Yes, unicorns, the title is right! I finally developed a strong enough stomach to read the final book in this terrible series and give a recap of each chapter like I did in the past. And why am I doing this? For all of you, darlings! So let’s get started with Chapter Four of Fifty Shades Freed. We left the ridiculously toxic newlyweds on their honeymoon in France. Let’s see what else happens to these lost causes.
“I’d like to take the Jet Ski.”
His mouth drops open. “Erm.” He frowns, lost for words.
“I don’t want to bother Christian with this.”
He represses a sigh. “Mrs. Grey . . . um . . . I don’t think Mr. Grey would be very comfortable with that, and I’d like to keep my job.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don’t want Christian mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter.
Honey, I think that in order to be mistress of your own fate, you need to know that you’re going to risk pissing Christian off. Otherwise, you’re all talk and no action. Or else you can just let Taylor take the fall for you. By the way, does anyone else find it exceptionally disturbing that Christian has hired men to make sure his wife isn’t doing what he has forbidden her from doing? And really, who would want that kind of job, acting as babysitter to Ana?
He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.
“You’re distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon.” He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions.” He kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Go spend some money.” He releases me.
“Will do.” I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head and purses her lips. You didn’t tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she chastises me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . . Harpy.
I try once more, very gently squeezing the lever, and the Jet Ski lurches forward—but this time it keeps going. Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going! I want to shout and squeal in excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from the yacht into the main harbor. Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor launch. When I squeeze the gas further, the Jet Ski leaps forward, skating across the water. With the warm breeze in my hair and a fine sea spray on either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No wonder Christian never lets me drive.
So this is a “deep” passage here, let me tell you. The Jet Ski symbolizes freedom, and Christian won’t let her drive the Jet Ski because he doesn’t want her to be free. She has to sneak around to drive the Jet Ski and seize her freedom. But she keeps going back to her cage, her relationship with Christian. On second thought, this is rather disturbing, isn’t it?
At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of me. His expression is bleak, and my heart sinks, though Gaston looks vaguely amused. I wonder briefly if something has happened to chill Gallic-American relations, but deep down I suspect the problem is probably me.
Yup, because everyone knows that French people just hate Americans, Ana…but guess what? It’s really that Gaston just doesn’t like you.
Why did I want to come shopping? I hate shopping. But deep down I know why, and I walk determinedly past Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and the other designer boutiques and eventually find the antidote to what ails me in a small, overstocked, touristy store. It’s a little silver ankle bracelet with small hearts and little bells. It tinkles sweetly and it costs five euros. As soon as I’ve bought it, I put it on. This is me—this is what I like. Immediately I feel more comfortable. I don’t want to lose touch with the girl who likes this, ever. Deep down, I know that I’m not only overwhelmed by Christian himself but also by his wealth. Will I ever get used to it?
Can we get an editor over here? She hates shopping, but it makes her feel better when she buys something. Isn’t that liking shopping? And Ana is an amateur when it comes to spending her husband’s money. She passes up designer stuff for a kitschy souvenir from a tourist trap.
“Why do you think I want this?” he asks, bemused.
No, no, no! You said you’d love it . . .
“Don’t you?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is questioning why anyone would want erotic photographs of me. Christian swallows and runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused. He takes a deep breath.
“For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I know I’ve objectified women for so long,” he says and pauses awkwardly.
We wander through the opulent, gilt splendor of the eighteenth century Palace of Versailles. Once a humble hunting lodge, it was transformed by the Roi Soleil into a magnificent, lavish seat of power, but even before the eighteenth century ended it saw the last of those absolute monarchs.
The most stunning room by far is the Hall of Mirrors. The early afternoon light floods through windows to the west, lighting up the mirrors that line the east wall and illuminating the gold leaf décor and the enormous crystal chandeliers. It’s breathtaking.
“Interesting to see what becomes of a despotic megalomaniac who isolates himself in such splendor,” I murmur to Christian as he stands at my side. He gazes down and cocks his head to one side, regarding me with humor.
And that’s it for today!
(If you’re new to these recaps, check out the previous installments here.)