“I’d like to withdraw a large sum of money.” Ms. Insincere Smile arches an even more insincere eyebrow.
“You have an account with us?” She fails to hide her sarcasm.
“Yes,” I snap. “My husband and I have several accounts here. His name is Christian Grey.”
Her eyes widen fractionally and insincerity gives way to shock. Her eyes sweep up and down me once more, this time with a combination of disbelief and awe.
“This way, ma’am,” she whispers, and leads me to a small, sparsely furnished office walled with more green-etched glass.
“Please take a seat.” She gestures to a black leather chair by a glass desk bearing a state-of-the-art computer and phone. “How much will you be withdrawing today, Mrs. Grey?” she asks pleasantly.
“Five million dollars.” I look her straight in the eye as if I ask for this amount of cash every day.
She blanches. “I see. I’ll fetch the manager. Oh, forgive me for asking, but do you have ID?”
“I do. But I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“Of course, Mrs. Grey.” She scurries out. I sink into the seat, and a wave of nausea washes over me as the gun presses uncomfortably into the small of my back . Not now. I can’t be sick now. I take a deep cleansing breath, and the wave passes. Nervously, I check my watch. Twenty-five past two.
A middle-aged man enters the room. He has a receding hairline, but wears a sharp, expensive charcoal suit and matching tie. He holds out his hand.
“Mrs. Grey. I’m Troy Whelan.” He smiles, we shake, and he sits down at the desk opposite me.
“My colleague tells me you’d like to withdraw a large amount of money.”
“That’s correct. Five million dollars.”
He turns to his sleek computer and taps in a few numbers.
“We normally ask for some notice for large amounts of money.” He pauses, and flashes me a reassuring but supercilious smile. “Fortunately, however, we 431/551
hold the cash reserve for the entire Pacific Northwest,” he boasts. Jeez, is he trying to impress me?
“Mr. Whelan, I’m in a hurry. What do I need to do? I have my driver’s license, and our joint account checkbook. Do I just write a check?”
“First things first, Mrs. Grey. May I see the ID?” He switches from jovial show-off to serious banker.
“Here.” I hand over my license.
“Mrs. Grey . . . this says Anastasia Steele.” Oh shit.
“Oh . . . yes. Um.”
“I’ll call Mr. Grey.”
“Oh no, that won’t be necessary.” Shit! “I must have something with my married name.” I rifle through my purse. What do I have with my name on it? I pull out my wallet, open it and find a photograph of Christian and me, on the bed in Fair Lady’s cabin. I can’t show him that! I dig out my black Amex.
“Here.”
“Mrs. Anastasia Grey,” Whelan reads. “Yes, that should do.” He frowns.
“This is highly irregular, Mrs. Grey.
“Do you want me to let my husband know that your bank has been less than cooperative?” I square my shoulders and give him my most forbidding stare.
He pauses, momentarily reassessing me, I think. “You’ll need to write a check, Mrs. Grey.”
“Sure. This account?” I show him my checkbook, trying to quell my pounding heart
“That’ll be fine. I’ll also need you to complete some additional paperwork. If you’ll excuse me for a moment?”
I nod, and he rises and stalks out of the office. Again, I release my held breath. I had no idea this would be so difficult. Clumsily, I open my checkbook and pull a pen out of my purse. Do I just make it out to cash? I have no idea. With shaking fingers I write: Five million dollars. $5,000,000.
Oh God, I hope I’m doing the right thing. Mia, think of Mia. I can’t tellanyone.
Jack’s chilling, repugnant words haunt me. “Tell no one or I’ll fuck her up before I kill her.”
Mr. Whelan returns, pale-faced and sheepish.
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“Mrs. Grey? Your husband wants to speak with you,” he murmurs and points to the phone on the glass table between us.
What? No.
“He’s on line one. Just press the button. I’ll be outside.” He has the grace to look embarrassed. Benedict Arnold has nothing on Whelan. I scowl at him, feeling the blood drain from my face again as he shuffles out of the office.
Shit! Shit! Shit! What am I going to say to Christian? He’ll know. He’ll inter-vene. He’s a danger to his sister. My hand trembles as I reach for the phone. I hold it against my ear, trying to calm my erratic breathing, and press the button for line one.
“Hi,” I murmur, trying in vain to steady my nerves.
“You’re leaving me?” Christian’s words are an agonized, breathless whisper.
What?
“No!” My voice mirrors his. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no—how can he think that?
The money? He thinks I’m going because of the money? And in moment of hor-rific clarity, I realize the only way I’m going to keep Christian at arm’s length, out of harm’s way, and to save his sister . . . is to lie.
“Yes,” I whisper. And searing pain lances through me, tears springing to my eyes.
He gasps, almost a sob. “Ana, I—” He chokes.
No! My hand clutches my mouth as I stifle my warring emotions. “Christian, please. Don’t.” I fight back tears.
“You’re going?” he says.