Imagine you’re having a quiet evening in your hotel room hanging out with your brother when you receive a phone call.

You answer on the second ring, surprised she’s calling you at this hour. You’ve been anxiously waiting to hear from her after the books you sent her in warning, but when she speaks you realize what her phone call is really about. Her words are slurred and it’s hard to hear them over the music in the background.

You demand she tells you where she is several times, only for her to hang up on you. The shock of it is hard to register; no one has ever defied you in this manner before. You immediately call her back and inform her you’re going to get her and enlist Elliot to come with you.

You find her outside the bar. The photographer is there with her, he’s got one hand tightly wrapped around her waist and the other is threaded in her chestnut hair. He’s trying to kiss her and seduce her with Spanish words, but she’s pleading him to stop.

Rage like you’ve never felt before racks your body. You quickly approach them out of the darkness and despite your emotions, quietly remind him she said no. He immediately releases her as he’s intimidated by you, but you still take the time to glower at him anyway. Someone needs to teach him some manners.

A sudden movement from her catches your attention and you hear the sound of vomit spattering ingloriously against the ground. The photographer jumps back in disgust instead of helping her, much to your dismay. Without a second thought, you lean in to grab her hair and pull it back for her so that it doesn’t get in the way.

You lead her over to a raised flowerbed on the sidewalk. You secure her body with one arm and the other knots her hair into a tight fist. You revel in the position you have over her, despite the circumstances leading to it you welcome the thrill. And then you watch her as she violently empties all the alcohol from her stomach and then dry heaves repeatedly when there’s nothing left.

When it’s all over and she finally comes to, you hand her your linen handkerchief monogrammed with your initials. She appreciates the gesture but looks completely ashamed at the same time, as she won’t even make eye contact with you. She groans and puts her head in her hands. She peeks at you for a moment before turning to the photographer and glaring at him. They awkwardly share an unspoken conversation and he disappears back into the bar.

You offer to take her home and she insists she needs to let Kate know, even after you’ve told her Elliot is with her. You don’t know why you keep letting her have her way, but you find yourself agreeing. You lead her back inside to collect her belongings and take her hand in yours, letting her know you’re in charge.

She touches your arm without permission and leans up into your ear to speak and her close proximity causes you to panic. You roll your eyes at her, making her believe you’re annoyed by the situation when it reality you’re trying to diffuse it. You guide her to the bar and order her to drink a tall glass of water. She takes a tentative sip and her disobedience starts to frustrate you. You don’t like the implications of it but try to ignore it.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out the best course of action from here. You end up taking her hand again and leading her to the dance floor, convincing yourself you can change her. She’s reluctant and clearly doesn’t want to dance, but you decide to use the opportunity to test her.

You sharply tug on her hand, bringing her into your arms, willing her to obey you. You start moving, and when she starts following you step by step, you hold her body against you, her whole body against yours, and the decision is made. You clutch at her so tightly, both possessively and in relief because it’s in this moment you confirm she will be yours.

You take her back to the Heathman. She passed out cold in your arms and you threw out a harsh epithet when it happened even though you knew it was only a matter of time. You lay her down gently on your bed and take a moment to look at her.

After studying her innocent features, your eyes inevitably roam down her body. You notice her jeans are spattered with vomit and you’ll need to remove them. You take off her sneakers and notice she’s wearing Converse, just like you are. You grin as you remove them, thinking maybe you’re not that different after all. You reach for the button of her jeans and quickly unzip them. You try to contain the excitement as you bring the material over her hips and down her legs, leaving her in just her panties.

Her skin is pale and flawless just like you thought it would be – and you again wonder what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane. Your palm twitches and you’re just dying to touch her. She’s been a bad girl tonight, binge drinking and putting herself at risk. She’s reckless and unruly and she certainly deserves punishment for it. But you’ll need her consent first. You’ll need to draw up the paperwork faster than you anticipated.

The sight of her in your bed is a complete novelty; you’ve never had a woman sleep in it before. You consider sleeping somewhere else, it’s what you normally would have done when presented with an unexpected situation like this. And you hate the unexpected. But the thought is fleeting and before you know it you’re taking off your shirt to join her.

As you remove it, you involuntarily feel the burn marks and scars on your chest, and it causes you to pause. The constant reminder is always there. It makes you think about your haunted past and how damaged you are from the horrible conditions you experienced as a small child. It makes you feel used and unworthy.

You think about how she won’t be able to touch you, how you won’t allow her to touch you. You wonder what that would feel like, not for the first time, but you can’t imagine that ever happening. You’ve never allowed such a thing before, so why would she be any different? You hope she’ll be different, but deep down you know she won’t be. No one can change your past no matter how much you want it.

You think about how you became this way and how your life might have been different had you not had a crack whore of a mother or abused by her pimp. If you hadn’t been seduced by your adoptive mother’s friend at the age of fifteen and brought into this lifestyle. You wonder what would have happened if you weren’t a troubled teenager and had never gone to her house that day. You wonder if you would have chosen another path if given the choice. All these years you’ve thought Elena saved you, but you to start to think she’s only caused you more damage.

As you look at the girl sleeping soundly in your bed, a sudden clarity hits you like never before. You can see it all happening right before your eyes. You see yourself trying to enlighten her, indoctrinating her into your lifestyle. You see her resisting time and time again until she finally gives in and acquiesces. You see yourself rewarding her with a red Audi A3 and a brand new wardrobe, making her into someone that she’s not. You see yourself breaking her, just like you broke Leila and all the previous hordes of brunettes before her.

This girl is so innocent and despite the alluring little piece she is, she’s much too young. She’s naïve and inexperienced and you’re fairly certain she’s never been properly touched before, despite her long line of suitors. She’s just graduated with a 4.0 GPA and has her entire life in front of her. She already has her future planned. She’s bright, talented, and has all the potential in the world. You didn’t need to run an extensive background check on her to know all that.

You’re a fool, Grey. Who the fuck are you to stop her? To prevent her from having the normal life she deserves?

She is not submissive. She’s never been and she’ll never be. She doesn’t have a single bone of it in her body. The sobering truth has been there all along, but you’ve been trying to deny it this entire time. She doesn’t like taking orders or being told what to do. She’s not like you. You’re from completely different worlds. She wants hearts and flowers and you’ll never be able to give her that. She dresses in Walmart and she doesn’t know any better nor does she care. The fucking Converse are where your similarities begin and where they end and that’s as far as they’ll ever go.

You frantically put your shirt back on and look around the room, completely lost and out of control. The feeling terrifies you. It’s asphyxiating and for a moment you think you’re actually drowning. You hate yourself for allowing it, you’ve built you’re entire life deliberately trying to avoid it.

You spot her jeans on the floor and you know what needs to be done. You carefully place them in a laundry bag as they’ll need to be cleaned. You’ll ask Taylor to take care of it first thing. You head to the desk outside the room and grab a piece of paper from the hotel stationary. You write her a letter, saying this was all a mistake. You’re purposely arrogant and an asshole, claiming she was nothing more than a diversion. You break her heart in the letter, making sure she’ll never contact you again. It’ll be easier if she hates you.

You grab her bag and search for her phone. You open up the flimsy device and easily delete your number and call history from it. You find the business card you gave her and slip it back in your wallet. Even if she does try to contact you, you’ll make sure she’ll never be able to reach you. You think about how you left Elliot with Kate, and how that will cause a problem for you. You’ll have to have a chat with him in the morning. He might not like it, but everyone has a price, including your own family.

You go back to the bedroom and leave the letter next to the night table, where she’ll clearly be able to see it when she wakes up in the morning. You take out your phone and take a picture of her. It’s sickening, but you’ll need the insurance policy, even if she’s not completely exposed it’ll still count for something. It depresses you that she’ll be reduced to nothing more than a box inside your closet just like the others, but it’s the way it has to be.

I’m so sorry, baby.

You sadly pull the covers over her and tuck her in, appreciating her captivating beauty one last time.

“Anastasia,” you say in farewell, and it pulls at something deep inside of you.

“Christian,” you imagine her responding in kind.

You’re reminded of when you first met her at your office and she whispered your name right before the doors of the elevator mercifully closed. When things seemed like they could be different and were full of promise. Perhaps it was the only real moment you ever shared.

You latch on to that memory because it’ll be the only relic you’ll ever have of her.

And then you do the only right thing you’ve done since you met her and walk away.

Charlie Tango is waiting.