Leila PoV

Anastasia Rose Steele. Welch. Background check. ASAP. Ah. Her background check is far more extensive than the others. I'm surprised that there isn't an entry for tampons versus pads and what she ate for breakfast. He never gave a shit who any of his other subs fucked and at least four of them had admitted to fucking Elliot Grey. I can work with this.

Attached to the front inside cover of her file is an 8x10 copy of that fucking graduation photo in black and white. She's with him in public and the Earth hasn't stopped spinning. He always gave me the impression that there's be some kind of rift in the time-space continuum if he let anyone of us get close to him, but there he is, alive and smiling, if one knows how to read his expressions. The bitch looked like a deer caught in the headlights. She must realize that she doesn't belong in his sphere. I guess the sixteenth time was the charm. There was no love to be had for unlucky number 13.

Sir has dominated lawyers, a doctor, an accountant, two artists, one singer, a couple bankers, a baker, a chef, a restaurant hostess, three teachers, a university professor and even a contortionist, so what's her gimmick? Selling cable ties? Maybe. Sir loves cable ties because of their aggressive bite when a sub struggles.

He even has her under surveillance. I didn't realize he was into voyeurism. As I sit at Sir's desk, a couple pages fall out of Anastasia's file. Why does Sir have reports on Paul Clayton and Jose Rodriguez, Jr? Was she fucking them both or something? I can't divine his interest. Sub's pasts have never concerned him before. His behavior is inexplicable. She fits the profile. What does she have that the rest of us don't? Two assholes? I toss the file on the desk with a huff of disgust. Why has he changed his M.O.? I knew all about the two submissives after me. Something's going on that I don't understand, and I'm going to get to the bottom of this shit.

Placing the file back in the safe, I walk around the desk, sitting in the chair I used to lounge in while Sir perused important documents and placed calls. Sir fucked me while I was bent over this chair. I sucked his cock while sitting cross-legged beneath his desk. This office holds many pleasant memories, but now some interloper has intruded upon our space. Perhaps when I'm returned to my rightful place, we'll rechristen this room.

I've already taken a tour of the playroom, and I don't like the changes. The best toys are missing. More than half the butt plugs are gone and the few left are the equivalent of training wheels. The room seems almost romantic. It's much brighter and softer than it used to be. I can't put my finger on it, but I know I don't like it.

My old room is white, with a new bed. The closet has a few dresses with matching heels in it along with a few pairs of high-end jeans and Chucks. I scoff. Slovenly slut. I'm sure Sir is not impressed. She barely left a fucking mark on this room. I wonder if her personality is as bland as this room would suggest.

My favorite painting remains on the wall outside the room, though. I guess that means something. He hasn't relinquished his hold on me; it is only fair that thoughts of me linger. I make my way to Sir's bedroom, a place once forbidden to me. When I return, no door will be barred to me. I bypass the bed, heading directly for the master closet.

I go to the back of the closet where Sir keeps his playroom jeans. I know they're there because I've searched this room many times before. I'm surprised they haven't fallen apart yet. I caress them longingly, bringing them to my face. I remember slowly unzipping them tooth by tooth with my pursed mouth before engulfing his cock with my hands cuffed tightly behind my back. Sir loved it when I gave him head. I carefully refold and put them back. That's strange. There's a white dress shirt hanging alone in front of the rest of his clothes. It's out of place. Perhaps he discarded it quickly before leaving town. According to his schedule, he's in Georgia investigating a prospective location for a new alternative energy plant.

I inhale deeply, expecting to breathe in Sir's scent for the first time in years, instead there's an odor of vanilla and strawberry with light musky undertones. Ugh! A woman has worn this shirt, and Sir has arranged it here like some type of fucking trophy!

My heart thuds hard in my chest as I rush to the master bath, feeling nauseous. I race to the commode but the bile burns at the back of my throat. I go to rinse out my mouth when I glance at the vanity where my heart seizes in my chest. To my right, there are two toothbrushes, one used and another new, with a card with arrows demarcating the words mine and yours.

This is a fucking nightmare! I know it is. In a few minutes, I'm gonna wake up bound to the whipping bench, just coming out of subspace. This cannot be real. Everything was a lie. He does do more; he just wouldn't do it for me. Fuck, Fuck! No!
Perhaps she's his beard. That would make sense. There have been a lot of rumors that he's gay floating about. I guess it would make sense for him to select someone to dispel some of the worst speculation. But why does she have to look so much like the rest of us? Is he deceiving her, too? He seems to be pulling out all the generally accepted romantic stops for her. Hearts and flowers just isn't his style. Frankly, I'm surprised he could keep a straight face. This must be some sort of scam that he's using to ward off the press. Could they have gotten a tip regarding his being in the lifestyle?

That wouldn't be that disastrous, actually. If anyone needs to be pried out of the closet, it's Sir. He shouldn't have to hide who he is to satisfy all the norms. Liking to fuck hard and smack an ass cheek or two while you're at it is not really that farfetched. Who and how he fucks shouldn't matter as long as it's consensual.

Good. I've successfully talked myself down from the ledge. Regain perspective. Breathe in calm, exhale tension.

"Ms. Steele? I wasn't expecting you," I hear Mrs. Jones call out in surprise. Luckily, my back was turned when she noticed me. She wasn't supposed to be here. I go away for two years and their entire schedule changes? She shouldn't have been back for at least another hour.

Focus. Put on your game face. Do, Re, Mi. Woe is me.

I slowly turn around. It's a good thing I was wearing Geoff's old trench coat as it engulfed my body, making it appear as if I'd lost a lot of weight. At least my pallor wasn't faked. I'd just learned a lot of horrific shit and shocks like that are no good for the complexion. Ready, take one.

"Where is Master?" I intone woodenly.

"Ms. Williams? You're not supposed to be here," she says firmly, though her eyes betray concern. Good. She's already halfway to feeling sorry for me. Motherly with no-one to nurture. I can work with this.

"Where is he?!" I shriek, allowing my body to sway ever so slightly.

"Mr. Grey is not here, Ms. Williams," she replies, then wavering. "Would you like a glass of water before I escort you to the elevator?"

"Y-yes," I say stuttering, slowly approaching the breakfast bar, as if hesitant. As long as I can keep the worker bee talking and moving, she won't have time to alert security. At least I'm no longer worried about Sir fucking the help. Susie told me Taylor's been hitting that. One thing I know about Sir is that he doesn't share. She's kinda old for Taylor, but I guess it takes all kinds.

I keep her hands in sight at all times, while accessing the room for points of egress. I know my eyes are darting around nervously, but I'm using this opportunity to keep her off her stride. Distract. Disarm. Divert. Deny.

She bustles around the kitchen, nervous. Worried. She opens the cabinet, selecting a glass, filling it with cool, filtered water. She gently places it in front of me, trying to project an air of calm, but I see her fingers tremble. Excellent. I can always throw the heavy glass at the bitch's head if she gets any bright ideas. She should've chosen plastic. Mind my surroundings. Knife block to my left.

She's trying to inject calm, but her body language is screaming fight or flight. Fly away, birdie. Flap, flap. You don't want none of this, lady.

Water, the cure for what ails me. I don't want your fucking water. I want Sir. Can you give me that? Is this magic water? I place my hands on the glass and my fingers don't want to cooperate to grasp it properly. Let's pretend it's her scrawny neck. Good. Mrs. Jones. You are the weakest link, and I'm gonna get my answers. I already know Sir's out of town, but she doesn't know that I know. Isn't that just delicious? Leila, the lie detector, at your service.

"When will Sir be home?" I ask shakily.

"Mr. Grey is out of town for the next few days," she replied. Truth. I suppose she thought she wasn't giving me anything I could work with, so telling me cost her nothing. What did the silly bitch think? That I'd thank her for the water and call to make an appointment? If so, she's much stupider than I thought and she's drastically underestimated me. My presence in Sir's home has already drastically altered his itinerary. My work here is done.

"How did you get in?" she asks suspiciously, like that wasn't the first question she should've asked. Escape.

As I prepare to leave, Mrs. Jones decides to play the heroine. I never realized how blonde she was. I don't want to kill her. That would call the type of attention I do not want. I let the glass slip from my fingers, causing it to shatter across the marble floor. As Mrs. Jones looks up, I grab a large knife from the block, lightly scoring my wrists, and while it stings like a bitch, this shallow slice won't cause significant damage, but will bleed enough for shock value. Almost everyone knows by now that cutting across is inefficient. You'd likely clot up long before you bled out. A seriously suicidal person would slit their wrists vertically, which is a bitch to stitch. In the scheme of things, this is a paper cut. I bet this'll light a fire under his ass.

"Ms. Williams, what have you done to yourself? Here, let me help you," she says comfortingly, as if I haven't been a threat since she first laid her eyes on me. Will wonders never cease? What a dramatic turnaround. She begins muttering to herself, "I need to call an ambulance. So much blood."

Great, so she's gonna provide the getaway vehicle, too? It gets no better than this. I allow her to escort me to the service elevator. Surprisingly, the code for the service elevator had not been changed, which I knew because that's how I got in, but I gotta admit it's amusing to see this type of security lapse in action. How much is he paying these people again? Mr. Grey may as well give tours as unprotected as this place is. Hypocritical of me, I know, as I've made it my business in life to exploit all of these weaknesses.

And away we go, Mrs. Jones dialing 9-1-1 as we descend. Sown. Down. we're going down. The ambulance must've been nearby because minutes later I'm whisked onto a gurney with my wrists being swabbed with disinfectant and wrapped, my vitals taken. As the ambulance rushes to the hospital, with Mrs. Jones in pursuit, I begin to wonder if this wasn't the most fun I've had all year and I begin to cry.

I wasn't exactly admitted into the hospital as it was a madhouse when we arrived. They take me to a triage room where some head doctor pops in to assess me, but I quickly assured him it was a household accident. He still insisted on checking my wrists and he must have believed me because he made a couple notations on his electronic clipboard had me sign and initial AMA and left me to my own devices after directing me to the billing department.

I see Mrs. Jones whispering stridently on her cellphone. She's talking about me. She listens then agrees to wait for me. To hell with that. I carefully retrace my steps and make a run for it. As I reach the double doors, I here her asking at intake where the brunette woman with the slashed wrists went. I thought she'd faint when they told her I'd checked myself out. I wish I could've taken a picture. I hailed a taxi, laughing all the way back to Susie's apartment…