50 shades freed

Chapter 21

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades freed or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 21

I gape at the text then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He's been out until one thirty in the morning drinking—with him! He snores softly, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent, oblivious drunk. He looks so serene.

Oh no, no, no. My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to him? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand and forgive—just. But this . . . this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and fro, weeping softly.

What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it—I knew it would come to this. Why. Why. Why? How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel about that man. How could he turn to him? How? The knife twists slowly and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?

Through my tears, his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers. Oh, Harry. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.

For all our firsts on your first birthday as my beloved husband. I love you. H x

No, no, no—I can't believe that it will always be this way, two steps forward and three steps back. But that's how it's always been with him. After each setback, we move forward, inch by inch. He will come around . . . he will. But will I? Will I recover from this . . . from this treachery? I think about how he's been this last, horrible, wonderful weekend. His quiet strength while my stepdad lay broken and comatose in the ICU . . . my surprise party, bringing my family and friends together . . . dipping me down low outside the Heathman and kissing me in full public view. Oh, Harry, you strain all my trust, all my faith . . . and I love you.

But it's not just me now. I place my hand on my belly. No, I will not let him do this to me and our Blip. Dr. Flynn said I should give him the benefit of the doubt—well, not this time. I dash the tears from my eyes and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

Harry stirs and rolls over, pulling his legs up from the side of the bed, and curls up beneath the duvet. He stretches out a hand as if searching for something, then grumbles and frowns but settles back to sleep, his arm outstretched.

Oh, Fifty. What am I going to do with you? And what the hell were you doing with the Dick Troll? I need to know.

I glance once more at the offending text and quickly hatch a plan. Taking a deep breath, I forward the text to my BlackBerry. Step one complete. I quickly check the other recent texts, but can only see messages from Liam, Andrea, Taylor, Ros, and me. None from Nick. Good, I think. I exit the text screen, relieved that he hasn't been texting him, and my heart lurches into my throat. Oh my. The wallpaper on his phone is photograph upon photograph of me, a patchwork of tiny Louis' in various poses—our honeymoon, our recent weekend sailing and soaring, and a few of Niall's photos, too. When did he do this? It must have been recently.

I notice his e-mail icon, and an idea slithers enticingly into my mind . . . I could read Harry's emails. See if he's been talking to him. Should I? Sheathed in jade-green silk, my inner goddess nods emphatically, her mouth set in a scowl. Before I can stop myself, I invade his privacy.

There are hundreds and hundreds of e-mails. I spin down through them, and they look dull as ditchwater . . . mostly from Ros, Andrea and me, and various executives in his company. None from Dick Troll. While I'm at it, I'm relieved to see there are none from Luke either.