Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian

Chapter 6

“He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to our marriage but my student

loans.”

Baby, I’ll have you any way I can get you. You know this!

“Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how

that feels.”

“That was different,” she mumbles. And she frowns once more. “But, you might want to leave me.”

Now she’s being ridiculous.

“Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid—and you…” She stops.

Ana, I think that’s highly unlikely. “Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed. We’re not discussing it

anymore. No prenup. Not now—not ever.”

I scramble through my thoughts, trying to find safer ground, and inspiration hits me. Turning to Grace,

who’s wringing her hands and looking anxiously at me, I ask, “Mom, can we have the wedding here?”

Her expression shifts from alarm to joy and gratitude. “Darling. That would be wonderful.” And she adds

as an afterthought, “You don’t want a church wedding?”

I give her a sideways look and she capitulates immediately.

“We’d love to host your wedding. Wouldn’t we, Cary?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” My father smiles benignly at both Ana and me, but I can’t look at him.

“Have you a date in mind?” Grace asks.

“Four weeks.”

“Christian. That’s not enough time!”

“It’s plenty of time.”

“I need at least eight!”

“Mom. Please.”

“Six?” she pleads.

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Grey,” Ana pipes up, and shoots a warning glance at me,

daring me to contradict her.

“Six it is,” I state. “Thanks, Mom.”

Ana is quiet on the drive back to Seattle. She’s probably thinking about my outburst at Carrick this

morning. Our argument from last night still rankles—his disapproval a burr chafing at my skin. Deep

down, I’m worried that he’s right; maybe I’m not husband material. Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

Damn, I’m going to prove him wrong.

I’m not the adolescent he thinks I am.

I stare at the road ahead, deflated. My girl is beside me, we have a date for our wedding, and I should

feel on top of the world, but I’m picking over the remains of my father’s angry tirade about Elena and

the prenup. On the plus side, I think he knows he fucked up. He tried to make it up to me when we

parted earlier but his fumbling, inadequate attempt to make amends still smarts.

Christian, I’ve always done everything in my power to protect you. And I failed. I should have been

there for you.

But I didn’t want to hear him. He should have said this last night. He did not.

I shake my head. I want out of this funk.

“Hey, I have an idea.” I reach over and squeeze Ana’s knee.

Perhaps my luck is turning—there’s a parking space outside St. James Cathedral. Ana peers through

the trees at the majestic building that dominates a whole block on Ninth Avenue, then turns to me, a

question in her eyes.

“Church,” I offer, by way of explanation.

“This is big for a church, Christian.”

“True.”

She smiles. “It’s perfect.”

Hand in hand, we head through one of the front doors into the antechamber, then proceed onward into

the nave. Out of instinct I reach toward the stoup for Holy Water to bless myself, but I stop just in time,

knowing that if a bolt of lightning is going to strike, it will be now. I catch Ana’s openmouthed surprise,

but look away to admire the impressive ceiling as I wait for God’s judgment.

No. No thunderbolt today.

“Old habits,” I mutter, feeling a little embarrassed, but relieved that I’ve not been rendered into a pile of

ashes on the grand threshold. Ana turns her attention to the magnificent interior: the lofty ornate

ceilings, the rust-colored marble columns, the intricate stained glass. Sunlight streams in a steady

beam through the oculus in the transept’s dome, as if God were smiling down on the place. There’s a

whispered hush that fills the nave, enveloping us in a spiritual calm that’s disturbed only by the

occasional echoing cough from one of the few visitors. It’s quiet, a refuge from the hustle and bustle of

Seattle. I’d forgotten just how tranquil and beautiful it is in here, but then I’ve not been inside for years.

I’d always loved the pomp and ceremony of a Catholic Mass. The ritual. The responses. The smell of

burning incense. Grace made sure her three children were well versed in all things Catholic, and there

was a time when I would have done anything to please my new mother.

But puberty arrived and all that went to shit. My relationship with God never recovered, and it changed

the relationship with my family, especially my father. We were always at odds with each other from the

time I hit thirteen. I brush off the memory. It’s painful.

Now standing in the hushed splendor of the nave, I’m overwhelmed by a familiar sense of peace.

“Come. I want to show you something.” We walk down the side aisle, the sound of Ana’s heels ringing

over the flagstones, until we reach a small chapel. Its golden walls and dark floor are the perfect setting

for the exquisite statue of Our Lady, surrounded by flickering candles.

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