Chapter Text
1
Kate’s sporty Mercedes is a much faster and smoother ride than my old VW Beetle, and I’m at Grey Enterprises’ headquarters in good time for the interview. It’s a quarter to two when I walk into the steel-and-glass office block, under the restrained steel sign over the door which says Grey House. The lobby of Grey House is enormous and modern, like the building itself, and I feel very exposed as my low-heeled boots click over the clean white sandstone floor.
The desk is manned – womanned, rather – by an attractive young blonde whose immaculate turnout makes my earlier trial in front of the mirror seem like a wasted effort. I should have gone with the makeup after all, I think wryly. My hair is already coming out of its ponytail, and my knee-length skirt and blue sweater feel sloppy and mismatched when faced with her starched, sharp grey suit. I’m very aware of the whitehead on my forehead and how oversized and poppy my eyes look with my hair pulled back. I’m not up for this.
I find my tongue after a moment, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. “Um... I’m Anastasia Steele. I’m here to see Mr. Grey. He has an appointment with Katherine Kavanagh at two; I’m here instead of her...” Oh, god, my words are tripping over themselves. I feel horribly self-conscious, and very aware that I haven’t yet read the questions Kate gave me, or her notes on the guy I’m about to talk to.
The receptionist smiles pleasantly and raises an eyebrow. “Just a moment, Miss Steele,” she tells me, but it feels like a very long moment indeed, standing in front of the desk and feeling so out of place in this polished modernist’s dream. Eventually, she looks up. “Miss Kavanagh is expected. You’ll have to sign in here.” She indicates the sign-in book on the desk, and, as I hesitate with my pen hovering over the paper, she goes on “Mr Grey’s office is on the twentieth floor. You’ll want the last elevator on the right.”
How many elevators do they need? I think, but out loud I only thank her, taking the visitor tag she proffers and heading towards the bank of elevators she indicates. The security guards I pass are as immaculately-dressed as she is. I can’t imagine working in a place like this, so image-conscious and restrained. I can’t help wondering whether the offices are as regimented as this lobby. What kind of man must the CEO of a place like this be?
The lobby I step into on the twentieth floor is the mirror image of the one I first walked into; the same steel-and-glass decor, the same polished sandstone floor, the same unnecessary size. For a moment, I even think it’s the same woman at the desk, and for a panicked moment, I wonder how I can have accidentally ended up back on the ground floor. But when this blonde receptionist rises to greet me, her suit is black, not grey, and her voice is different, deeper and less sure and with the hint of a Southern accent.
“Miss Steele?”
I nod, and she gives me a professional smile. “Mr Grey will see you soon. Could you wait here, please?” She indicates a row of white leather chairs, and turns back to her computer to, presumably, get back to work.
I am left alone in the seating area, and when I sit down, the little creak of the leather echoes around the vast lobby. Behind me, visible through the glass walls, is a spacious meeting room, and beyond that, a breathtaking view over Seattle. I have to tear my eyes away, reminding myself to focus on the papers Kate gave me. This is the only chance I’m going to have to read them before the interview; I have to take it. I am aware of my own nervousness, my heart thudding in my ears. I feel a little sick. I don’t belong here. This might be Kate’s element, but I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews. Give me a quiet library and a chair to curl up in over this glittering edifice any day. Give me a novel to read, not these questions and the brief, unhelpful notes she’s scribbled on them. I know she was trying to help, but her handwriting is shaky and scribbled, rushed off this morning under the influence of her fever, and she seems to think I know more about this guy than I actually do. It should have been Kate running this interview, not me. Damn her for catching the flu at such a bad time, and damn me for being enough of a pushover to step up to the mark.
I am squinting to decipher her tiny writing when I hear heels on the floor, and look up to see yet another immaculately turned-out blonde woman. God, is this whole office staffed by clones or something? Tucking the papers back into my satchel, I take a deep breath and stand up, trying to look like I know what I’m doing.
“Miss Steele?”
It takes me a moment to find my tongue. “Um... yes?” That isn’t helping the impression that I’m a competent professional, so I clear my throat and try again. “Yes. That’s me.”
She smiles, and I see that she’s older than either of the receptionists – maybe thirty or so. “Mr Grey will see you in five minutes,” she assures me. “May I take your coat?”
“Oh, yes, please.” I struggle out of my jacket, very aware of my lack of grace with her eyes on me, retrieve the recorder from my pocket and hand the jacket to her. It’s a relief to have it off. I hadn’t really noticed until now, too wrapped up in panic, but I really am too warm.
“Have you been offered any refreshment?” she asks, as she takes my jacket. I automatically tell her the truth – that no, I haven’t – and regret it a little when she shoots a clearly chastising look at the young woman behind the desk. Have I got the receptionist in trouble? The younger blonde certainly looks intimidated, and I try to quash the odd relief that at least I’m not the only one having a bad day.
The older woman turns back to me after a moment, her professional smile returning. “Would you like tea? Coffee? Water?”
“Um...” My eyes flicker to the receptionist, then back to the woman addressing me, and I think my smile must look more like a death rictus. “Just water, please.”
“Olivia, fetch Miss Steele a glass of water.” I feel for the poor receptionist, who scuttles off in a clatter of high heels and suddenly looks far less immaculate, and I realise I don’t much like this imperious older woman. She hasn’t finished yet, though, giving me an apologetic smile that looks completely false. “I’m so sorry, Miss Steele. Olivia is our newest intern. She’s still finding her feet. Please, sit down. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes.”
I do as I’m told, and return to deciphering Kate’s scrawl, sipping the iced water Olivia provides. Apparently Christian Grey – the CEO – is only twenty-seven. I wonder if I’ve read that right. These surroundings suggest someone much older to me, someone at least in their forties. I can’t imagine someone under thirty could have built this whole corporate empire, but apparently he did. That’s incredible. Almost too incredible. I wonder who the real power behind the throne is.
I’m still leafing through the questions, almost relaxed by this point, when the door to Grey’s office opens and my pulse rate leaps back up. The tall African-American man who leaves, calling something about golf back over his shoulder, is just as well turned-out as the employees, and I feel more self-conscious than ever in my knee-high boots and loose green skirt.
Olivia rushes to call the elevator for the cheerful-looking guy leaving, and I wonder how I could have ever thought she looked calm and professional. She looks as out of her depth as I am, which is oddly comforting.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” the man says over his shoulder, winking, as the other woman looks up at me.
“Mr Grey will see you now, Miss Steele,” she tells me, and smiles. I take a deep breath and steel myself, standing up and starting towards the door.
Maybe it’s my nervousness, or a touch of Kate’s flu, or maybe just that I have two left feet, but any chance I have of a good first impression is ruined when, opening Grey’s office door, I trip over my own feet and stagger a couple of paces, pitching headfirst into the enormous office. One arm flails wildly, grabbing for purchase on the doorframe, but I still end up on my hands and knees, my face burning with embarrassment and my satchel of papers flung against the oversized desk. Behind me, in the lobby, I can hear someone stifling a giggle. I want to sink into the ground. Kate had better be goddamn grateful.
Mr Grey offers me a hand up. His fingers are long and cool, nails immaculately manicured. I daren’t look at any more of him than that for the moment, not when I feel like exploding with mortification. I can’t imagine he’s ever fallen like that, particularly not when I risk a sidelong glance and see the easy grace with which he steps back. He moves like a cat, liquid and careless.
“Miss Kavanagh.” He offers me a hand to shake as I retrieve my satchel and dust myself off, and I take it, flinching slightly but still managing to make myself meet his eyes. He looks even younger than Kate’s notes had led me to expect – I would have put him at twenty-five, tops. He’s fine-featured and high-cheekboned, with red-brown curls which look all the more unruly by comparison to his perfectly-coiffed employees. His nose is so perfectly straight and symmetrical that some part of my scattered mind is wondering whether it’s natural. Most striking, though, are his eyes. Most people’s eyes, you look at once and then forget. Mr Grey’s aren’t like that. It’s hard to put my finger on why that is – they’re not large, like mine, or particularly expressive. They are, however, an unusual shade of steel-grey, and currently shadowed with concern. “Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?”
I shake his hand, running on automatic, and it takes me a second to catch up with myself. “I, uh... actually, I’m not...” I clear my throat. Definitely the flu. Dammit, just what I need with finals coming on. But there’s no other explanation for my spaced-out reaction, even if I am embarrassed, and even if he is very, very handsome. “I mean, I’m not Kate. Katherine. Kavanagh, I mean.” Clearing my throat again as he lets go of my hand, I tuck my wayward hair behind my ears and straighten my back, trying desperately to regain my composure. “My name’s Anastasia Steele. I’m here in Miss Kavanagh’s place. She’s, er, she’s down with the flu at the moment, so she sent me. I hope that’s all right, Mr Grey.”
He looks polite, interested, but unsmiling. Thank you, Mr Grey, I think fervently. Thank you for pretending you’re not laughing at me right now.
“Miss Steele,” he repeats. His voice is warm and soft, like fingers brushing over velvet. It sends shivers up my spine, particularly when I remember just how much of a fool I’ve already made of myself. “It’s quite all right. Why don’t you take a seat?”
I’m all too happy to. My legs feel like wet rope, and sinking down onto the white leather couch is easier than standing. I make a conscious effort not to slouch, checking that Kate’s recorder is still intact, mostly so I have something to focus on that isn’t Christian Grey. Setting it up is harder than I’d expected, mostly because my hands are shaky and slippery with anxiety; I drop the minidisc recorder twice on the coffee table, wincing each time, before I’m done. Taking a seat opposite me, Grey watches me thoughtfully. I can’t tell whether he’s hiding pity, amusement, or both.
“I, um.” I’m looking everywhere but at him, all around his huge and minimally-furnished office, as I scrabble Kate’s papers out of my bag. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of new at this. Um, do you mind if I record this?”
“After all the effort you put into setting up your recorder, you ask me now?” Yep. Amused. Definitely amused. I blush deeper than ever. I must look like a beetroot by now - a pop-eyed, spotty-foreheaded beetroot who can’t operate a minidisc recorder - and he looks like some kind of male model. Wonderful. This is just wonderful. When I glance up at him, he’s smiling. “No, Miss Steele, I don’t mind.”
Thank god for that. I push on, secure in the knowledge that at least I can’t make myself look any stupider, and press record. “I imagine you know this already, Mr Grey, but this is for the graduation issue of the WSU student newspaper. I have a few questions for you.”
“I thought you would,” he says, deadpan, and I’m almost glad I can’t blush any more than I already am. He’s mocking me, and I bridle at it, but I can’t exactly stop because of that. I square my shoulders, trying to pull together the scraps of my dignity.
“Well, first off...” I glance down at Kate’s list of questions, focusing on not stumbling as I read it. “You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I think it sounds stilted and over-formal, but I would think that. I’m not the journalist, after all.
“Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses, meeting my eyes. This sounds rehearsed to me. I wonder how many times he’s answered this kind of question before. “My belief is that to achieve success in any scheme, one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard, to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”
I’m sure it is, I think sardonically, thinking back to my first impression when I found out his age. His smugness isn’t making me think much more of his ability to run a multinational corporation without help. “Luck, too, I imagine,” I say sweetly, unable to resist.
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr Grey.” Holy shit, is this guy for real? Random quotes in the middle of off-the-cuff answers? Plus, this whole I don’t believe in luck shtick stinks of self-righteous Republican. I scribble a note at the bottom of Kate’s question sheet. Control freak. Under that, Smug. And finally, reluctantly, Self-confident. Got his answers all set out.
“What are you writing, Miss Steele?” he asks mildly, rubbing his long finger against his lower lip, and leans over the table to try and see. I cover it automatically, the instinct of a grade-A student used to being cheated off, and try not to blush again when I realise I’m doing it.
“I just, I’m making a few notes. To go with the recording. That’s all.” I smile at him as reassuringly as I can, and try to move on, to distract him. “So, um, next question. Do you have any interests outside work?”
There’s a glint in his eye that attracts and repels me in equal measure. “I work very hard, Miss Steele. I don’t have much free time. But when I do, my interests are... varied. Very varied.”
Well, that’s an impressive non-answer, I think sardonically, but I manage to smile. Somehow, it’s easier not to be flustered when he’s being such an ass. “Could you give me an example, Mr Grey?”
His teeth, when he smirks, are dazzlingly white. “Oh, you know. Sailing. Gliding. I am a very wealthy man, and I enjoy expensive pursuits.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that you might be a little lacking in modesty?” That isn’t on Kate’s list, of course, but he’s so arrogant and so aggravating that I can’t resist.
His eyes darken, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “Miss Steele, I employ forty thousand people. I am one of the richest men in this country. I own my own company, which is constantly rising on the stock index. I think I’ve earned the right to a little vanity.”
I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. I hope he doesn’t see, although from the brief irritation that passes across his face, I think he probably does. “If you say so, Mr Grey.” Back to Kate’s questions, then. They’re solid ground, and there’s something a little unnerving about that angry look. Unnerving, and maybe a little too attractive. I swallow, and hurry on. “You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?”
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”
I wouldn’t have thought ships had much to do with manufacturing, but then, Kate didn’t specify what he manufactured. Damn Kate. If she’d given me a crash course in Greyology before I set out this morning, I might not be such a nervous mess now. I shrug it off, shaking my head. “And agriculture? You invest in agriculture, as well. Why?”
He spouts off something about people starving, and how agriculture will help that, and how it’s only good business. I can’t help thinking that it’s less good business than a PR stunt, but then, I’m not the CEO, so what do I know? Better, I think, to move on to the next question: “Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.”
I nod, trying to keep a straight face, and underline Control freak three times. After a moment’s thought, I also add an exclamation mark. “So, as far as you’re concerned, the important thing is possession.”
Grey chuckles, a low, deep sound in his throat, which sends an unexpected tingling to the pit of my stomach. It feels warm in here, warmer than the lobby. “You could say that, yes.”
I resist the urge to loosen my collar, cartoon-style, and gulp. I am singularly uncomfortable with this whole situation, especially since I don’t understand what he makes me feel. I’m angry at him, and disgusted by him, but at the same time, I want to run my fingers through his messy hair... I want him to use that voice again, to chuckle like that again.
Ana, get a grip! Mentally shaking myself, I focus on the questions. “Um. Right. You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Well. That’s... personal, and not much of a help with my discomfort. I wish Kate hadn’t littered these kinds of questions throughout. She might have the confidence to deliver them, but I don’t.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem offended. “I’ve got no way of knowing.”
“Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?” That one’s off-script, largely because I can’t imagine his answer to the last question is going to be much help to Kate. I watch him with my pencil poised over the paper, hoping I look a little more professional than I feel.
“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
He’s dodging the question, and I know it. If I was Kate, I’d follow it up, but I don’t have it in me. Instead, I move on to the next question on the list, cringing slightly as I ask it.
“Are you gay?”
He gasps audibly, and although I’m embarrassed all over again, I can’t help being a bit smug at having finally elicited a reaction, even if it was with one of Kate’s questions rather than on my own initiative. “No,” he says, after a minute. “No, I’m not.” I don’t really want to examine the feeling of relief that question sends through me. Instead, I just smile sheepishly and pretend to make a note.
“Good. Well, er, I think that’s everything. Is there anything you’d like to add, Mr Grey?” At this point, I just want to pack up and get out. Kate is going to be buying me apology dinners for a long time after this. I’m already exhausted, and I still have to drive back to Vancouver.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I think there is.” His eyes are definitely brighter now, and he isn’t hiding his smirk at all. I have to focus to refrain from groaning out loud. “You’ve asked me plenty of questions. I think I’d like to know a little more about you.”
What? This is even worse than I was expecting. I check my watch, hoping I can extricate myself soon, but force a smile. “I really don’t think that’s...”
“I think it’s only fair,” he cuts across me, and I close my mouth with a snap, reddening. “Now, Miss Steele... are you a colleague of Miss Kavanagh’s, on the paper?”
Worse and worse. I sigh. Time to come clean. “She’s my roommate,” I say cagily. “That’s why she asked me.”
“And why not someone who works on the paper?”
“Short notice.” I refuse to look at him, embarrassed by how easily he's seen through me. Instead, I look at the art on the wall, simple photographic canvases of household objects. “She only realised this morning that she couldn’t do it, and everyone else was busy.”
“But not you,” he muses. He’s stroking his lip again. “You aren’t planning on journalism, then. What are your plans when you graduate?”
I’m supposed to be conducting this interview! I want to snap at him, but between my brain and my mouth, it somehow becomes “I’d like to get into publishing.” It’s a bit of a pipe dream at the moment – Kate and I are moving to Seattle, that’s the only solid plan I have – but it’s better than nothing.
Grey regards me for a long moment, and is opening his mouth to reply when the door opens, and the older blonde from outside pokes her head in. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”
“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.”
“You don’t have to do that!” I burst out, horrified. He meets my eyes coolly.
“I don’t have to do anything,” he agrees, and waves a hand at Andrea, who looks shocked. I take it this isn’t a normal occurrence, even here. “I would, however, like to. Andrea, if you would.”
She seems to pull herself together, closing her mouth and shaking her head briefly, as if to clear it. “Yes, Mr Grey,” she says meekly, and vanishes back into the lobby.
“Where were we, Miss Steele?” he asks, as if nothing had just happened. “Ah, yes. Your career prospects. If you decide against publishing, our internship program is excellent.”
Wait. He’s offering me a job? He’s cancelled a business appointment, probably an important one, to offer me a job? I shake my head, half in answer, but half in sheer disbelief. “I don’t think so, Mr Grey.” I stand up. I don’t care if it’s rude. I have to get out of here. Out of this mad place, with this mad man, and the mad feelings he stirs up in me. “I won’t keep you. You’re busy, and I have to drive back to Vancouver.” I belatedly stop the recorder, stuffing it and the papers carelessly into my satchel, and give him a very fake, very brief smile. “Thank you for the interview. It’s been a pleasure.” What a liar you are, Ana.
He holds out his hand to shake as I turn to leave. “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.” He sounds polite and genuine, but given that when I said it it was a blatant lie, I find him hard to trust when he says it. Then again, there’s a faint smile playing across his lips that suggests that maybe it’s more than a platitude. "Drive carefully. It's a long way to Vancouver."
Moving catlike to the door, he holds it open for me. “Just ensuring you make it through the door,” he explains, and my temper flares up.
“How kind, Mr Grey,” I all but hiss at him, glaring, and walk out into the foyer. My dramatic exit is somewhat ruined by the fact that, against all my expectations, he follows me out. Olivia and Andrea stare. My face feels hot, and I feel very small and very angry.
“Did you have a coat?” he asks me, all sweetness and light. I nod, but almost as soon as Olivia’s leapt up to retrieve my jacket, he plucks it out of her hands. It takes me a moment to realise what he’s playing at.
“I can put my own coat on, thank you,” I tell him coldly, as he holds it up for me, and turn around to take it off him. Where does he get off, thinking that that kind of thing is appropriate? He just smiles, though, handing me the coat with a miniscule shrug and pressing the button for the elevator. As we wait, I shrug my coat on, purposefully looking away from him, and when the elevator arrives, I step inside before the door is even fully open.
When I look back, he’s standing outside the elevator, leaning on the wall. At least he doesn’t seem intent on following me any further. I even manage a little smile.
“Until we meet again, Anastasia,” he says as the door begins to close, and the smile drops off my face, but I nod.
“Mr Grey,” I agree through the half-closed door, stressing the honorific. And then the door closes, and the elevator begins to move.
Katherine Kavanagh, you will never stop owing me for this.