"Jack." My voice has disappeared, choked by fear. How is he out of jail? Why does he have Mia's phone? The blood drains from my face, and I feel dizzy.
"You do remember me," he says, his tone soft. I sense his bitter smile.
"Yes. Of course." My answer is automatic as my mind races.
"You're probably wondering why I called you."
"Yes."
Hang up.
"Don't hang up. I've been having a chat with your little sister-in-law."
What? Mia! No! "What have you done?" I whisper, trying to quell my fear.
"Listen here, you prick-teasing, gold-digging whore. You fucked up my life.
Grey fucked up my life. You owe me. I have the little bitch with me now. And you, that cock-sucker you married, and his whole fucking family are going to pay."
Hyde's contempt and bile shock me. His family? What the hell?
"What do you want?"
"I want his money. I really want his fucking money. If things had been different, it could have been me. So you're going to get it for me. I want five million dollars, today."
"Jack, I don't have access to that kind of money."
He snorts his derision. "You have two hours to get it. That's it—two hours.
Tell no one or this little bitch gets it. Not the cops. Not your prick of a husband.
Not his security team. I will know if you do. Understand?" He pauses and I try to respond, but panic and fear seal my throat.
"You understand!" he shouts.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Or I will kill her."
I gasp.
"Keep your phone with you. Tell no one or I'll fuck her up before I kill her.
You have two hours."
"Jack, I need longer. Three hours. How do I know that you have her?"
The line goes dead. I gape in horror at the phone, my mouth parched with fear, leaving the nasty metallic taste of terror. Mia, he has Mia. Or does he? My mind whirrs at the obscene possibility, and my stomach roils again. I think I'm going to be sick, but I inhale deeply, trying to steady my panic, and the nausea passes. My mind rockets through the possibilities. Tell Christian? Tell Taylor?
Call the police? How will Jack know? Does he actually have Mia? I need time, time to think—but I can only accomplish that by following his instructions. I grab my purse and head for the door.
"Hannah, I have to go out. I am not sure how long I'll be. Cancel my appointments this afternoon. Let Elizabeth know I have to deal with an emergency."
"Sure, Ana. Everything okay?" Hannah frowns, concern etched on her face as she watches me flee.
"Yes," I call back distractedly, hurrying toward reception where Sawyer is waiting.
"Sawyer." He leaps up from the armchair at the sound of my voice, and frowns when he sees my face.
"I'm not feeling well. Please take me home."
"Sure, ma'am. Do you want to wait here while I get the car?"
"No, I'll come with you. I'm in a hurry to get home."
I gaze out the window in stark terror as I go over my plan. Get home. Change.
Find checkbook. Escape from Ryan and Sawyer somehow. Go to bank. Hell, how much room does five million dollars take up? What will it weigh? Will I need a suitcase? Should I telephone the bank in advance? Mia. Mia. What if he doesn't have Mia? How can I check? If I call Grace it will raise her suspicions, and possibly endanger Mia. He said he would know. I glance out the back window of the SUV. Am I being followed? My heart races as I examine the cars following us.
They look innocuous enough. Oh, Sawyer, drive faster. Please. My eyes flicker to meet his in the rearview mirror and his brow creases.
Sawyer presses a button on his Bluetooth headset to answer a call. "T . . . I wanted to let you know Mrs. Grey is with me." Sawyer's eyes meet mine once more before he looks back at the road and continues. "She's unwell. I'm taking her back to Escala . . . I see . . . Sir." Sawyer's eyes flick from the road to mine in the rearview mirror again. "Yes," he agrees and hangs up.
"Taylor?" I whisper.
He nods.
"He's with Mr. Grey?"
"Yes, ma'am." Sawyer's look softens in sympathy.
"Are they still in Portland?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Good. I have to keep Christian safe. My hand strays down to my belly, and I rub it consciously. And you, Little Blip. Keep you both safe.
"Can we hurry please? I'm not feeling well."
"Yes, ma'am." Sawyer presses the accelerator and our car glides through the traffic.
Mrs. Jones is nowhere to be seen when Sawyer and I arrive at the apartment.
Since her car is missing from the garage, I assume she's running errands with Ry-an. Sawyer heads for Taylor's office while I bolt to Christian's study. Stumbling in panic around his desk, I wrench open the drawer to find the checkbooks.
Leila's gun slides forward into view. I feel an incongruous twinge of annoyance that Christian has not secured this weapon. He knows nothing about guns. Jeez, he could get hurt.
After a moment's hesitation, I grab the pistol, check to ensure it's loaded, and tuck it into the waistband of my black slacks. I may need it. I swallow hard. I've only ever practiced on targets. I've never fired a gun at anyone; I hope Ray will forgive me . I turn my attention to tracking down the right checkbook. There are five, and only one is in the names of C. Grey and Mrs. A. Grey. I have about fifty-four thousand dollars in my own account. I have no idea how much money is in this one. But Christian must be good for five million dollars, surely. Perhaps there's money in the safe? Crap. I have no idea of the number. Didn't he mention the combination was it his filing cabinet? I try the cabinet, but it's locked. Shit.
I'll have to stick to plan A.
I take a deep breath and, in a more composed but determined manner, stride to our bedroom. The bed has been made, and for a moment, I feel a pang. Perhaps I should have slept here last night. What is the point of arguing with someone who, by their own admission, is Fifty Shades? He's not even talking to me now.
No—I do not have time to think about this.
Quickly, I change out of my slacks, pulling on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers and put the gun in the waistband of my jeans, at my back.
From the closet I fish out a large soft duffle bag. Will five million dollars fit into this? Christian's gym bag is lying there on the floor. I open it, expecting to find it full of dirty laundry, but no—his gym kit is clean and fresh. Mrs. Jones does indeed get everywhere. I dump the contents onto the floor and stuff his gym bag in-to my duffle. There, that should do it. I check that I have my driver's license as identification for the bank and check the time. It's been thirty-one minutes since Jack called. Now I just have to get out of Escala without Sawyer seeing me.
I make my way slowly and quietly to the foyer, aware of the CCTV camera which is trained on the elevator. I think Sawyer's still in Taylor's office. Cautiously, I open the foyer door, making as little noise as possible. Shutting it quietly behind me, I stand on the very threshold, up against the door, out of the view of the CCTV lens. I fish my cell phone out of my purse and call Sawyer.
"Mrs. Grey."
"Sawyer, I'm in the room upstairs, will you give me a hand with something?"
I keep my voice low, knowing he's just down the hallway on the other side of this door.
"I'll be right with you, ma'am," he says, and I hear his confusion. I've never telephoned him for help before. My heart is in my throat, pounding in a jarring, frenetic rhythm. Will this work? I hang up and listen as his footsteps cross the hallway and go up the stairs. I take another deep steadying breath and briefly contemplate the irony of escaping from my own home like a felon.
Once Sawyer's reached the upstairs landing, I race to the elevator and punch the call button. The doors slide open with the too-loud ping that announces the elevator is ready. I dash inside and frantically stab the button for the basement garage. After an agonizing pause, the doors slowly start to slide shut, and as they do I hear Sawyer's cries.
"Mrs. Grey!" Just as the elevator doors close, I see him skid into the foyer.
"Ana!" he shouts in disbelief. But he's too late, and he disappears from view.
The elevator sinks smoothly down to the garage level. I have a couple of minutes' start on Sawyer, and I know he'll try to stop me. I glance longingly at my R8 as I rush to the Saab, open the door, toss the duffel bag onto the passenger seat, and slide into the driver's seat.
I start the car, and the tires squeal as I race to the entrance and wait eleven agonizing seconds for the barrier to lift. The instant it's clear I drive out, catching sight of Sawyer in my rearview mirror as he dashes out of service elevator into the garage. His bewildered, injured expression haunts me as I turn off the ramp onto Fourth Avenue.
I let out my long held breath. I know Sawyer will call Christian or Taylor, but I'll deal with that when I have to—I don't have time to dwell on it now. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, knowing in my heart of hearts that Sawyer's probably lost his job. Don't dwell. I have to save Mia. I have to get to the bank and collect five million dollars. I glance in the rearview mirror, nervously anticipating the sight of the SUV bursting forth from the garage, but as I drive away, there's no sign of Sawyer.
The bank is sleek, modern, and understated. There are hushed tones, echoing floors, and pale green etched glass everywhere. I stride to the information desk.
"May I help you, ma'am?" The young woman gives me a bright, insincere smile, and for a moment I regret changing into jeans.
"I'd like to withdraw a large sum of money."
Ms. Insincere Smile arches an even more insincere eyebrow.
"You have an account with us?" She fails to hide her sarcasm.
"Yes," I snap. "My husband and I have several accounts here. His name is Christian Grey."
Her eyes widen fractionally and insincerity gives way to shock. Her eyes sweep up and down me once more, this time with a combination of disbelief and awe.
"This way, ma'am," she whispers, and leads me to a small, sparsely furnished office walled with more green-etched glass.
"Please take a seat." She gestures to a black leather chair by a glass desk bearing a state-of-the-art computer and phone. "How much will you be withdrawing today, Mrs. Grey?" she asks pleasantly.
"Five million dollars." I look her straight in the eye as if I ask for this amount of cash every day.
She blanches. "I see. I'll fetch the manager. Oh, forgive me for asking, but do you have ID?"
"I do. But I'd like to speak to the manager."
"Of course, Mrs. Grey." She scurries out. I sink into the seat, and a wave of nausea washes over me as the gun presses uncomfortably into the small of my back . Not now. I can't be sick now. I take a deep cleansing breath, and the wave passes. Nervously, I check my watch. Twenty-five past two.
A middle-aged man enters the room. He has a receding hairline, but wears a sharp, expensive charcoal suit and matching tie. He holds out his hand.
"Mrs. Grey. I'm Troy Whelan." He smiles, we shake, and he sits down at the desk opposite me.
"My colleague tells me you'd like to withdraw a large amount of money."
"That's correct. Five million dollars."
He turns to his sleek computer and taps in a few numbers.
"We normally ask for some notice for large amounts of money." He pauses, and flashes me a reassuring but supercilious smile. "Fortunately, however, we hold the cash reserve for the entire Pacific Northwest," he boasts. Jeez, is he trying to impress me?
"Mr. Whelan, I'm in a hurry. What do I need to do? I have my driver's license, and our joint account checkbook. Do I just write a check?"
"First things first, Mrs. Grey. May I see the ID?" He switches from jovial show-off to serious banker.
"Here." I hand over my license.
"Mrs. Grey . . . this says Anastasia Steele."
Oh shit.
"Oh . . . yes. Um."
"I'll call Mr. Grey."
"Oh no, that won't be necessary." Shit! "I must have something with my married name." I rifle through my purse. What do I have with my name on it? I pull out my wallet, open it and find a photograph of Christian and me, on the bed in Fair Lady's cabin. I can't show him that! I dig out my black Amex.
"Here."
"Mrs. Anastasia Grey," Whelan reads. "Yes, that should do." He frowns.
"This is highly irregular, Mrs. Grey.
"Do you want me to let my husband know that your bank has been less than cooperative?" I square my shoulders and give him my most forbidding stare.
He pauses, momentarily reassessing me, I think. "You'll need to write a check, Mrs. Grey."
"Sure. This account?" I show him my checkbook, trying to quell my pounding heart
"That'll be fine. I'll also need you to complete some additional paperwork. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"
I nod, and he rises and stalks out of the office. Again, I release my held breath. I had no idea this would be so difficult. Clumsily, I open my checkbook and pull a pen out of my purse. Do I just make it out to cash? I have no idea. With shaking fingers I write: Five million dollars. $5,000,000.
Oh God, I hope I'm doing the right thing. Mia, think of Mia. I can't tell anyone.
Jack's chilling, repugnant words haunt me. "Tell no one or I'll fuck her up before I kill her."
Mr. Whelan returns, pale-faced and sheepish.
"Mrs. Grey? Your husband wants to speak with you," he murmurs and points to the phone on the glass table between us.
What? No.
"He's on line one. Just press the button. I'll be outside." He has the grace to look embarrassed. Benedict Arnold has nothing on Whelan. I scowl at him, feeling the blood drain from my face again as he shuffles out of the office.
Shit! Shit! Shit! What am I going to say to Christian? He'll know. He'll inter-vene. He's a danger to his sister. My hand trembles as I reach for the phone. I hold it against my ear, trying to calm my erratic breathing, and press the button for line one.
"Hi," I murmur, trying in vain to steady my nerves.
"You're leaving me?" Christian's words are an agonized, breathless whisper.
What?
"No!" My voice mirrors his. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no—how can he think that?
The money? He thinks I'm going because of the money? And in moment of hor-rific clarity, I realize the only way I'm going to keep Christian at arm's length, out of harm's way, and to save his sister . . . is to lie.
"Yes," I whisper. And searing pain lances through me, tears springing to my eyes.
He gasps, almost a sob. "Ana, I—" He chokes.
No! My hand clutches my mouth as I stifle my warring emotions. "Christian, please. Don't." I fight back tears.
"You're going?" he says.
"Yes."
"But why the cash? Was it always the money?" His tortured voice is barely audible.
No! Tears roll down my face. "No," I whisper.