Linotte Reads 50 Shades: Fifty Shades Freed, Chapter Twenty-one

Happy Thursday, all! It’s time for another recap of Fifty Shades Freed, and we’re on Chapter Twenty-one, meaning we’re almost done with this train wreck of a series. When we last left our couple, Ana had just found out that Christian had been to see his old Dom, Elena, after he stormed out of the house at the news of his wife’s pregnancy.

Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive—just. But this . . . this treachery is too much.

He treats you like crap, but you don’t get mad about that. Instead, you’re more concerned that he could be cheating on you. Okay then.

No, no, no—I can’t believe that it will always be this way, two steps forward and three steps back. But that’s how it’s always been with him. After each setback, we move forward, inch by inch. He will come around . . . he will. But will I? Will I recover from this . . . from this treachery?

Emo South Park
It’s like the chorus to some bad emo song by Nickleback, This whole series is like a Nickleback album. Image via Giphy.

I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I could read Christian’s e-mails. See if he’s been talking to her. Should I? Sheathed in jade-green silk, my inner goddess nods emphatically, her mouth set in a scowl. Before I can stop myself, I invade his privacy.

Mallory from Archer
This is my inner goddess’s reaction to your inner goddess basically being a Nosy Nancy. Image via Giphy.

What am I doing? It’s late. I’ve had a tiring day. There are no e-mails from the Bitch Troll or Leila Williams, and I take some cold comfort from that. I glance quickly at the alarm clock: it’s just after two in the morning. Today has been a day of revelations. I am to be a mother, and my husband has been fraternizing with the enemy. Well, let him stew. I am not sleeping here with him. He can wake up alone tomorrow. After placing his BlackBerry on the bedside table, I retrieve my purse from beside the bed and, after one last look at my angelic, sleeping Judas, I leave the bedroom.

And will you call a divorce lawyer tomorrow?

The spare playroom key is in its usual place in the cabinet in the utility room. I grab it and scoot upstairs. From the linen closet, I retrieve a pillow, duvet and sheet, then unlock the playroom door and enter, switching the lights to dim. Odd that I find the smell and ambience of this room so comforting, considering I safe worded the last time we were in here. I lock the door behind me, leaving the key in the lock. I know that tomorrow morning Christian will be frantic to find me, and I don’t think he’ll look in here if the door’s locked. Well, it will serve him right.


I pout my shiny lips at the image in the mirror. Stay strong, Steele . . . um—Grey. Holy fuck, I can’t even remember my name. I pick up my boots, stride over to the bed once more, and quickly put them on, tugging them up over my knees. Yep. I look hot just in underwear and boots. I know. Standing, I gaze dispassionately at him. He blinks at me, and his eyes travel swiftly and greedily down my body.
“I know what you’re doing here,” he murmurs, and his voice has acquired a warm, seductive edge.

She can’t remember her name, but she’s sure hot! And being sultry is a surefire way to get her point across, whatever her point is.

I stagger to the bed and flop down on to it. My inner goddess and my subconscious are both giving me a standing ovation. I did not resort to tears, shouting, or murder, nor did I succumb to his sexpertise. I deserve a Congressional Medal of Honor, but I feel so low. Shit. We resolved nothing. We’re on the edge of a precipice. Is our marriage at stake here? Why can’t he see what a complete and utter ass he’s been running to that woman? And what does he mean when he says he’ll never see her again? How on earth am I supposed to believe that?

Woodhouse serving Archer breakfast
One question, Ana. Image via Giphy.

By eleven, I can no longer keep my eyelids open. Resigned, I head up to my old room. Curling up beneath the duvet, I finally let myself go, sobbing into my pillow, great heaving unladylike sobs of grief . . .

Crying isn’t unladylike. But why are you crying over him?

And that’s it for this week!

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