"Look at it," she spits. "Look at that filth and look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me that's how it was. What it was. Who I was. Read it and think about it. Really fucking think about it, Christian, because this is the kind of path that once paved, can never be undone. That imbecile shrink whispers these sweet nothings louder and louder in your ear with every passing session, but do you truly believe them? Do you truly agree with them? Have you truly crumbled to something that weak and spineless?"

The sheet of paper in front of me seems to weigh ton as I reach for it. I don't look at her, despite her frenzied demands. There was a time when the sharp lash of her tongue would have me dropping to my knees and gluing my eyes to the floor. That time has gone. I'm the master of my own destiny these days. I bow to no one. I take a deep breath and read quickly, an impassive mask screening my face. There will be no reactions. No audible gasps. No dramatic hand-wringing and soul-searching.

Rape of a Child in the Third Degree (RCW 9A.44.079)

A person is guilty of rape of a child in the third degree when the person has sexual intercourse with another who is at least fourteen years old but less than sixteen years old and not married to the perpetrator and the perpetrator is at least forty-eight months older than the victim.

Child Molestation in the Third Degree (RCW 9A.44.089)

A person is guilty of child molestation in the third degree when the person has, or knowingly causes another person under the age of eighteen to have, sexual contact with another who is at least fourteen years old but less than sixteen years old and not married to the perpetrator and the perpetrator is at least forty-eight months older than the victim.

Communicating with a Minor for Immoral Purposes (RCW 9.68a.090)

A person who communicates with a minor for immoral purposes, or a person who communicates with someone the person believes to be a minor for immoral purposes, is guilty of a gross misdemeanour.

Slowly, coolly, I place the paper back on my study desk and lean back to consider her. My heart is beating painfully against my rib cage. This is a conversation that has plagued my dreams. This is a conversation I always, deep down, knew to be inevitable. But the direction and timing of this conversation has thrown me. Taken me by surprise. But I cannot show that. Any betrayal or hint of indecision and she will latch onto it like a drowning man to a singular life raft.

"Is there something on there that you do not understand, Elena?"

Her eyes scream the obscenities that she's rapidly becoming too clever to verbalize. Mrs Lincoln is many varied and depraved things, but stupidity is not one of her shortcomings. She regards me shrewdly. I return the gaze with indifference. I've become so skilled at manipulating my own body's natural impulses, that she couldn't possibly know I'm fighting the urge to vomit, that the room is closing in, or that when I get my hands on Flynn he's going to know all about reprehensible fucking conduct. But she is not so skilled, and I spot the changing tactic like a hawk.

"Christian, darling," she purrs, "This is not how we do things. That shrink, he's twisted your mind. He's making you think such terrible things… about us… about yourself. He cannot accept you for who you are and so he's desperately searching for a reason to blame… Someone to blame… To condemn for who you are. And he's pointing the finger right at me. Because it's easy to do it, isn't it? For someone like him. For someone who couldn't possibly understand what we had. The connection we shared."

I stare at her with ice in my heart.

"And what did we have that was so special, Elena?"

Her garishly red lips pop open as if she were genuinely surprised by the question. She wasn't. The helpless Elena Lincoln act was about to premiere. And by a stroke of miserable luck, I've got myself a front row seat. Her hand drifts up to smooth down the collar of a blouse ten years too young for her and her eyes flutter downwards in a calculated attempt at throwing up the submissive scent, hoping I'll bite.

God, she's fucking pitiable.

"We had a bond. I saved you. I taught you. I cherished you. I lov—"

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare say that you loved me. You are no more capable of love than I am. You desired me. A child. A fucked-up child at that. You did not love me. You could never love me. You loved the control you had over me, the power you wielded. You loved the way I made you feel, the youth I helped you rekindle. You loved the game you were playing on your husband, using me as your sick little pawn. You loved what you could do to me and what I would do for you. But you never loved me. Let's get that fucking straight."

My chest is heaving.

I'm suddenly furious with myself.

Never, ever show emotion.

Fucking idiot.

Her slow, slack smile has my stomach turning over my tuna-salad lunch. Ammunition. That's what I've just given her and we both know it. I swallow deeply. She stands slowly, a panther eyeing her prey. Her clawed hand reaches out and snatches the paper off my desk. She enjoys the temporary imbalance of our poises, staring down at me like she used to do. I fight fucking hard to keep my brain in the present, to keep my neurons out of the part of my brain that houses the memories of an adolescence rivaled only in terms of depravity by my infanthood.

"You are set on this decision? This ridiculous suit?"

If I wasn't before she stormed into my home, I sure as shit am now.

My nod is silent. My eyes tell a story.

"You will regret this," she promises softly. "You will regret this to your dying day. You are building your empire right now, boy, but you've not built it yet. You're still slinging through the blood battle that is Washington industry. You're twenty-four years old. Still a child. A child playing at being an adult. How do you think this will look to your investment bankers, your stockbrokers and your lawyers? How do you think this will play out in Seattle Scandal weekly? Hmm?"

Her laugh cascades down on me like a sprinkling shower of splintered glass.

"You fool," she sneers. "This will be your ruination. You mark my words, Christian Trevelyan-Grey, you will rue the day you ever listened to the ill-informed sniping of that little excuse for a man you champion so fiercely. How crushed mommy and daddy will be when they hear of their grey-eyed little boy's trauma. How guilty they'll feel when this story breaks big. How they'll agonize. How they'll blame themselves, blame each other for never seeing it. How they'll torture themselves when they recall all the times they called on me to babysit their precious, pampered little prince."

The bile in my throat is molten as her malice glints off the crystal-clear window.

"It will destroy them. It will destroy you. It will destroy everything you have ever worked for and dreamed of. And for what? For the doe-eyed approval of a simpering little Brit who only wants you for your money? You think he actually cares about you? News flash. You have no friends in this world, boy, not a one. Except me. There is no one walking this earth who cares about Christian Grey that doesn't share your surname. You're all alone, save for me, and now you're dangerously close to losing me. This is a big bad world, and you'd do well to remember that alliances are essential to survival. And that severing those alliances can be… dangerous."

My lungs contract painfully as I subtly gasp for air.

Her slick smile burns my exposed skin like droplets of escaping acid.

"But for old times' sake and for the affection I still bear you, I will offer one last accord. You call off this ridiculous vendetta. You call your lawyers and you ensure the DA never gets a whiff of this utter, vile nonsense. You tame your shrink. You control him. Just like I taught you. You put an end to this while you still can. And in return, I'll forget this ever happened. I'll chalk it up to the stupidity of youth and we can continue on with our lives as we always have."

Her three thousand dollar handbag shifts up her arm and her teeth bare back in a feral snarl. The unfiltered, unscripted Elena. The predatory cougar. The pedophilic philanderer. I stare and I see her in a way I have never truly seen her before today.

I see the real her.

"You will call me tonight. No later than nine. You will inform me of your decision. And from there, we shall proceed. Think on this decision, Christian, think on it like you've never thought before. Because if you think you've had the shit end of the stick with me as your lover, you have no fucking idea what's coming down the line for you if you choose to have me as your enemy."

The sounds of her clicking heels resound forcefully until they fade into nothingness and I am alone. The bright Seattle sky melts into a dusky cover of muteness as I sit without movement. My mind keens. How my life got turned upside down so forcefully is utterly fucking baffling. I'm still struggling to connect the dots. No one except the esteemed Dr Flynn knows my filthy little secret, hence why he is the sole object of Elena's vitriol. But if I do this, the whole world will know, and my parents…

My parents will have to face a truth I don't know if they can handle.

I inhale and exhale with a slowness that sends an oxygen surge rushing to my brain.

I press it to its fullest advantage.

The clock strikes eight.

The call connects on the fifth ring, as it always does.

"Christian."

The shortest and most prophetic silence of my life abounds.

"I'll see you in court, Elena."