Our favorite couple and sickos are back. Thanks for sticking around and thanks for the new readers that I have acquired along the way. Book I is still in editing and turn out to be so long that it will end up being Book I: Volume I and Volume II. Lots of changes in my life since we last talked but the most significant is that I had to close my business and get a job. That's not the worst thing in the world since now I can go to work and come home and not constantly have work on my mind. However, lots of overtime in my future—so for a while (indefinitely right now) there will only be one chapter a week and so far, it will be on Saturdays. So here it is—enjoy the return of Dr. Steele!
This disclaimer goes for every chapter in this story-I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY fanfic in MY interpretation as a fan. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.
Prologue (Chapter 1)
I came to the Tier for Tier time, but I wish I had just stayed in my damn cell. These women here treat me like utter shit—when they're not trying to beat my ass, that is. I don't have my money and what I did have is locked up with my damn attorneys. Even my subs that were supporting me when this whole ordeal began have all gone AWOL. I'm all by myself in this—that is, until Christian gets his head out of his ass and stops sniffing behind that worthless little tramp... well, not so worthless as of late, I'm afraid. How did I ever let this happen? How did I let him slip through my fingers? How did my whole life fall apart right before my very eyes?
I know how it happened. It was her! She did this to me. She came along and started meddling in affairs that were none of her damn business and now my whole life has fallen to shreds. If it's the last thing I do, with the very last breath I take, I will make her pay for ruining my life. One way or another, I will make her pay. I am jolted from my thoughts by the feeling of my chair being hauled from under me and the hard thud of my tailbone hitting the linoleum floor. Fuck, that hurts!
"Oh, I'm sorry, Baby Fucker, were you sitting here?" I hear behind me followed by a rash of laughter. I recognize the voice though I don't know her name. I mean, I do, but I don't remember which one it is—there are so many of them that hate me here. They think I have money and can pay them off, which I don't... not anymore anyway. I'm not supposed to be in here with these hardened common criminals—murderers and armed robbers and gang members and... this is just not right. I stand to my feet and brush off my butt then stand against the wall where I can face the room. I'm usually safest when I can see what's happening before it comes.
The guards do nothing to help me, either. If anything, they are worse than the inmates. I have all but forgotten the manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages that were once a regular routine for me. I'm lucky if I can even get a shower now. My hair is this long, wretched mix of gray and brown with brassy dirty blonde ends—the last reminder of what my life once was. Even after all this time, I still imagine Christian gorgeous gray gaze upon me, his beautiful locks, his taut muscles, his baritone voice. I miss him so much...and I hate her. With everything I have in me, I hate her. I ask the guard if I can return to my cell. With her approval, I proceed to leave the Tier but my exit is blocked by yet another member of my "fan club."
"Going somewhere, Baby Fucker? They're playing your song!" she says pushing me back into the room as they make me watch that damn commercial again—the commercial that actually caused me to go into convulsions when I saw it for the first time:
It's starts with a black screen and then a piano begins to play. Pictures flash very quickly on the screen behind a statistic of how many cases of domestic abuse there are each year. The pictures keep flashing, then there is the statistic of the cases of child abuse. As the pictures continue to flash, the statistics are shown—deaths from domestic violence, cases of child molestation and incest, families separated because of abuse, murder/suicides, cases of neglect. The pictures stop flashing and one picture of a beautiful young Cuban woman is shown on the screen. At first it is a still picture, and then it becomes a motion picture as the beautiful woman says, "I am the face of abuse."
One by one, the pictures change and people declare being "the face of abuse."
A beautiful Indian woman with a bindi and wrapped in a saree: "I am the face of abuse."
An older black gentleman with salt and pepper hair: "I am the face of abuse."
A Native American mother with a baby not quite one year old: "We are the faces of abuse."
A young Caucasian girl in a wheelchair: "I am the face of abuse."
A teenage Caucasian boy who is using sign language and the caption read: "I am the face of abuse."
A Chinese gentleman recognized as a well-known judge in the state of Washington: "I am the face of abuse."
A black mother and her two young sons: "We are the faces of abuse."
Three small Mexican children, all under ten years old: "We are the faces of abuse."
Allen's boyfriend, James: "I am the face of abuse."
A Caucasian woman known as a Senator for the state of Washington: "I am the face of abuse."
A middle-aged Samoan man: "I am the face of abuse."
Two Filipino teenagers—a boy and a girl: "We are the faces of abuse."
A Cuban man known as a local celebrity: "I am the face of abuse."
Anastasia: "I am the face of abuse."
Six-year-old Australian twins: "We are the faces of abuse."
A Brazilian mother holding a picture of her adult daughter in the hospital on life support, badly bruised and beaten: "She is the face of abuse."
An elderly Vietnamese woman: "I am the face of abuse."
Christian: "I am the face of abuse. It comes in many forms—emotional, physical, or sexual. You don't have to suffer in silence. You are not alone. If you are being abused or touched in an inappropriate manner, talk to a family member, a teacher, a guidance counselor, or a religious leader, but please...tell someone. If you need help, call us here at Helping Hands at 206-555-3179. Someone is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to listen and to help you escape an abusive situation. It's not hopeless and someone does care. Please, call today. Do not suffer another moment."
As Christian finishes his speech, the camera pans out and all of the "faces of abuse," those who spoke and many more, gather behind him and look into the screen. The number flashes on the screen again, then the screen goes black and the number and "Helping Hands" is still on the screen with the words "Be a success story, not a statistic."
The room erupts in laughter and applause as tears fill my eyes. They love to torture me. They know my story, and every time that commercial comes on, they make me watch it if I'm on the Tier. I have actually been beaten over it—when I tried to leave the second time I saw it. I don't know why I reacted so violently to it, why it hurts so much to watch it. I should be happy to get a glimpse of my beloved Christian whenever I can, but to hear him call it abuse... what we had, what we shared. I knew he could have been talking about what happened to him before and most likely, he was—but I also knew that he was talking about us. I wanted it to be so much more so badly. He's the only man that I ever loved that way... no one else, not even Linc. All of those years that I programmed him not to love anyone else, I programmed him not to love me either. Now, he hates me, and it's all her fault... all her fault...