Fifty Shades of Grey and the characters belong to EL James.

Two days ago, my world collapsed around me. Everything I thought I knew, everything I've worked for in my adult life has ceased to mean anything to me. I've lost track of the number of times I've replayed what I've come to consider the worst moment of my life since it happened: the moment the elevator doors closed on my relationship with Anastasia Steele. In hindsight, I should have known this would happen. The signs were there the first night she stayed with me in my apartment that should have told me exactly what would happen. I ignored every alarm bell, every warning presented to me because I enjoyed the way I felt when I was with her. Not just when we were in bed or in the shower or bathtub or the playroom; the times when we argued, the times she challenged me and angered me, made me laugh... We had fun together. I flew across the country to see her and took her soaring, something I've never shared with anybody before.

Every good memory with Ana ends when I recall Saturday morning in the playroom when I was instructing her to count as I hit her with the belt, blocking out her wavering voice and the tears falling from her eyes. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought she knew what she was doing. I've never been more wrong in my life. The rest of Saturday and all of Sunday is a blur—the only clear memory I have is building the wooden glider Ana left for me on my pillow. Taylor has been keeping closer tabs than usual on me; Mrs. Jones clucking over me like a mother hen; even John Flynn has dropped by the penthouse "just to say hello." The last time he showed up, I glared at him, and retreated back to my office. Two hours later, he was still in the kitchen with Taylor and Gail, and all three of them were talking in hushed voices, presumably about me. I had half a mind to fire all three of them.

Now that Monday has dawned, I'm determined to get my life back on track. I have a lunch appointment at Flynn's office. Jason and Gail are no longer looking me like I'm some helpless child. I even managed to shower, dress, and prepare myself for a day of work. It occurred to me last night that even if Ana is determined to end our relationship—something I don't want to let happen—I can at least keep an eye on her at her first day of work at SIP. The buyout is still under wraps, but when have details like that ever stopped me?

I've come up with a plan of how to get Ana back. Clearly there won't be any Dominant/submissive arrangements for us, not like I'd hoped at least. I should have known she couldn't handle the really heavy shit; she's too innocent, too sweet to have even considered canings and beltings to be an enjoyable experience. She didn't hate all of it, though; some things she really enjoyed, I know. The Thomas Tallis scene will bring a smile to my face for years to come. Or it will if I can somehow manage to get Ana back.

She said she loved me. In all her wide-eyed, sore-assed innocence, she still told me she fell in love with me, even though I am the last person in the world she should feel that way about. And along with her declaration, I've even had moments where I wondered if it was possible that I could eventually return those feelings for her. I once told her I don't have a heart, but if that were true, why am I in this much pain?

Knotting my tie, I try to avoid looking in the mirror. I don't much enjoy surveying myself on a normal day, but today is much worse. After shaving off two days worth of stubble, I was left with a pale complexion and bags beneath my eyes from not sleeping all weekend. My appearance will no doubt draw more attention than normal and while I suspect it would be easier to remain home for several days until I figure out my next move with Ana, I know the key to my success will be regaining control over the situation, even if it is only in tiny doses here and there.

On the ride to Grey House, I check messages I've neglected all weekend and make a few phone calls, all with no more enthusiasm than one would use make up a grocery list. Not that I have much experience in that particular task. We're stopped at a red light and I glance out my window as I list instructions for Andrea, and suddenly I have a brilliant idea.

"Andrea, I'll call you back," I say abruptly, ending the call. "Taylor, pull over."

He looks surprised at the command but pulls up to the curb, turning to look at me questioningly. "Sir?" he says quietly.

I don't reply as I drop my blackberry onto the seat beside me and open my door. "Wait here, please," I say distractedly. I push through people on the sidewalk without a second thought, entering the flower shop. The woman behind the counter immediately makes a beeline for me, practically tripping over herself in her effort to assist me in my purchase. Not that I need the assistance; I already know exactly what I want. "Two dozen long-stemmed, white roses," I inform her when she stammers out a question of what she can help me with. "Delivered to Miss Anastasia Steele this evening."

The woman's expression drops when she realizes I'm probably not purchasing flowers for my mother or sister, and therefore unavailable. I wonder at that for a moment—for years, I've been referred to as Seattle's most eligible bachelor even though half the population, my family included, believed me to be gay. But since Anastasia Steele fell into my world, I can't imagine going back to that. I don't want to be known as available; I want to be taken, owned by a woman. Not just any woman, of course, though in order to make that a reality, it will take patience and caution. Perhaps even hearts and flowers. And I might as well begin now...

"What would you like the card to say, sir?" the clerk says breathily. Normally, that phrase in that particular tone would grab my attention and set off a number of inappropriate thoughts. It doesn't, though, and I know it's because the only woman I want to give my attention is Ana.

I remove a pen from my jacket, taking a blank slip of paper from beside the cash register, debating with myself about what I should say to her.

I miss you. I'm sorry. Please give me the chance to explain. I'll do anything for you to not end us...

In the end, I keep it as platonic as I can, congratulating her on her first day of work, thanking her for the glider, and hopefully giving her some idea what her small gift really meant to me. Rather than my typical signature of my full name, I sign it Christian and slide the paper back to the clerk. "I need it to say this exactly," I instruct her, handing her my credit card. "And I'd like confirmation that she received the flowers this evening."

For a moment, she looks insulted that I would dare question her company's ability to deliver flowers, but a simple raised eyebrow causes her to avert her gaze. "Of course," she murmurs, glancing down at my credit card, "Mr. Grey."

With that done, I return to the car where Taylor has waited patiently and probably very curiously for my return. I don't offer an explanation and he doesn't ask for one. "Grey House, please, Taylor."

"Yes, sir."

It's late evening before I finally get a message from the flower shop, though it's not the one I expected. "We're sorry, Mr. Grey, but we were unable to make the delivery as the recipient didn't answer our repeated attempts. We will issue you a full refund." I couldn't give a flying fuck about a refund; my concern lies with the possible reason for Ana to not answer the door. It could simply be that she wasn't home, but that begs the question of where she actually was and with whom. My first instinct is to call her just to find out whether she's okay, until I remember that she left behind the blackberry, Mac, and iPad I gave her and has yet to forward her calls to her old cell phone. Several times since Saturday, I've stared at the display when Ana received a text message from Kate Kavanagh, missed calls from her mother and stepfather, and a call, voice, and text message from Jose Rodriguez, the boy I should have destroyed that night at the bar for attempting to shove his tongue into Ana's unwilling mouth.

I'm still debating what to do with the information in his messages regarding his gallery opening in Portland. Ana invited me on Friday, though I assume she's since retracted it, despite not informing me. I know she won't have an easy solution for transportation from Seattle to Portland and I'm not particularly fond of the idea of her driving such a long distance on her own after working all day long. Besides, if she goes alone, there is every chance the photographer boy will attempt to pick up where he left off at the bar. That thought alone turns my vision red. I cannot let that happen. She may not want to be with me, but I will always be concerned about her wellbeing and safety, whether she likes it or not, and it would kill me to find out Rodriguez or any other fucker took advantage of her.

No. I think an offer to transport her to Portland for the opening where I can keep an eye on her and perhaps even persuade her to talk to me will be absolutely necessary at this point. I make a mental note to make arrangements in the morning.

My current concern remains focused on why Ana wasn't home to accept the flower delivery. Calling her isn't an option; I'm still getting all her calls on the blackberry. Email is out; she left the MacBook behind. I suppose I could drive past her apartment; perhaps she knew from whom the flowers came and ignored the door on principle. Maddening woman that she is... So why am I grinning at the thought of her stubbornness?

"Taylor!" I bark, leaving my study. My head of security pokes his head out of his office down the hall. "I'd like to drive past Miss Steele's apartment; she didn't receive her delivery today and I want to make sure she's all right." Taylor holds my gaze for a moment as though he might argue; I don't give him that opportunity. "I'll drive myself."

Without another word, I grab my keys, cell, and jacket, and head down to the garage. Suddenly I'm very eager to catch even the briefest glimpse of Miss Anastasia Steele.

Her apartment is dark. Parked across the street, my eyes are trained on her front windows, searching for any sign of life inside. It's only just after nine o'clock; even if she wasn't home to accept delivery then, she should be back by now. Unless she's with someone. Unless she met some fucker on her very first day of work and went home with him. The steering wheel protests under the white-knuckled grip I have on it as I imagine another man touching her in a way she's only ever allowed me. Like a selfish possessive child, Anastasia Steele is mine and she will only ever be mine.

I need to know she's safe even if she can't stand the sight of me anymore. Not that I could blame her of course.

Glancing around the empty street, I make my decision, getting out of the car and crossing to her apartment. I walk as casually as possible around to the back, locating the fire escape, and begin to climb. I curse my ringing cell phone, ignoring it as I find a window that I can slide open. Reining in my temper at Ana's lack of concern about herself and her safety, I slip into the dark apartment, hoping I don't scare the crap out of her if she stumbles out of her bedroom. Worst case scenario, she'll hit me with a baseball bat or something. All things considered, that would be fitting.

My phone rings again and I silence it as I enter a bedroom. I may have only seen her room a couple times before she moved to Seattle, but none of the things I see look at all familiar—this must be Katherine's room. My lip curls at the sight of the bed, knowing my brother has been there more than once. I slip back down the hall and into another room, stumbling slightly when I kick something on the floor. Reaching over, I turn on a light and promptly freeze at the sight that greets me. Ana's things are strewn haphazardly around the room. Clothes are hanging out of open dresser drawers; her bookshelf is empty; much of the rest of her personal items are either missing or carelessly knocked aside as though the owner hurriedly unpacked, then repacked them distractedly, perhaps even while she was upset...

My heart begins to race as panic as I rush back through the apartment looking for any sign that I'm wrong about the conclusions I'm approaching. And I'm able to convince myself I'm wrong until I arrive in the kitchen and find a note on the counter with Katherine's name written in Ana's handwriting. I read the note slowly with shaking hands, feeling devastation beyond anything I've ever experienced before. I retrieve my phone from my pocket automatically, accepting Taylors tenth attempt to contact me.

"Grey," I say dully.

I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. "Sir, Miss Steele never arrived for her first day of work at SIP. Management attempted to call her, but were unable..."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, realizing this nightmare is a reality. "She's not home, Taylor," I say briskly, glancing back at the note. "Ensure she arrived safely in Savannah with her mother and stepfather. I'll return to Escala shortly."

I can almost hear the pity from Taylor's end of the phone. "Yes, sir."

Ana is gone. Not only did I chase her from my life, but I've chased her out of Seattle, away from the job she'd been so looking forward to, and across the country, and this time there is no doubt in my mind that she's gone there to keep away from me.

No. No way. This cannot possibly be happening to me right now.

I stare down at the object in my fingers, thinking back to how I got to this point. Promptly, I roll my eyes at the smart mouth response my mind supplies. Of course that is how I got to this point. I just can't seem to understand why the world seems to hate me and refuses to let me live in peace.

It's been nearly three weeks since I left Seattle. In that time, Kate has returned from her vacation in Barbados, found out I wasn't at home where she suspected me, and called to demand answers for my sudden decision to move. I gave her the heavily edited version, though I know she's probably worked out much more about my reasons than I wanted her to do. I'm not sure why I'm surprised; that girl is too smart for her own good. Luckily, my departure hasn't affected her relationship with Elliot Grey. At least one good thing came out of meeting Christian...

Much more than that came out of it, my subconscious admonishes. It might have been a rollercoaster, but it was one you freely rode time and time again. The only reason you're not still there is because you couldn't handle his darkest, most sadistic needs.

My hand finds my behind where I can almost still feel the sting of the leather belt Christian used on me the day I left him. So often in the last three weeks I've wondered if I might have overreacted. Yes, his needs were beyond what I could give him, because there was no way in hell I would ever let something like that happen again, no matter how in love with him I might be. And I am still in love with him. Somehow I don't think that will ever change. I'll never forget everything he did for me—he brought me out of myself for the first time in my life, showed me there was something in the world aside from books, and taught me what it means to really love and feel.

Those lessons will come in handy, I muse miserably, looking down at the item in my hand—the little white stick that shows thin blue lines in its display window. When I left Seattle, I did everything possible in an attempt to leave Christian Grey behind completely. Unbeknownst to me at the time, that is something that will never happen.