row… surely.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Christian mutters, and suddenly my blood is pound-

ing in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He

starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. Oh my… I think I’m

going to faint. My fate is in his hands.

We are now flying amongst the buildings, and up ahead I can see a tall skyscraper with

a helipad on top. The word Escala is painted in white on top of the building. It’s getting

nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger… like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let him down.

He’ll find me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Kate and borrowed one of her

dresses, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint green shirt and Kate’s black

jacket. I look smart enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I

can do this.I chant this mantra as the skyscraper looms below us.

The helicopter slows and hovers, and Christian sets it down on the helipad on top of the

building. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief

that we’ve arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. He switches the ignition off

and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing.

Christian takes his headphones off, and reaches across and pulls mine off too.

“We’re here,” he says softly.

His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white light from the land-

ing lights. Dark knight and white knight, it’s a fitting metaphor for Christian. He looks

strained. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are tight. He unfastens his seatbelt and reaches

over to unbuckle mine. His face is inches from mine.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that don’t you?” His

tone is so earnest, desperate even, his gray eyes impassioned. He takes me by surprise.

“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christian.” And as I say the words, I don’t

quite feel their conviction because at this moment in time – I’d probably do anything for

this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollified.

He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he’s so tall, he manages

to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting

for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down on to the helipad. It’s very windy

on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m standing at least thirty stories

high in an unenclosed space. Christian wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly

against him.

“Come,” he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over to an elevator shaft

and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It’s warm inside and all mir-

rored glass. I can see Christian to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is,

he’s holding me to infinity too. Christian taps another code into the keypad, then the doors

close and the elevator descends.

Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table,

and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings,

everywhere. He opens two double doors, and the white theme continues through the wide

corridor and directly opposite where a palatial room opens up. It’s the main living area,

double height. Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads on to a bal-

cony that overlooks Seattle.

To the right is an imposing ‘U’ shaped sofa that could sit ten adults comfortably. It fac-

es a state-of-the-art stainless steel – or maybe platinum for all I know - modern fireplace.

The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area.

All white with dark wood worktops and a large breakfast bar which seats six.

Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen

chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full size, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes… he prob-

ably plays the piano too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In fact, this

apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.

“Can I take your jacket?” Christian asks. I shake my head. I’m still cold from the wind

on the helipad.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks. I blink at him. After last night! Is he trying to be

funny?For one second, I think about asking for a margarita – but I don’t have the nerve.

“I’m going to have a glass of white wine, would you like to join me?”

“Yes, please,” I murmur.

I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall,

and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina-style on to the balcony. Se-

attle is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area – it takes a few

seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall – and Christian is opening a bottle of wine. He’s

removed his jacket.

“Pouilly Fumé okay with you?”

“I know nothing about wine, Christian. I’m sure it will be fine.” My voice is soft and

hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-

top Bill Gates style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing

here- my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Christian Grey’s bed.

“Here.” He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich… heavy, contempo-

rary, crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.

“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact – I think this is the palest I’ve

ever seen you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head. Not for food.

“It’s a very big place you have here.”

“Big?”

“Big.”

“It’s big,” he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. I take another sip of wine.

“Do you play?” I point my chin at the piano.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”

“Yes… a few things.” He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I feel

them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. Room is the wrong word.

It’s not a room – it’s a mission statement.

“Do you want to sit?”

I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I’m

struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to

the notorious Alec D’Urberville. The thought makes me smile.

“What’s so amusing?” He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head

on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.

“Why did you give me Tess of the D’Urbervilles specifically?” I ask. Christian stares

at me for a moment. I think he’s surprised by my question.

“Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”

“Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. His mouth

presses into a hard line.

“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel

Clare or debase you completely like Alec D’Urberville,” he murmurs, and his gray eyes

flash dark and dangerous.

“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I whisper, gazing at him. My

subconscious is staring at me in awe. He gasps.

“Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what

you’re saying.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He frowns.

“Yes. Would you excuse me a moment?” He disappears through a wide doorway on