Hello, unicorns! It’s time for the weekly recap of the hot mess that is Fifty Shades Freed. Ready? Let’s go!
My heart is pounding and blood thrums loudly in my eardrums; the alcohol flowing through my system, amplifying the sound.
“About ten minutes ago. I caught him on the security monitor. He was wearing gloves . . . kinda strange in August. I recognized him and decided to give him access. That way I knew we’d have him.”
Ugh, the capture of Jack Hyde went all too easily, didn’t it?
I want the floor to swallow me up, but I turn and head for our bedroom. Sometimes you just have to brazen things out. Perhaps it’s the combination of fear and alcohol making me audacious.
Yes, sometimes you just have to brazen things out. Like I have to brazen out finishing this book.
And suddenly I feel homesick—homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here. He’d know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don’t do as I’m told—but that won’t be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn’t he tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack’s computer? He’s so frustrating but right now, I just don’t care. I want my husband. I miss him.
Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is sitting in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I’m dreaming. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy? Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is crossed at the ankle over his knee. He’s wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand up to his chin, and he’s slowly running his index finger rhythmically back and forth over his lower lip. In the early morning light, his eyes burn with grave intensity but his general expression is completely unreadable.
My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must have left New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?
“I’m still fucking mad at you,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit! Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and caress his face.
“Don’t be mad at me, please. I think you’re overreacting,” I whisper.
He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.
“Overreacting?” he snarls. “Some fucking lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I’m overreacting!” The restrained menace in his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me as if I’m the fucking lunatic.
“No . . . um, that’s not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out.”
“You’re going?” he says when he sees me.
“To work? Yes, of course.” Bravely, I walk toward him and rest my hands on the edge of the breakfast bar. He gazes at me blankly.
“Christian, we’ve hardly been back a week. I have to go to work.”
“But—” He stops, and rakes his hand through his hair. Mrs. Jones walks quietly out of the room. Discreet, Gail, discreet.
I remember my mom’s “words of wisdom” talk the day before my wedding. Ana, honey, you really have to choose your battles. It’ll be the same with your kids when you have them. Well, at least he’s letting me go to work.
Just…no. Why are you settling for this? This isn’t picking your battles, this is him controlling you!
And that’s it for this week!
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