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“No, I wasn’t.”

“You’re feeling better now?” I ask gently.

“Much. Thank you.”

“Does your doctor know you’re here?”

She shakes her head.

Oh.

She looks suitably guilty. “I know I’ll have to deal with the fallout for this later. But I had to get some things, and I wanted to see Susi, and you, and . . . Mr.

Grey.”

“You want to see Christian?” My stomach free-falls to the floor. That’s why she’s here.

“Yes. I wanted to ask you if that would be okay.” Holy fuck. I gape at her, and I want to tell her that it’s not okay. I don’t want her anywhere near my husband. Why is she here? To assess the opposition? To unsettle me? Or perhaps she needs this as some sort of closure?

“Leila.” I flounder, exasperated. “It’s not up to me, it’s up to Christian.

You’ll need to ask him. He doesn’t need my permission. He’s a grown man . . .

most of the time.”

She gazes at me for a fraction of a beat as if surprised by my reaction then laughs softly, nervously twiddling the end of her hair.

“He’s repeatedly refused all my requests to see him,” she says quietly.

Oh shit. I’m in more trouble than I thought.

“Why is it so important for you to see him?” I ask gently.

“To thank him. I’d be rotting in a stinking prison psychiatric facility if it wasn’t for him. I know that.” She glances down and runs her finger along the edge of the table. “I suffered a serious psychotic episode, and without Mr. Grey and John—Dr. Flynn . . .” She shrugs and gazes at me once more, her face full of gratitude.

Once again I’m speechless. What does she expect me to say? Surely she should be saying these things to Christian, not me.

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“And for art school. I can’t thank him enough for that.” I knew it! Christian is funding her classes. I remain expressionless, tentatively exploring my feelings for this woman now that she’s confirmed my suspicions about Christian’s generosity. To my surprise, I feel no ill will toward her. It’s a revelation, and I’m glad she’s better. Now, hopefully, she can move on with her life and out of ours.

“Are you missing classes right now?” I ask, because I’m interested.

“Only two. I head home tomorrow.”

Oh good. “What are your plans, while you’re here?”

“Pick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Grey already has a couple of my paintings.” What the hell! My stomach plunges into the basement once more. Are they hanging in my living room? I bridle at the thought.

“What sort of painting do you do?”

“Abstracts, mainly.”

“I see.” My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room.

Two by his ex-sub . . . possibly. Jeez.

“Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?” she asks, completely oblivious to my warring emotions.

“By all means,” I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she’s relaxed a little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.

“I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year.” Her voice drops to a sad whisper.

Holy shit, she’s getting personal.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn’t heard me.

“I loved my husband . . . and one other,” she murmurs.

“My husband.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Yes.” She mouths the word.

This is not news to me. When she lifts her brown eyes to mine, they are wide with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be apprehension . . . of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to this poor young woman is compassion. Mentally I run through all the classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing hard, I clutch the moral high ground.

“I know. He’s very easy to love,” I whisper.

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Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. “Yes. He is—was.” She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I can’t help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre . I glance at my watch. Deep down I know Christian will be here soon.

“You’ll get your chance to see Christian.”

“I thought I would. I know how protective he can be.” She smiles.

So this is her scheme. She’s very shrewd. Or manipulative, whispers my subconscious. “This is why you’re here to see me?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” And Christian is playing right into her hands. Reluctantly, I have to acknowledge that she knows him well.

“He seemed very happy. With you,” she says.

What ? “How would you know?”

“From when I was in the apartment.” She adds cautiously.

Oh hell . . . how could I forget that?

“Were you there often?”

“No. But he was very different with you.”

Do I want to hear this? A shudder runs through me. My scalp prickles as I recall my fear when she was the unseen shadow in our apartment.

“You know it’s against the law. Trespassing.” She nods, gazing down at the table. She runs a fingernail along the edge. “It was only a few times, and I was lucky not to get caught. Again, I need to thank Mr. Grey for that. He could have had me thrown in jail.”

“I don’t think he’d do that,” I murmur.

Suddenly there is a flurry of activity outside the meeting room, and instinctively I know that Christian is in the building. A moment later he bursts through the door, and before he closes it, I catch Taylor’s eye as he stands patiently outside. Taylor’s mouth is set in a grim line, and he doesn’t return my tight smile. Oh hell, even he’s mad at me.

Christian’s burning gray gaze pins first me then Leila to our chairs. His demeanor is quietly determined, but I know better, and I suspect Leila does, too. The menacing cool glint in his eyes reveals the truth—he’s emanating rage, though he hides it well. In his gray suit, with his dark tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone, he looks at once businesslike and casual . . . and hot. His hair 326/551

is in disarray—no doubt because he’s been running his hands through it in exasperation.

Leila looks nervously down at the edge of the table, running her index finger along the edge again as Christian looks from me to her and then to Prescott.

“You,” he says to Prescott in a soft tone. “You’re fired. Get out now.” I blanch. Oh no—this isn’t fair.

“Christian—” I make to stand up.

He holds his index finger up at me in warning. “Don’t,” he says. His voice so ominously quiet that I’m immediately silenced and rooted to my seat. Bowing her head, Prescott walks briskly out of the room to join Taylor. Christian shuts the door behind her and walks to the edge of the table. Crap! Crap! Crap! That was my fault. Christian stands opposite Leila, and placing both hands on the wooden surface, he leans forward.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls at her.

“Christian!” I gasp. He ignores me.

“Well?” he demands.

Leila peeks up at him through long lashes, her eyes wide, her face ashen, her rosy glow gone.

“I wanted to see you, and you wouldn’t let me,” she whispers.

“So you came here to harass my wife?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Leila looks down at the table again.

He stands, glowering at her. “Leila, if you come anywhere near my wife again, I will cut off all support. Doctors, art school, medical insurance—all of it—gone. Do you understand?”