Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey as Told by Christian


  Fifty Shades of Grey

  Fifty Shades Darker

  Fifty Shades Freed



  Copyright © 2011, 2015 by Fifty Shades Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Portions of this book, including significant parts of the dialogue and e-mail exchanges, have previously appeared in the author’s prior works.

  ISBN: 9781101946343

  eBook ISBN: 9781101946350

  Book design by Claudia Martinez

  Cover design by Sqicedragon and Megan Wilson



  This book is dedicated to those readers who asked…

  and asked…and asked…and asked for this.

  Thank you for all that you’ve done for me.

  You rock my world every day.


  * * *

  Thanks to:

  Anne Messitte for her guidance, good humor, and belief in me. For her generosity with her time and for her unstinting effort to untangle my prose, I am forever indebted.

  Tony Chirico and Russell Perreault for always looking out for me, and the fabulous production editorial and design team who saw this book across the finish line: Amy Brosey, Lydia Buechler, Katherine Hourigan, Andy Hughes, Claudia Martinez, and Megan Wilson.

  Niall Leonard for his love, support, and guidance, and for being the only man who can really, really make me laugh.

  Valerie Hoskins, my agent, without whom I’d still be working in TV. Thank you for everything.

  Kathleen Blandino, Ruth Clampett, and Belinda Willis: thanks for the pre-read.

  The Lost Girls for their precious friendship and the therapy.

  The Bunker Babes for their constant wit, wisdom, support, and friendship.

  The FP ladies for help with my Americanisms.

  Peter Branston for his help with SFBT.

  Brian Brunetti for his guidance in flying a helicopter.

  Professor Dawn Carusi for help in navigating the U.S. higher education system.

  Professor Chris Collins for an education in soil science.

  Dr. Raina Sluder for her insights into behavioral health.

  And last but by no means least, my children. I love you more than words can ever say. You bring such joy to my life and to those around you. You are beautiful, funny, bright, compassionate young men, and I could not be more proud of you.


  * * *


  Other Titles

  Title Page




  Monday, May 9, 2011

  Saturday, May 14, 2011

  Sunday, May 15, 2011

  Thursday, May 19, 2011

  Friday, May 20, 2011

  Saturday, May 21, 2011

  Sunday, May 22, 2011

  Monday, May 23, 2011

  Tuesday, May 24, 2011

  Wednesday, May 25, 2011

  Thursday, May 26, 2011

  Friday, May 27, 2011

  Saturday, May 28, 2011

  Sunday, May 29, 2011

  Monday, May 30, 2011

  Tuesday, May 31, 2011

  Wednesday, June 1, 2011

  Thursday, June 2, 2011

  Friday, June 3, 2011

  Saturday, June 4, 2011

  Sunday, June 5, 2011

  Monday, June 6, 2011

  Tuesday, June 7, 2011

  Wednesday, June 8, 2011

  Thursday, June 9, 2011

  About the Author

  MONDAY, MAY 9, 2011

  * * *

  I have three cars. They go fast across the floor. So fast. One is red. One is green. One is yellow. I like the green one. It’s the best. Mommy likes them, too. I like when Mommy plays with the cars and me. The red is her best. Today she sits on the couch staring at the wall. The green car flies into the rug. The red car follows. Then the yellow. Crash! But Mommy doesn’t see. I do it again. Crash! But Mommy doesn’t see. I aim the green car at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. I can’t reach it. My hand is too big for the gap. Mommy doesn’t see. I want my green car. But Mommy stays on the couch staring at the wall. Mommy. My car. She doesn’t hear me. Mommy. I pull her hand and she lies back and closes her eyes. Not now, Maggot. Not now, she says. My green car stays under the couch. It’s always under the couch. I can see it. But I can’t reach it. My green car is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it back. But I can’t reach it. I can never reach it. My green car is lost. Lost. And I can never play with it again.

  I open my eyes and my dream fades in the early-morning light. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as they recede, but fail to catch any of them.

  Dismissing it, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and find some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet. Outside, a leaden sky promises rain, and I’m not in the mood to be rained on during my run today. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the TV for the morning business news, and step onto the treadmill.

  My thoughts stray to the day. I’ve nothing but meetings, though I’m seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my office—Bastille is always a welcome challenge.

  Maybe I should call Elena?

  Yeah. Maybe. We can do dinner later this week.

  I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head down to the shower to start another monotonous day.

  “TOMORROW,” I MUTTER, DISMISSING Claude Bastille as he stands at the threshold of my office.

  “Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.

  I scowl at him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because, despite my heroic attempts during our workout today, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways, I have to endure his lessons there, too…and though I hate to admit it, playing against Bastille does improve my game.

  As I stare out the window at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps unwelcome into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend, and now, in the continued confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

  I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? I check my schedule and reach for the phone.

  Damn. I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student newspaper. Why the hell did I agree to this? I loathe interviews—inane questions from ill-informed, envious people intent on pro