My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and the huge fireplaces—real fireplaces for burning wood. I’d like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I’d like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes, that would be fun. No doubt, he’d think of some way to make it memorable like all the times we’ve made love. I snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too.
The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive, keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching beauty. They are bewitching.
He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed. Oh no…
I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more. Charlie Tango is missing.
«Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.
«Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed tears and the large lump in my throat.
Mia sits across from me on the larger–than–large U–shaped couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me, pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks older—a mother worried for her son. I blink dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring smile, a tear even—there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing emptiness. I gaze at Elliot, José, and Ethan, who stand around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly. Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them, Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.
Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can’t bear to see the news item again—Christian Grey Missing—his beautiful face on TV.
Idly, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen so many people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty’s home. What would he think about them being here?
Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the authorities who are drip–feeding us information, but it’s all meaningless. The fact is—he’s missing. He’s been missing for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search has been called off—this much I do know. It’s just too dark. And we don’t know where he is. He could be hurt, hungry, or worse. No!
I offer another silent prayer to God.
Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo through my mind.
Why didn’t I seize the day?
I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently.
Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing but a shadow—all the light
eclipsed.
And I you, my Fifty Shades.
I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time together flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his suave, sophisticated, hot–as–hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra, whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the house—that stunning view.
«I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want you, body and soul, forever.»
