Fifty Shades of BLACK SILK

BLACK SILK: Part 22

On the weekend I was reading Haruki Murakami at home when I got a knock on my door. It had been dead quiet for so long that I jumped at the sound and nearly spilled my cup of water. The thudding on the wood was so persistent and loud I'd thought it was an angry sourpuss wanting to axe me for writing an article incorrectly. Maybe they had OCD and Vanity Fair's proofreading department was in decline and it finally tipped them over the edge.

I swung the door open to a delivery man holding a large package. "Madison Harper?"

"Yeah?"

He plucked a pen out of his chest pocket and handed me a clipboard. "Sign here, please."

"What is it?" I asked, doing as he instructed and scribbling on the dotted line.

He chewed his gum unenthusiastically and rolled his eyes. "Lady, if I knew that, I wouldn't be in this business."

A simple 'I don't know' would've sufficed but okay. "Thanks," I muttered.

"Uh-huh," he replied and walked off.

I put the rather light box on the coffee table and got scissors from a kitchen draw. I hacked away until I found another box, black this time instead of the dreary camel brown. Oscar de la Renta was embossed on the obscure cardboard. Is this a joke? I slid off the ribbons holding down the lid at two opposite corners and lifted the cover. A card with the brand's name marked on the front and a note written on the back read: 'Wear this tonight. Pick you up at 7PM. Grey.'

I tossed the card aside, slightly annoyed that he was ordering me around even in his absence. I unwrapped the white tissue paper that hovered over a black, slim, laser cut dress. It was a one shoulder cocktail dress with an asymmetrical hem line with the front pointed low at the knees and curving up slightly higher as it travelled around the back. A thigh slit accompanied the half-backless cut out in the shape of a downward 45-degree angled triangle exposing most of the left side. Perfect size; perfect shape; perfect dress. I loved it, and I hated that I loved it.

Okay, Mr. Grey, you have my attention.

I kept my makeup minimal and natural, emphasising an overall radiance, wanting the focal point to be the dress. I parted my dark hair down the middle and straightened the living hell out of it, styling it sleek behind my shoulders and throwing what may be considered an overload of frizz-free and flyaway-free prepping creams and styling hairsprays. I wore dainty, teardrop diamond earrings and held a silver, leather, Giuseppe Zanotti clutch with a row of diamonds dangling in the shape of an arrow hanging from the bottom, square studs bordered the top. A pair of silver Giuseppe Zanotti chain sling backs with little assortments of stars completed my outfit. I felt like a million dollars. An ice queen, frosted by storm-silver and diamonds.

I admit I got dressed and was ready a little earlier than the time Christian specified so I was lounging about when a light knock resounded. I jumped up ecstatically and smiled, opening the door to a handsomely dressed Christain Grey. He resorted to a classic black and white silhouette with a hint of grey in his pocket square. A nice touch to our ensemble.

His eyes cascaded down the full length of my body and rose back up to my eyes. He lifted a brow and breathed in intensely and then out. I dropped my shoulders, assuming he was disappointed with the way I looked. I mean, I don't revolve my life around the pursuit towards the satisfaction of the male gaze, but Christian Grey wasn't just a man, he was Christian-fucking-Grey.

I'd assumed so as I let my sad eyes wander off that I didn't even notice the subtle bulge almost protruding from his pants suit.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Christian said, clearing his throat.

I lifted a brow, coyly. "Hey, you're the one that styled me."

"Not knowing how good you would look."

"My, my, Mr. Grey, for once I have a hold of you," I teased, confidently.

He lowered his head ever so slightly and peeked through his long, black lashes. My heart dropped and then raced abruptly I thought I was going to faint. He half-smiled; my bottom lip quivered and what was once my smile with playful intent froze and then dropped from my lips.

He harrumphed and bent his arm. "Shall we?"

I interlocked my arm through his and couldn't keep my gaze steady, so I plastered my eyes onto the ground and followed his lead until I was met with a friendly and familiar face.

"Hey, Taylor," I greeted.

Taylor nodded. "Good evening, ma'am."

I smiled. "Please, call me Madison."

Taylor's eyes darted towards Christian. "No, you may call her, 'ma'am'."

Taylor nodded. "Yes, sir."

Christian moved forward but I pulled him back. "Actually, Taylor, it's my name, and you may call me, Madison. I insist."

Taylor's eyes darted towards Christian, again. Christian remained silent. Although I could see a smile peeking through, Christian was definitely disapproving of my defiance over a simple name. But it was my simple name. The name my mother gave to me. A name that is important to me. And I choose who I allow to utter the name from their lips. Not to sound all privileged, but the fact that I have control over that aspect of my life makes me more comfortable around powerful men like Christian Grey. He may be Zeus but I am the lightning bolt that holds the power, you only wield it because I allow you.

We stopped off at a beautiful Japanese-fusion restaurant overlooking the glittery lights of New York City. Heads turned as we followed the hostess to our seats by the window. I couldn't have felt more naked.

"Sir," the waiter said, pulling out Christian's chair.

"Ma'am," the hostess said, pulling my chair out. I snickered at the inside joke as Christian watched, subtly delighted.

"Welcome back, Christian," the hostess said, barely looking at me. "Would you like our selection of wines to choose from?"

"That won't be necessary, Candice. No menu's either." He began sounding off on an eight course meal topped with a fine French red wine from a label my cheap ass hasn't even heard of before.

"Very good, sir—" she nodded towards him— "ma'am," she said to me before leaving. The waiter trotted along behind her.

"So I take it you've been here before," I said, sighing. This must be a hot spot for all of his so-called dates.

He shook his head. "Not nearly as often as I should."

That caught me off guard. I furrowed my brows. "How do you know the menu so well, then? Oh, wait no, let me guess, you own half of the restaurant or something?" I mocked.

"I could."

I rolled my eyes and smiled. "Oh, believe me, the irony isn't lost on me."

He leaned in, grey stormy eyes heavy with heat. "You detest my money, too?"

"That's the one thing I'm not mad about."

He leaned back. "Of course you wouldn't."

I narrowed my eyes. "That insult isn't lost on me either. And it's not about how much money you have, it's what you do with that money."

"Have Oscar de la Renta join us?" He curved the corner of his mouth upwards.

"Charitable work. Good work. Human work."

He shrugged and looked away, nonchalantly. "Everyone who's rich does charitable work."

I smiled, lifting a brow. "Not everyone denies they have a heart."