You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.

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

I remember Carrick teaching me to dive. My toes gripping the pool edge as I fell arching into the water—and now I’m falling once more, into the abyss, in slow motion.

There’s no way she can feel that about me.

Not me. No!

And I’m choking for air, strangled by her words pressing their momentous weight on my chest. I plunge down and down, the darkness welcoming me. I can’t hear them. I can’t deal with them. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, who she’s dealing with—what she’s dealing with.

“No.” My voice is raw with pained disbelief. “You can’t love me, Ana. No. That’s wrong.”

I need to set her right on this. She cannot love a monster. She cannot love a fucked-up son of a bitch. She needs to go. She needs out—and in an instant, everything becomes crystal clear. This is my eureka moment; I can’t make her happy. I can’t be what she needs. I can’t let this go on. This has to finish. It should never have started.

“Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”

“Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” The anguish is plain in my voice as I sink deeper and deeper into the abyss, shrouded in despair.

No one can love me.

“But you do make me happy,” she says, not comprehending.

Anastasia Steele, look at yourself. I have to be honest with her. “Not at the moment. Not doing what I want to do.”

She blinks, her lashes fluttering over her large, wounded eyes, studying me intently as she searches for the truth. “We’ll never get past that, will we?”

I shake my head, because I can’t think of anything to say. It comes down to incompatibility, again. She closes her eyes, as if in pain, and when she opens them again, they are clearer, full of resolve. Her tears have stopped. And the blood starts pounding through my head as my heart hammers. I know what she’s going to say. I dread what she’s going to say.

“Well, I’d better go, then.” She winces as she sits up.

Now? She can’t go now.

“No, don’t go.” I’m free-falling, deeper and deeper. Her leaving feels like a monumental mistake. My mistake. But she can’t stay if she feels this way about me, she just can’t.

“There’s no point in me staying,” she says, and gingerly climbs out of the bed still wrapped in her bathrobe. She’s really leaving. I can’t believe it. I scramble out of bed to stop her, but her look pins me to the floor—her expression so bleak, so cold, so distant—not my Ana at all.

“I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” she says. How flat and empty her voice sounds as she turns and leaves, closing the door behind her. I stare at the closed door.

This is the second time in one day that she’s walked out on me.

I sit up and cradle my head in my hands, trying to calm down, trying to rationalize my feelings.

She loves me?

How did this happen? How?

Grey, you fucking fool.

Wasn’t this always a risk, with someone like her? Someone good and innocent and courageous. A risk that she’d not see the real me until it was too late. That I would make her suffer like this?

Why is this so painful? I feel like I’ve punctured a lung. I follow her out of the room. She might want privacy, but if she’s leaving me I need clothes.

When I reach my bedroom, she’s showering, so I quickly change into jeans and a T-shirt, I’ve chosen black—suitable for my mood. Grabbing my phone, I wander through the apartment, tempted to sit at the piano and hammer out some woeful lament. But instead I stand in the middle of the room, feeling nothing.

Vacant.

Focus, Grey! This is the right decision. Let her go.

My phone buzzes. It’s Welch. Has he found Leila?

“Welch.”

“Mr. Grey, I have news.” His voice grates over the phone. This guy should stop smoking. He sounds like Deep Throat.

“You found her?” My spirits lift a little.

“No, sir.”

“What is it, then?” Why the hell have you called?

“Leila left her husband. He finally admitted it to me. He’s washed his hands of her.”

This is news.

“I see.”

“He has an idea where she might be, but he wants his palm greased. Wants to know who’s so interested in his wife. Though that’s not what he called her.”

I fight my surging anger. “How much does he want?”

“He said two thousand.”

“He said what?” I shout, losing it. Why didn’t he just admit earlier that Leila had walked out on him? “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him. Welch, this is a real fuckup.”

I glance up, and Ana is standing awkwardly at the entrance to the living room, dressed in jeans and an ugly sweatshirt. She’s all big eyes and tight, pinched face, her suitcase beside her.

“Find her,” I snap, hanging up. I’ll deal with Welch later.

Ana walks over to the sofa, and from her backpack removes the Mac, her phone, and the key to her car. Taking a deep breath, she marches to the kitchen and lays all three items on the counter.

What the hell? She’s returning her things?

She turns to face me, determination clear on her small ashen face. It’s her stubborn look, the one I know so well.

“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” Her voice is calm but monotone.

“Ana, I don’t want those things—they’re yours.” She can’t do this to me. “Please, take them.”

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

“Ana, be reasonable!”

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

She wants to forget me.

“Are you really trying to wound me?”

“No, I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself.”

Of course—she’s trying to protect herself from the monster.

“Please Ana, take that stuff.”

Her lips are so pale.

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

Money. It always comes down to the fucking money.

“Will you take a check?” I snarl.

“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”

She wants money, I’ll give her money. I storm into my study, barely holding on to my temper. Sitting at my desk I call Taylor.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”

I ignore his greeting. “How much did you get for Ana’s VW?”

“Twelve thousand dollars, sir.”

“That much?” In spite of my bleak mood, I’m surprised.

“It’s a classic,” he says by way of explanation.

“Thanks. Can you take Miss Steele home now?”

“Of course. I’ll be right down.”

I hang up and take out my checkbook from my desk drawer. As I do, I remember my conversation with Welch about Leila’s fucking asshole of a husband.

It’s always about fucking money!

In my anger I double the amount that Taylor got for the death trap and stuff the check into an envelope.

When I return she’s still standing by the kitchen island, lost, almost childlike. I hand her the envelope, my anger evaporating at the sight of her.

“Taylor got a good price…it’s a classic car,” I mumble in apology. “You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” I nod to where Taylor is waiting at the entrance of the living room.

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

No! Accept the ride, Ana. Why does she do this?

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

“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” She gives me a blank look.

That’s it in a nutshell—why our arrangement was doomed from the start. She’s just not cut out for this, and deep down, I always knew it. I close my eyes.

I am such a fool.

I try a softer approach, pleading with her.

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

“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces with quiet authority and leaves. Maybe she’ll listen to him. She glances around, but he’s already gone down to the basement to fetch the car.