Chapter 212


    Oh, Ana. I’m just so d she’s still here. She hasn’t left me.


    “Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?” Gail asks, in such a sweet, solicitous tone that I turn to


    look at her in surprise. Her eyes slide to me, as frigid as ever.


    Ana shakes her head. “I’m not hungry, thank you.” Her voice is soft and clear, but her expression’s


    imcable. Is she not eating in order to punish me? Is that what this is? But now is not the time for that


    argument.


    “Where were you?” I ask, bemused. Behind me there’s a sudden burst of activity as my staff make


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    themselves scarce. I ignore them, as does Ana. She turns and heads toward our bedroom.


    “Ana! Answer me!”


    Don’t fucking ignore me!


    I follow in her stately wake down the hallway, into our suite, until she turns into our bathroom, shuts the


    door, and locks it.


    Shit!


    “Ana!” I thump on the door, then try the handle. “Ana, open the damned door.”


    Why is she doing this? Because I walked outst night? Because I saw Elena?


    “Go away!” she shouts over the sound of gushing water from the shower.


    “I’m not going anywhere!”


    “Suit yourself.”


    “Ana, please.” I rattle the door once more in an effort to express my anger, but I feel nothing except


    impotent rage. How dare she lock the door? It takes all my self-control not to break it down, but given


    her attitude, and my headache, that probably wouldn’t be a wise choice.


    Why is she so mad?


    She’s mad?


    After the ten-fingered, ten-toed bombshell she dropped on me?


    Or is it because I got drunk?


    Deep down I know the problem.


    Elena. Why couldn’t Mrs. Lincoln keep her thoughts to herself?


    I knew it was a mistake to see her.


    I knew it in the bar.


    This is a fuckup, Grey.


    Well, as my mother always likes to say, it takes two to tango. Wives get mad at their husbands all the


    time. Don’t they? This is normal, surely. I scowl at the locked door.


    What can I do?


    Find your happy ce. Flynn’s words invade my thoughts as I lean against the wall.


    Well, my happy ce is not fucking standing here.


    My happy ce is in the shower.


    But I don’t have a choice.


    My head is thumping. At least the sound of the rushing water from the shower is less painful than my


    shouting. Otherwise, it’s all quiet. I contemte going to have a shower myself, in the spare room. But


    she might duck out on me. Sighing, I run my hand through my hair, reconciled to waiting for Mrs. Grey.


    Again.


    Like I always do.


    My mind drifts to the previous evening. To Elena. What did we talk about? As I try to remember, my


    sense of unease returns. What did we discuss? My business. Yes. Her business. Isaac. The fact that


    Ana wants kids. I didn’t actually tell Elena that Ana was pregnant. Did I?


    No. Thank Christ.


    Spawn. I snort. That’s the term Elena used.


    And she apologized. Now, that is a first.


    What else did we talk about? There’s something hovering at the edge of my consciousness. Damn.


    Why did I get so drunk? I loathe being out of control. I loathe drunks.


    A darker memory surfaces—not fromst night, one that I try to bury. That man. The crack whore’s


    fucking pimp, drunk on cheap liquor and whatever he could jack into his system and the crack whore’s


    system.


    Fuck.


    This is not my happy ce. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin as I recall the stench emanating from


    his unwashed body, and from the Camel cigarette jammed between his teeth. I take a deep, long


    breath to quell my rising panic.


    It’s in the past, Grey.


    Stay calm.


    The door clicks and I open my eyes to see Mrs. Anastasia Grey, wrapped in two towels, emerge from


    the bathroom. She strides right past me as if I’m invisible and disappears into the closet. I follow her


    and stand on the threshold, watching as she ever-so-casually selects her outfit for the day.


    “Are you ignoring me?” The disbelief is evident in my voice.


    “Perceptive, aren’t you?” she mutters, as if I’m some kind of afterthought.


    I watch her. Helpless. What do I do?


    Her clothes are in her hands as she waltzes toward me and halts, finally looking me in the eye, a “get


    out of my way, asshole” expression on her face. I really am in deep shit. I’ve never seen her this mad,


    except maybe that time she threw a hairbrush at me on the Fair Lady. I step out of her way, when really


    all I want to do is grab her, press her against the wall, and kiss her—kiss her senseless. Then bury


    myself inside her. But I follow her like a fuckingpdog into the bedroom and stand in the doorway as


    she saunters over to her chest of drawers. How can she be so nonchnt?


    Look at me! I will her.


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