When I leave it’s after 6 p.m., and we’re behind schedule. I have just enough time to get to my apartment in Tribeca, change into my tux, then head out again to the Telecommunications Alliance Organization fundraiser near Union Square.
In the car I try to call Ana, but I can’t get a signal.
Hell.
The irony is not lost on me. I’ll try again later.
The event, as I expected, is convivial enough, and it gives me a chance to network with fellow senior executives and entrepreneurs in my field. But yesterday I attended a charity gala in Seattle with Ana, and it was more enjoyable for that reason alone.
While the gathered guests enjoy canapés and cocktails, I call her once more, but her phone goes to voice mail. I’m about to leave a message when I’m interrupted by the host, Dr. Alan Michaels, who is delighted to see me.
At 9:30 p.m., during the entrée, Taylor sidles up to me.
“Sir. Mrs. Grey is having a drink with Kate Kavanagh at the Zig Zag Café.”
“Really?” Ana said she would go back to the apartment. I check my watch. It’s 6:30 p.m. in Seattle. “Who’s with her?”
“Sawyer and Prescott.”
“Okay.” Maybe it’s just one drink. “Let me know when she leaves.”
She said she would stay at home.
Why would she do this?
She knows I’m concerned about her welfare.
Hyde is at large. He’s obviously crazy and unpredictable.
My mood sours, and I find it difficult to concentrate on the conversation that floats around me. I’m sitting at a table occupied by some of the titans of our industry and their wives—and a husband, in one case. We are here to raise money to provide technology for schools in less privileged and underserved communities across the country. But there are only nine of us at our table and one empty seat; my wife is conspicuous by her absence.
She’s also absent from our home.
“Where’s your wife this evening?” Callista Michaels asks me. Seated on my left, she’s the organizer of the event and Dr. Michaels’s wife. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, and dripping in diamonds.
“She’s in Seattle.”
At a fucking bar.
“Shame she couldn’t come tonight,” she says.
“She works. And she enjoys her job.”
“Oh. How quaint. What does she do?”
I grit my teeth. “She’s in publishing.”
And I wish she were here.
Or I were back in Seattle.
My mood grows bleaker. My sirloin with béarnaise sauce doesn’t taste quite as good as it did. It’s weird. I’ve always attended these events without a date; now I don’t know what possessed me to accept the invitation without Ana.
Well, I thought Ana would come with me.
Though, now that I think about it, she was a little bored at the benefit we attended yesterday.
And tonight, she’s out drinking. With Kate.
Having fun.
Shit.
Every time I’ve known them to go out together, Ana has had too much to drink. The first night we slept together in Portland she was so drunk she passed out in my arms. She was totally inebriated when she got home after her bachelorette party. An image of her naked in bed, her arms beckoning me, her sweet, seductive tone, calls to me. “You can do anything you want to me.”
Fuck!
It’s always when she’s out with Kavanagh.
Keep it together, Grey. The security team is with her.
What harm can she come to?
Hyde. He’s out there, somewhere. And he wants revenge? I don’t know.
He’s a maniac.
I look up at Taylor, who is standing on the other side of the room. He shakes his head.
She’s still out. She’s still drinking. With Kavanagh.
I’m dragged back into the now, and a conversation about conflict minerals and reliable sources of ethically mined materials.
After the delicious and frankly comforting dark chocolate torte, I look up at Taylor again.
He shakes his head.
Hell.
That’s time for how many drinks?
I hope she’s had something to eat.
“Excuse me, I have to make a call.” I leave the table and call Ana from the lobby. She doesn’t pick up. I try her again. No answer. I try once more. Still no answer.
Fuck.
I text her.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!
She should be home. Or here.
And I know I’m being petulant, but she won’t even pick up my calls.
I storm back into the ballroom, where a charity auction is about to begin. I listen to the first two lots. Both involve golf.
Fuck this.
I write a check for one hundred thousand dollars and hand it to Mrs. Michaels. “I am sorry, Callista, but I have to go. Thank you for hosting a lovely evening. I’ll pledge the same again for next year. It’s a worthy cause.”
“Christian, that’s so generous. Thank you.” I get up to leave, as does she, and she kisses me on both cheeks, which I’m not expecting.
“Good night,” I say to Callista, and I shake her husband’s hand.
I eye Taylor at the edge of the room, and I think he’s already calling the car.