"Excuse me," the blonde flight attendant placed her hand on my shoulder, "Miss we've landed."

I blinked rapidly sitting up in my seat. She was right, the plane was now empty with the exception of myself and the flight attendants picking up the leftover trash. I picked up my bag from the floor and pulled on my coat wrapping my scarf around my neck tighter.

"Thanks," I say to the blonde as she hands me my suitcase that was in the over compartment.

I exit the plane and make my way out of the terminal and towards the immigration stop. Pulling my passport out of my bag I look around the line that I'm in and notice that I don't recognize anything about this place. Illinois would always be a mystery to me—what ever happened here was obviously not something I should welcome with open arms.

I handed the officer my passport and she looked over it, "What's you business here?" she asked.

"Family," I responded.

She nodded, "Can you state you full name please and date of birth?"

"Carlyle Matisse Frasier May 14th 1999." I replied adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

"And birthplace?" she continued.

I cleared my throat, "Chicago, Illinois, but hometown is London."

She smiled and nodded, "Well Welcome to Chicago Carlyle, have a nice stay." She stamped the booklet and I smiled back.

I took the escalator down towards the baggage claim and waited by the carousel to bring my bag around. The time on my phone read 8:47 PM and I felt like I was about to drop on the floor and sleep for 12 hours.

When I saw my suitcase I quickly picked it up and wheeled it with me to the exit in search of a taxi or town car to take me to my hotel.

There was a black town car waiting on the side of the curb and I waved at the driver.

"Excuse me, are you available?" I asked.

The man nodded and jumped out of the car to get my suitcases from me. He placed them into the trunk and opened my door for me so I could slide in.

"Where to Miss?" he asked.

I told him the hotel and he nodded turning to the road and we left O'Hare behind us. Thirty minutes later he pulled up to the curb of the extravagant hotel and the doorman came to my door.

"Hello Miss, Welcome," he was an older man with a black uniform and white gloves. I smiled stepping out of the car and took my bag along as I made my way into the lobby.

He handed me the key and I made my way to the elevator with the bellhop trailing behind me. The elevator attendant pressed "P" and we were off to the top floor.

We entered the penthouse and I handed the bellhop a tip as he left the room shutting the door quietly behind him.

This whole place just for myself. Super.

I hopped into the shower and scrubbed every inch of that flight off of my skin and then soaked in a hot bath just for good measure. After I was relaxed and sure the nastiness of the flight was gone I stepped and out put on pajamas making a quick call to the kitchen and ordering a good old American burger and fries.

Sitting at the dining room table where they left the food, I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a manila folder. In between bites of my burger I looked over the documents my parent's lawyer had given me after their funeral in London.

It all started when my parents had come to visit me in boarding school. I was raised in London but when I was 14 they decided it was time I do the proper Upper Class English girl thing and send me off to the prestigious McTavish School for Girls. It had been a bitter fight between us and after I had worked my way to the headmistress's last nerve I found a look for football—or soccer, whatever.

They had come to visit me and watch my tournament when they were in a car accident. A drunk driver hit them while they were crossing a bridge; he didn't stop and they went into the freezing waters.

A week later their lawyer gave me a folder of documents: bank account numbers, deeds to their houses and estates, and most importantly my birth certificate. I had never seen my real birth certificate up until a week ago—I didn't know another version of the document existed. There it was in black and white, the proof that I was in fact not the biological daughter of James and Camilla Frasier but I was their adoptive daughter.

NAME: Carlyle Matisse Smith

DATE: May 14th 1999

BIRTHPLACE: Chicago, Illinois

MOTHER: Jane Elizabeth Conner

FATHER: Mark Jonathan Smith

The whole reason for my coming to Chicago was to find out who my parents really were. I had already checked in about my mother with a PI from here who found out that she was in fact a prostitute who died twelve years later from complications due to AIDS—heroin was her choice, preferably speedballs.

I was due to meet the PI in person tomorrow to follow up on what he could find out about my father. From the sounds of it I didn't think he knew about me and I hoped that he was a paying customer.

After polishing off the entire burger and fries I laid in bed watching TV until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning I woke up at 8:45 and began to get ready for the day. I was to meet the PI at 11:00 at a coffee shop 6 blocks away from my hotel and I was nervous. Slipping on black leather leggings, a large cream sweater, and pulling my chocolate hair into a high ponytail I grabbed my bag and the folder and headed out the door.

It was 10:30 but I wanted to take my time getting there and have a cup before he arrived as well. Stepping into the shop I went to the counter and ordered a hazelnut coffee and a blueberry scone then found a seat near the window.

About twenty minutes later a man about thirty-five with dark hair and brown eyes walked up to me holding a legal binder in one hand and a coffee in the other.

"Carlyle?" he asked.

I nodded, "Call me Carly," I stuck out my hand and he shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Carly. I am Mitchell Fox nice to finally meet you." He sat down across from me and untied the binder.

"Likewise."

He reached into the binder and pulled out a document along with photographs and spread them out of the table.

"I looked into your father liked you asked. This is Mark Smith. He's originally from Detroit, Michigan and moved around throughout the years. Unfortunately he died while incarcerated for theft and murder in Alabama in 2006."

I sunk into my chair looking at photographs; there were pictures of him from his childhood all the way up until his mug shot in 2004 in Alabama. He was tall according to the back wall, probably 6 foot 3, dark hair, and blue eyes. He looked kind in his younger photos but the gaze turned hard after his entered into his forties.

"So this is everything?" I asked motioning to the photos and death certificate.

He shook his head, "Actually I found something else that might prove to be fruitful." He reached into the binder pulling out another set of photos and a birth certificate; "Your father had another child, a son, with a woman in Detroit before leaving."

I looked down at the photographs and saw someone who looked familiar. He had dark hair with grey eyes and was around his thirties.

"His name is Christian Grey," Mitchell continued, "He's a CEO of his own very prosperous company and lives in Seattle. He is married and has a son, Theodore, and daughter, Phoebe."

I sat there looking at his birth certificate—June 18th 1983—he was thirty now.

"He was adopted out too?" I asked.

Mitchell gave a curt nod, "Yes, at 4 when his mother died. His adoptive mother is a pediatrician and father is a lawyer."

"Does he know about me?"

"Not from what I gather," he finished his coffee and sat back.

I smiled at him, "Well thank you for this, please bill me at my lawyer and I'll take care of it."

With that and a few polite niceties, he left and I shuffled all the papers into the binder and tied it back up. Packing my things back up I left the coffee shop and headed towards some shops to find some things to take with me to Seattle. I wasn't going to stop looking for my family just because my biological and adoptive parents were dead. I haven't decided yet if I would reach out to Christian or maybe just watch from afar and see how he really way—after all, how many people find out they have a brother when they're 16?

Two days of twittiling my thumbs later I boarded a flight to Sea-Tac airport off to find one Christian Grey of Seattle Washington. I decided I would just watch him and see who he was first and then see if I wanted to really meet him or just be a passing stranger on the street.