Daunted by the singular tastes and dark secrets of the
beautiful, tormented young entrepreneur Christian Grey, Anastasia
Steele has broken off their relationship to start a new career with
a Seattle publishing house.
But desire for Christian still dominates her every waking
thought, and when he proposes a new arrangement, Anastasia cannot
resist. They rekindle their searing sensual affair, and Anastasia
learns more about the harrowing past of her damaged, driven and
demanding Fifty Shades.
While Christian wrestles with his inner demons, Anastasia must
confront the anger and envy of the women who came before her, and
make the most important decision of her life.
This book is intended for mature audiences.
關於作者：
E L James is a former TV executive, wife and mother of two
based in West London. Since early childhood she dreamed of writing
stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams
on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked
up the courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty
Shades of Grey.
內容試閱：
PROLOGUE
He’s come back. Mommy’s asleep or she’s sick again.
I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen. Through my
fingers I can see Mommy. She is asleep on the couch. Her hand is on
the sticky green rug, and he’s wearing his big boots with the shiny
buckle and standing over Mommy shouting.
He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are one fucked-up
bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are
one fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop. Mommy doesn’t
scream. Mommy curls up small.
I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The sound
stops.
He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He
still has the belt. He is trying to find me.
He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of cigarettes and drink.
There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched in sweat and his
heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits bolt upright in bed and
puts his head in hands. Fuck. They’re back. The noise was me. He
takes a deep steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils
of the smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
CHAPTER ONE
I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day at work.
It has been a welcome distraction. The time has flown by in a haze
of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he
smiles down at me, his blue eyes twinkling, as he leans against my
desk.
“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a great
team.”
Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a semblance of a
smile.
“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.
“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Ana.”
Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for the
door.
Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a deep breath. It
doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a void that’s been
present since Saturday morning, a painful hollow reminder of my
loss. I walk toward the bus stop with my head down, staring at my
feet and contemplating being without my beloved Wanda, my old
Beetle . . . or the Audi.
I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t think about
him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice, new car. I suspect he
has been overgenerous in his payment, and the thought leaves a
bitter taste in my mouth, but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind
as numb and as blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t
want to start crying again—not out on the street.
The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a
beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the
flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the vacuum and
provide some semblance of company, but I don’t listen or watch. I
sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing
but the pain. How long must I endure this?
The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a
beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.
“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied voice answers, and
disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way
downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a
large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for
the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly
light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a
card.
Congratulations on your first day at work.
I hope it went well.
And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.
It has pride of place on my desk.
Christian
I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No
doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little
to do with it. It’s too painful to think about. I examine the
roses—they are beautiful, and I can’t bring myself to throw them in
the trash. Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a
vase.
And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to
sleep. I can’t even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his
lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. And the
music . . . so much music—I cannot bear to hear any music. I am
careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials
make me shudder.
I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don’t have
the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have
become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing
grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that’s me. I can interact
impersonally at work, but that’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I
will break even further—and I have nothing left to break.
I am finding it difficult to eat. By lunchtime on Wednesday, I
manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since
Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet
Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going, but it’s making me
anxious.
Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me
personal questions. What does he want? I’m polite, but I need to
keep him at arm’s length.
I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed
to him, and I’m pleased with the distraction of menial work. My
e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it’s from.
Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not here . . . not at
work.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did
you get my flowers?
I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show,
and I’m sure you’ve not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a long
drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you
wish.
Let me know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the
restroom to escape into one of the stalls. José’s show. I’d
forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go. Shit, Christian
is right; how am I going to get there?
I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Come to think of
it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been so absentminded I haven’t
noticed that my cell phone has been silent.
Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it set to forward calls to
the BlackBerry. Holy hell. Christian’s been getting my calls—unless
he’s just thrown the BlackBerry away. How did he get my e-mail
address?
He knows my shoe size; an e-mail address is hardly going to present
him with many problems.
Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close
my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through
me. Of course I do.
Perhaps—perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my mind . . . No, no,
no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain
on me, someone who can’t love me.
Torturous memories flash through my mind—the gliding, holding
hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his
dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him. It’s been five days, five
days of agony that has felt like an eternity. I cry myself to sleep
at night, wishing I hadn’t walked out, wishing that he could be
different, wishing that we were together. How long will this
hideous overwhelming feeling last? I am in purgatory.
I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding
myself together. I miss him. I really miss him . . . I love him.
Simple.
Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to
go to José’s show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see
Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk.
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:25
To: Christian Grey
Hi Christian
Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.
Yes, I would appreciate a lift.
Thank you.
Anastasia Steele
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP
Checking my phone, I find that it is still set to forward calls to
the BlackBerry. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call José.
“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”
“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcoming it’s almost
enough to push me over the edge again.
“I can’t talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your
show?”
“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.
“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I
picture his broad grin.
“Seven thirty.”
“See you then. Good-bye, José.”
“Bye, Ana.”
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8 2011 14:27
To: Anastasia Steele
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