First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2011

Copyright © E L James, 2011

The right of E L James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her

under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968,

no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or

transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the

publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a prod-

uct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people

living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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E L James is a TV executive, wife, and mother of two, based in West London. Since early

childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those

dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the courage

to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of Grey.

E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades of Grey and a new romantic

thriller with a supernatural twist.

I am indebted to the following people for their help and support:

To my husband Niall – thank you for tolerating my obsession, being a domestic god and doing

the first edit.

To my boss Lisa – thank you for putting up with me over the last year or so while I indulged in

this madness.

To CCL – I’ll never tell but thank you.

To the original bunker babes – thank you for your friendship and constant support.

To SR – thank you for all the helpful advice from the start and for going first.

To Sue – thanks for sorting me out.

To Amanda and all at TWCS – thank you for taking a punt.

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave,

and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be

studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair

into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet.Reciting this

mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll

my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for

her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in

a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.

Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu.

Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industri-

alist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I

have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this af-

ternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle

in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional

entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious

– much more precious than mine – but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she

tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.

Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room.

“Ana, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another

six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this

off. Please,” Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even

ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright,

although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.

“Of course I’ll go Kate. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or

Tylenol?”

“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record

here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”

“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.

“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at

her fondly. Only for you, Kate, would I do this.

“I will. Good luck. And thanks Ana – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I can-

not believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything.

She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative,

beautiful – and she’s my dearest, dearest friend.

The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early,

and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate’s lent me her

sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in

time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty-

story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Grey

House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two when I

arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimi-

dating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman

smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I

have ever seen. She looks immaculate.

“I’m here to see Mr. Grey. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh.”

“Excuse me one moment, Miss Steele.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-

consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Kate’s formal blazers

rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only

skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck

one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.

“Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You’ll want the last

elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no

doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I

can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all.

Nothing changes,I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past