E.L. James - Grey : Fifty Shades of Grey as told by Christian

CONTENTS

About the Book

In Christians own words, and through his thoughts, reflections, and dreams, E L James offers a fresh perspective on the love story that has enthralled millions of readers around the world.

CHRISTIAN GREY exercises control in all things; his world is neat, disciplined, and utterly empty until the day that Anastasia Steele falls into his office, in a tangle of shapely limbs and tumbling brown hair. He tries to forget her, but instead is swept up in a storm of emotion he cannot comprehend and cannot resist. Unlike any woman he has known before, shy, unworldly Ana seems to see right through him past the business prodigy and the penthouse lifestyle to Christians cold, wounded heart.

Will being with Ana dispel the horrors of his childhood that haunt Christian every night? Or will his dark sexual desires, his compulsion to control, and the self-loathing that fills his soul drive this girl away and destroy the fragile hope she offers him?

E L James

Grey

After twenty-five years working in TV, E L James decided to pursue her childhood dream, and set out to write stories that readers would fall in love with. The result was the sensuous romance Fifty Shades of Grey and its two sequels, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, a trilogy that went on to sell more than 125 million copies worldwide in 52 languages.

In 2012 E L James was named one of Barbara Walterss Ten Most Fascinating People of the Year, one of Time magazines Most Influential People in the World, and Publishers Weekly s Person of the Year. Fifty Shades of Grey stayed on the New York Times Best Seller List for 133 consecutive weeks, and in 2015 the film adaptationon which James worked as producerbroke box-office records all over the world for Universal Pictures.

E L James lives in West London with her husband, the novelist and screenwriter Niall Leonard, and their two sons. She continues to write novels while acting as producer on the upcoming movie versions of Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed.

BOOKS BY E L JAMES

Fifty Shades of Grey

Fifty Shades Darker

Fifty Shades Freed

Grey

This book is dedicated to those readers who asked
and askedand askedand asked for this.

Thank you for all that youve done for me.

You rock my world every day.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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 Id 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.

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. Its 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 doesnt see. I do it again. Crash! But Mommy doesnt see. I aim the green car at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. I cant reach it. My hand is too big for the gap. Mommy doesnt see. I want my green car. But Mommy stays on the couch staring at the wall. Mommy. My car. She doesnt 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. Its always under the couch. I can see it. But I cant reach it. My green car is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it back. But I cant 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 Im 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. Ive nothing but meetings, though Im seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my officeBastille 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, tooand 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. Ive worked all weekend, and now, in the continued confines of my office, Im restless. I shouldnt 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 meRos 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 interviewsinane questions from ill-informed, envious people intent on probing my private life. And shes a student. The phone buzzes.