Fifty Shades Darker (book 5) novel Chapter 122

“That’s odd.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Could you send me what he has?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And keep this between us for now.”

“Will do, Mr. Grey.”

“Thanks, Barney. And go home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barney’s e-mail arrives almost immediately, and I open the “Greys” folder. Sure enough, there are online articles about my parents and their charitable work; articles on me, my company, Charlie Tango and the Gulfstream; and photographs of Elliot, my parents, and me taken, I assume, from Mia’s Facebook page. And last, two photos of Ana and me—at her graduation and at the photographer’s exhibition.

What the hell would Hyde want with all that shit? It makes no sense. I know he has a thing for Ana, that’s consistent with his modus operandi. But my family? Me? It’s like he’s obsessed with us. Or maybe it’s all about Ana? This is weird. And frankly disturbing. I resolve to call Welch in the morning to discuss. He can investigate further and get me some answers.

I close the e-mail, and sitting in my inbox are a couple of final acquisition agreements from Marco. I need to read them tonight—but first some dinner.

“Evening, Gail,” I call out to her when I’m back in the living room.

“Good evening, Mr. Grey. Dinner in ten, sir?”

Ana is sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine. After dealing with that asshole, I think she’s earned it. I’ll join her. I retrieve the open bottle of Sancerre and pour one for myself.

“Sounds good,” I respond to Gail and raise my glass to Ana. “To ex-military men who train their daughters well.”

“Cheers,” she says, but she looks a little crestfallen.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I still have a job.”

“Do you still want one?”

“Of course.”

“Then you still have one.”

She rolls her eyes, and I smile and take another sip of my wine.

“So, did you talk to Barney?” she asks, as I take a seat beside her.

“I did.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did Jack have on his computer?”

“Nothing important.”

Mrs. Jones places our food in front of us. Chicken pot pie. One of my favorites.

“Thanks, Gail.”

“Enjoy, Mr. Grey. Ana,” she says pleasantly, and departs.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Ana persists.

“Tell you what?”

She sighs and purses her lips, then takes another bite of her meal.

The contents of Jack’s computer are not something I want Ana to worry about.

“José called,” she says, changing the subject.