have a tiger by the tail. He’s going to be mad when I get back. My subconscious is

glaring at me over her half-moon glasses, a willow switch in her hand. Shit. I think about

what little experience I have with men. I’ve never lived with a man before—well, except

Ray—and for some reason he doesn’t count. He’s my dad . . . well, the man I consider my

dad.And now I have Christian. He’s never really lived with anyone, I think. I’ll have to ask

him—if he’s still talking to me.

But I feel strongly that I should wear what I like. I remember his rules. Yes, this must

be hard for him, but he sure as hell paid for this dress. He should have given Neimans a

better brief. Nothing too short!

This skirt isn’t that short, is it? I check in the large mirror in the lobby. Damn. Yes, it is

quite short, but I’ve made a stand now. And no doubt I’ll have to face the consequences. I