Fifty Shades of BLACK SILK

BLACK SILK: Part 35

"You want to quit!?" the editor-in-chief, Kimberly, exclaimed.

I held her gaze. "Yes."

"You're in the middle of doing a profile on Christian Grey and you want to quit?"

I nodded. "Yes, you can pass it onto someone else. Camille can take it."

"Camille is an idiot," she said, "we're firing her next week."

I remained silent.

"Okay," Kimberly smiled. "Okay, sit down. Please. Sit down."

"I don't want to be convinced otherwise," I said.

"Not trying to convince, just want you to sit down and have an honest chat with me."

I sighed and gave in. My shoulders relaxed as soon as I sat down, but I was still wary of what's to come. I was sure she was going to persuade me, but my decision was set in stone.

"Is there some sort of conflict of interest you want to tell me about?"

I titled my head in genuine confusion. "What?"

"Did you sleep with Christian Grey and that's why you're quitting?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh my God!"

She shrugged. "Well, I'm just asking."

"Look, it has nothing to do with him. It's something I've been thinking about for a while."

"You'll miss out on a lot of opportunities."

"I'm sure there'll be more."

"You're one of our best writers."

"There are others."

"Is it money? Is that it? We'll give you a raise."

"Easier said than done," I muttered. Raises within companies as opposed to outside companies is hella minute. I'd be lucky if I got gas money.

"Well, if that's what you want," she sighed, "we'll miss you."

I smiled. "Thanks."

Something tells me they're going to survive.

It still comes as a shock to me that I'm quitting. Who knew that my interactions with Christian would lead to this, but here we are? Let me reiterate, it's not him that made this decision, it's me. I've written a book. I want to sell this book and make a name for myself. But I can't do it while I'm still in the magazine business. Not can't, but don't want to. There's a lot of variables that come into play here—what if I want magazines to highlight this book? What if I want certain celebrities and instagrammers to promote it voluntarily without a conflict of interest? I want to look out for me for once.

I'm not going to lie and say that Christian had no impact on this decision. He made me realise that I should be going for things that I want. The fact that this goal is excruciatingly scary will make me strive more. I have a couple of friends in the business who are agents, maybe things will work out.

I have enough money that will keep me on my feet for a few months, until then I'll be selling the hell out of my book. Here I come!

As for Christian, well, I haven't heard from him since out rendezvous in Italy. So be it, I guess.

***

The buzzing vibration of my phone woke me up, and the blinking green light was too irritating to ignore.

"Hey, where are you?" Christian texted me a few days later.

"What?" I responded after a couple of hours.

"Where are you? We're supposed to meet."

"For what?"

"For my profile in Vanity Fair."

Oh, he doesn't know.

I ignored the rest and went back to sleep.

***

Missed calls: 4

Voicemails: 2

Texts: infinity (no, not really)

All from Christian Grey.

I switched my phone to silent and went back to sleep.

***

A loud banging startled me awake, I threw my blanket back and jumped out of bed. I ran to the front door and screamed, "Who is it!?" attempting to make my voice sound as deep and menacing as possible but it turned out to sound like a phlegmy trombone.

"It's Christian. Relax."

I opened the door. "Relax? You're the one banging on my door like a crackhead."

He swiftly bypassed me.

"Yeah, sure, come in," I said.

He scanned the apartment quickly. "Are you okay?"

"What are you doing?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing! What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even looking for?"

"Is your phone dead?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, I know what this is."

"Has it been stolen?

"It's none of your business, really."

"None of my business? You text me and then suddenly your texts stop and it's none of my business? You made it my business."

"I was sleeping, if you must know."

"Sleeping? It's like midday."

"And?"

"Well, where have you been these past few days. Vanity Fair sent me this dumb reporter that's filling in for you and she can't stop frothing at the mouth."

I shook my head. "Why does everyone have it in for Camille?"

I walked past him to my bedroom and began cleaning up, starting with shimmying into pants.

"Madison," he said, then he grabbed my hand, "wait just stop—"

"—I have to clean—"

"—just look at me, will you?"

I turned my heavy eyes up, my heart aching, the moment was unbearable. It was like I was being held hostage in his eyes.

"I miss you," he said.

"Oh, no, don't do this," I moaned. "Don't do this now."

"What?"

"Not while I'm still broken, please don't do this. I don't want your pity."

"No, I know what you want. I can give it to you."

"No, you can't. No one is supposed to ask to be loved, it's just supposed to happen naturally. If you can't do that then it's not love it's desire."

"Come on," Christian said.

I pushed at his chest. "No, I have to get back to work."

"Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

"No, I don't." My heart tightened.

"I love you, goddamnit."

I peered into his eyes. "I don't believe you."