He opens the door and, still grasping my arm, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads me over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room.

“Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly.

Okay. I can do this. I bend over the smooth soft leather. He’s left my bathrobe on. In a quiet part of my brain, I’m vaguely surprised that he hasn’t made me take it off. Holy fuck, this is going to hurt … I know.

“We’re here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”

Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can’t see me.

He lifts the hem of my bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He gently caresses my behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of my thighs.

“I am doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he whispers.

And the irony is not lost on me. I was running to avoid this. If he’d opened his arms, I’d run to him, not away from him.

“And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” Suddenly, it’s gone—that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s back from wherever he’s been. I hear it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on my back, holding me—and the atmosphere in the room changes.

I close my eyes, bracing myself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across my backside, and the bite of the belt is everything I feared. I cry out involuntarily and take a huge gulp of air.

“Count, Anastasia!” he commands.

“One!” I shout at him, and it sounds like an expletive.

He hits me again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the belt. Holy shit … that smarts.

“Two!” I scream. It feels so good to scream.

His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas mine is almost nonexistent as I desperately scrabble around my psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into my flesh again.

“Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. Jeez—this is harder than I thought—so much harder than the spanking. He’s not holding anything back.

“Four!” I yell as the belt bites me again, and now the tears are streaming down my face. I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am crying. He hits me again.

“Five.” My voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment I think I hate him. One more, I can do one more. My backside feels as if it’s on fire.

“Six,” I whisper as the blistering pain cuts across me again, and I hear him drop the belt behind me, and he’s pulling me into his arms, all breathless and compassionate … and I want none of him.

“Let go … no …” And I find myself struggling out of his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him.

“Don’t touch me!” I hiss. I straighten and stare at him, and he’s watching me as if I might bolt, eyes wide, bemused. I dash the tears angrily out of my eyes with the backs of my hands, glaring at him.

“This is what you really like? Me, like this?” I use the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe my nose.

He gazes at me warily.

“Well, you are one fucked-up son of a bitch.”

“Ana,” he pleads, shocked.

“Don’t you dare ‘Ana’ me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!” And with that, I turn stiffly, and I walk out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind me.

I clasp the door handle behind me and briefly lean back against the door. Where to go? Do I run? Do I stay? I am so mad, scalding tears spill down my cheeks, and I brush them furiously aside. I just want to curl up. Curl up and recuperate in some way. Heal my shattered faith. How could I have been so stupid? Of course it hurts.

Tentatively, I rub my backside. Aah! It’s sore. Where to go? Not his room. My room, or the room that will be mine, no, is mine … was mine. This is why he wanted me to keep it. He knew I would need distance from him.

I launch myself stiffly in that direction, conscious that Christian may follow me. It is still dark in the bedroom, dawn only a whisper in the skyline. I climb awkwardly into bed, careful not to sit on my aching and tender backside. I keep the bathrobe on, wrapping it around me, and curl up and really let go—sobbing hard into my pillow.

What was I thinking? Why did I let him do that to me? I wanted the dark, to explore how bad it could be—but it’s too dark for me. I cannot do this. Yet, this is what he does; this is how he gets his kicks.

What a monumental wake-up call. And to be fair to him, he warned me and warned me, time and again. He’s not normal. He has needs that I cannot fulfill. I realize that now. I don’t want him to hit me like that again, ever. I think of the couple of times he has hit me, and how easy he was on me by comparison. Is that enough for him? I sob harder into the pillow. I am going to lose him. He won’t want to be with me if I can’t give him this. Why, why, why have I fallen in love with Fifty Shades? Why? Why can’t I love José, or Paul Clayton, or someone like me?

Oh, his distraught look as I left. I was so cruel, shocked by the savagery … will he forgive me … will I forgive him? My thoughts are all haywire and jumbled, echoing and bouncing off the inside of my skull. My subconscious is shaking her head sadly, and my inner goddess is nowhere to be seen. Oh, this is a dark morning of the soul for me. I’m so alone. I want my mom. I remember her parting words at the airport:

Follow your heart, darling, and please, please—try not to overthink things. Relax and enjoy. You are so young, sweetheart, you have so much to experience, just let it happen. You deserve the best of everything.

I did follow my heart, and I have a sore ass and an anguished, broken spirit to show for it. I have to go. That’s it … I have to leave. He’s no good for me, and I am no good for him. How can we possibly make this work? And the thought of not seeing him again practically chokes me … my Fifty Shades.

I hear the door click open. Oh no—he’s here. He puts something down on the bedside table, and the bed shifts under his weight as he climbs in behind me.

“Hush,” he breathes, and I want to pull away from him, move to the other side of the bed, but I’m paralyzed. I cannot move and lie stiffly, not yielding at all. “Don’t fight me, Ana, please,” he whispers. Gently, he pulls me into his arms, burying his nose in my hair, kissing my neck.

“Don’t hate me,” he breathes softly against my skin, his voice achingly sad. My heart clenches anew and releases a fresh wave of silent sobbing. He continues to kiss me softly, tenderly, but I remain aloof and wary.

We lie together like this, neither saying anything for ages. He just holds me, and very gradually, I relax and stop crying. Dawn comes and goes, and the soft light gets brighter as morning moves on, and still we lie quietly.

“I brought you some Advil and some arnica cream,” he says after a long while.

I turn very slowly in his arms so I can face him. I am resting my head on his arm. His eyes are flinty gray and guarded.

I gaze at his beautiful face. He’s giving nothing away, but he keeps his eyes on mine, hardly blinking. Oh, he is so breathtakingly good-looking. In such a short time, he’s become so, so dear to me. Reaching up, I caress his cheek and run the tips of my fingers through his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He opens his eyes and looks at me puzzled.

“What for?”

“What I said.”

“You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.” And his eyes soften with relief. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

I shrug. “I asked for it.” And now I know. I swallow. Here goes. I need to say my piece. “I don’t think I can be everything you want me to be,” I whisper. His eyes widen, and he blinks, his fearful expression returning.

“You are everything I want you to be.”

What?

“I don’t understand. I’m not obedient, and you can be as sure as hell I’m not going to let you do that to me again. And that’s what you need, you said so.”

He closes his eyes again, and I can see myriad emotions cross his face. When he reopens them, his expression is bleak. Oh no.

“You’re right. I should let you go. I am no good for you.”

My scalp prickles as every single hair follicle on my body stands to attention, and the world falls away from me, leaving a wide, yawning abyss for me to fall into. Oh no.

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper. Fuck—this is it. Pay or play. Tears swim in my eyes once more.

“I don’t want you to go, either,” he whispers, his voice raw. He reaches up and gently strokes my cheek and wipes away a falling tear with his thumb. “I’ve come alive since I met you.” His thumb traces the contours of my lower lip.

“Me, too,” I whisper. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian.”

His eyes widen again, but this time with pure, undiluted fear.

“No,” he breathes as if I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

Oh no.

“You can’t love me, Ana. No … that’s wrong.” He’s horrified.

“Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”

“Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” His voice is anguished.

“But you do make me happy.” I frown.

“Not at the moment, not doing what I want to do.”

Holy fuck. This really is it. This is what it boils down to—incompatibility—and all those poor subs come to mind.

“We’ll never get past that, will we?” I whisper, my scalp prickling in fear.

He shakes his head bleakly. I close my eyes. I cannot bear to look at him.

“Well … I’d better go, then,” I murmur, wincing as I sit up.

“No, don’t go.” He sounds panicked.

“There’s no point in me staying.” Suddenly, I feel tired, really dog-tired, and I want to go now. I climb out of bed, and Christian follows.

“I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” I say, my voice flat and empty as I leave him standing in the bedroom.

Heading downstairs, I glance at the great room, thinking how only hours before I had rested my head on his shoulder as he played the piano. So much has happened since then. I have had my eyes opened and glimpsed the extent of his depravity, and I now know he’s not capable of love—of giving or receiving love. My worst fears have been realized. And strangely, it’s liberating.

The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it. I feel numb. I have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual observer to this unfolding tragedy. I shower quickly and methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me. Now squeeze body wash bottle. Put body wash bottle back in rack. Rub cloth on face, on shoulders … on and on, all simple, mechanical actions, requiring simple, mechanical thoughts.

I finish my shower—and as I haven’t washed my hair, I can dry myself quickly. I dress in the bathroom, taking my jeans and T-shirt out of my small suitcase. My jeans chafe against my backside, but quite frankly, it’s a pain I welcome as it distracts my mind from what’s happening to my splintering, shattered heart.

I stoop to shut my suitcase and the bag holding Christian’s gift catches my eye, a model kit for a Blanik L23 glider, something for him to build. Tears threaten. Oh no … happier times, when there was hope of more. I take it out of the case, knowing that I need to give it to him. Quickly, I rip a small piece of paper from my notebook, hastily scribble a note for him, and leave it on top of the box.

I gaze at myself in the mirror. A pale and haunted ghost stares back at me. I scoop my hair into a bun and ignore how swollen my eyelids are from the crying. My subconscious nods with approval. Even she knows not to be snarky right now. I cannot believe that my world is crumbling around me into a sterile pile of ashes, all my hopes and dreams cruelly dashed. No, no, don’t think about it. Not now, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my case, and after placing the glider kit and my note on his pillow, I head for the great room.

Christian is on the phone. He’s dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt. His feet are bare.

“He said what?” he shouts, making me jump. “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him … Welch, this is a real fuckup.” He glances up and doesn’t take his dark and brooding eyes off me. “Find her,” he snaps and presses the off switch.

I walk over to the couch and collect my backpack, doing my best to ignore him. I take the Mac out of it and walk back toward the kitchen, placing it carefully on the breakfast bar, along with the BlackBerry and the car key. When I turn to face him, he’s staring at me, stupefied with horror.

“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” My voice is clear and calm, devoid of emotion … extraordinary.

“Ana, I don’t want those things, they’re yours,” he says in disbelief. “Take them.”

“No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance—and I don’t want them anymore.”

“Ana, be reasonable,” he scolds me, even now.

“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” My voice is quite monotone.

He gasps. “Are you really trying to wound me?”

“No.” I frown, staring at him. Of course not … I love you. “I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself,” I whisper. Because you don’t want me the way I want you.

“Please, Ana, take that stuff.”

“Christian, I don’t want to fight—I just need the money.”

He narrows his eyes, but I’m no longer intimidated by him. Well, only a little. I gaze impassively back, not blinking or backing down.

“Will you take a check?” he says acidly.

“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”

He doesn’t smile; he just turns on his heel and stalks into his study. I take a last, lingering look around his apartment—at the art on the walls—all abstracts, serene, cool … cold, even. Fitting, I think absently. My eyes stray to the piano. Jeez—if I’d kept my mouth shut, we’d have made love on the piano. No, fucked, we would have fucked on the piano. Well, I would have made love. The thought lies heavy and sad in my mind and what’s left of my heart. He has never made love to me, has he? It’s always been fucking to him.

Christian returns and hands me an envelope.

“Taylor got a good price. It’s a classic car. You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” He nods in the direction over my shoulder. I turn, and Taylor is standing in the doorway, wearing his suit, as impeccable as ever.

“That’s fine. I can get myself home, thank you.”

I turn to stare at Christian, and I see the barely contained fury in his eyes.

“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”

“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” I give him a small, apologetic shrug.

He closes his eyes in frustration and runs his hand through his hair.

“Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home.”

“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces authoritatively. Christian nods at him, and when I glance around, Taylor has gone.

I turn back to face Christian. We are four feet apart. He steps forward, and instinctively I step back. He stops, and the anguish in his expression is palpable, his gray eyes burning.

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs, his voice full of longing.

“I can’t stay. I know what I want and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need.”

He takes another step forward, and I hold up my hands.

“Don’t, please.” I recoil from him. There’s no way I can tolerate his touch now, it will slay me. “I can’t do this.”

Grabbing my suitcase and my backpack, I head for the foyer. He follows me, keeping a careful distance. He presses the elevator button, and the doors open. I climb in.

“Good-bye, Christian,” I murmur.

“Ana, good-bye,” he says softly, and he looks utterly, utterly broken, a man in agonizing pain, reflecting how I feel inside. I tear my gaze away from him before I change my mind and try to comfort him.

The elevator doors close and it whisks me down to the bowels of the basement and to my own personal hell.

TAYLOR HOLDS THE DOOR open for me, and I climb into the back of the car. I avoid eye contact. Embarrassment and shame wash over me. I’m a complete failure. I had hoped to drag my Fifty Shades into the light, but it’s proved a task beyond my meager abilities. Desperately, I try to keep my emotions banked and at bay. As we head out onto Fourth Avenue, I stare blankly out the window, and the enormity of what I’ve done slowly washes over me. Shit—I’ve left him. The only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I’ve ever slept with. I gasp, as crippling pain slices through me, and the levees burst. Tears course unbidden and unwelcome down my cheeks, and I wipe them away hurriedly with my fingers, scrambling in my bag for my sunglasses. As we pause at some traffic light, Taylor holds out a linen handkerchief for me. He says nothing and doesn’t look in my direction, and I take it with gratitude.

“Thank you,” I mutter, and this small discreet act of kindness is my undoing. I sit back in the luxurious leather seat and weep.

THE APARTMENT IS ACHINGLY empty and unfamiliar. I have not lived here long enough for it to feel like home. I head straight to my room, and there, hanging limply at the end of my bed, is a very sad, deflated helicopter balloon. Charlie Tango, looking and feeling exactly like me. I grab it angrily off my bedrail, snapping the tie, and hug it to me. Oh—what have I done?

I fall onto my bed, shoes and all, and howl. The pain is indescribable … physical, mental … metaphysical … it is everywhere, seeping into the marrow of my bones. Grief. This is grief—and I’ve brought it on myself. Deep down, a nasty, unbidden thought comes from my inner goddess, her lips contorted in a snarl … the physical pain from the bite of a belt is nothing, nothing compared to this devastation. I curl up, desperately clutching the flat foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to my grief.