Linotte Reads 50 Shades: Fifty Shades Freed, Chapter Eight

Happy Wednesday, all! Time for this week’s recap of Fifty Shades Freed and the last installment of the story of Ana Without-a-Spine Steele and her fantastically fucked-up Fifty. Ready for Chapter Eight? Then let the fun begin!

Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level. Who would have thought? The familiar vision of Christian as a dirty, wretched little boy haunts me.

“Eat,” he orders. “You didn’t eat yesterday.”
Oh, bossy Fifty!
“That’s because you were being an arse.”
Mrs. Jones drops something that clatters into the sink, making me jump. Christian seems oblivious to the noise. Ignoring her, he stares at me impassively.
“Arse or not—eat.” His tone is serious. No arguing with him.
“Okay! Picking up spoon, eating granola,” I mutter like a petulant teenager.

Is anyone else here just wondering why she doesn’t ever feel dizzy or irritable when she doesn’t eat? I understand that if people are nervous or upset, they lose their appetite, but her constant lack of it is worrisome. BAD WRITING, right?

“I just . . . you know. Last time you flew in her . . . I thought, we thought, you’d—” I can’t finish the sentence, and Christian’s expression softens.
“Hey.” He caresses my face with the back of his knuckles. “That was sabotage.” A dark expression crosses his face, and for a moment I wonder if he knows who was responsible.
“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” I murmur.
“Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.”
“Five?”

There’s no time like the present for a musical interlude, right? And Christian firing people? All in a day’s work, baby.

“Please.” I reach across and grasp Christian’s hand.
“Please what?”
“Learn how to shoot.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “No. End of discussion, Anastasia.”
And I am a child again to be scolded. I open my mouth to say something cutting, but decide I don’t want to start my workday in a bad mood.

So she has to do everything he wants her to do so he feels that she’s “safe,” but he isn’t willing to do what she would like him to do? He doesn’t want to learn how to use a gun properly, but he expects her to have his bodyguards around during every waking hour even though she doesn’t necessarily want that? Way to R-E-S-P-E-C-T your wife, Christian!

I didn’t know I would feel this unsettled and anxious just because Christian’s away. Surely over time I won’t feel this loss and uncertainty, will I? I let out a heavy sigh and continue with my work.
Around lunchtime, I start manically checking my e-mail and my BlackBerry for a text. Where is he? Has he landed safely? Hannah asks if I want lunch, but I’m too apprehensive and wave her away. I know it’s irrational, but I need to be sure he’s arrived safely.

Okay, when you worry and obsesses over him, you’re irrational. But when he does the same thing, it’s okay.

My stomach rumbles. Jeez, I still haven’t eaten. Shit—Christian! I scramble through my purse and fish out my BlackBerry. Holy crap—five missed calls! One text . . .
*WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?*

She still hasn’t eaten. And even though she has had four strawberry mojitos, she’s still relatively lucid. But all that acid on an empty stomach, ick! And the hangover! Hope you have some vacation time, Ana, you may want to call into work tomorrow.

Also, to Christian:

The doors to the elevator open, and for a split second I stare at the foyer table.
What is wrong with this picture?
The vase of flowers lies smashed into fragments all over the floor of the foyer, water and flowers and chunks of china are strewn everywhere, and the table is overturned. My scalp prickles and Sawyer grabs my arm and pulls me back into the elevator.

And that’s it for this week!