A VINTAGE EBOOK EDITION
A VINTAGE EBOOK EDITIONFifty Shades of Grey copyright 2011by Fifty Shades Ltd.Fifty Shades Darker copyright 2011by Fifty Shades Ltd.Fifty Shades Freed copyright 2011by Fifty Shades Ltd.All rights reserved. The novelscontained in this omnibus were eachpublished separately in the UnitedStates by Vintage Books, a division ofRandom House, Inc., New York. All
were originally published in Australiaby The Writer’s Coffee ShopPublishing House, New South Wales, in2011.Vintage and colophon are registeredtrademarks of Random House, Inc.Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty ShadesDarker, and Fifty Shades Freed areworks of fiction. Names, characters,places, and incidents either are theproduct of the author’s imagination orare used fictitiously. Any resemblanceto actual persons, living or dead, events,or locales is entirely coincidental.The author published an earlierserialized version of these stories online
with different characters as “Master ofthe Universe” under the pseudonymSnowqueen’s Icedragon.Vintage eISBN: 978-0-345-80357-3Trilogy cover design by Peter QuachFifty Shades of GreyCover image Random House, Inc.,photo by Papuga2006Cover design by Jennifer McGuireFifty Shades DarkerCover image Random House, Inc.,photo by E. SpekCover design by Jennifer McGuireFifty Shades FreedCover image Random House, Inc.,
photo by KineticimageryCover design by Jennifer McGuirewww.vintagebooks.comv3.1 r5
ContentsCoverTitle pageCopyrightFifty Shades of GreyFifty Shades DarkerFifty Shades Freed
About the Author
First published by The Writer’s CoffeeShop Publishing House,Australia, 2011FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION,APRIL 2012Copyright 2011 by Fifty Shades Ltd.All rights reserved. Published in theUnited States by Vintage Books, adivision of Random House, Inc., NewYork, and in Canada by Random Houseof Canada Limited, Toronto.Vintage and colophon are registeredtrademarks of Random House, Inc.This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents eitherare the product of the author’simagination or are used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual persons,living or dead, events, or locales isentirely coincidental.The author published an earlierserialized version of this story onlinewith different characters as “Master ofthe Universe“ under the pseudonymSnowqueen’s Icedragon.The Cataloging-in-Publication Data ison file at Library of Congress.eISBN: 978-1-61213-029-3Cover design by Jennifer McGuireCover image Random House, Inc.,
photo by Papuga2006www.vintagebooks.comv3.1
For Niall,the master of my universe
ACKNOWLEDGMI am indebted to thefollowing people fortheir help and support:To my husband, Niall,thank you for toleratingmy obsession, being adomestic god, and doingthe first edit.
To my boss, Lisa,thank you for putting upwith me over the lastyear or so while Iindulgedinthismadness.To CCL, I’ll nevertell, but thank you.To the original bunkerbabes, thank you foryour friendship andconstant support.To SR, thank you forall the helpful advice
from the start and forgoing first.ToSueMalone,thanks for sorting meout.To Amanda and all atTWCS, thank you fortaking a punt
ContentsMaster - Table of ContentsFifty Shades of GreyCopyrightDedicationAcknowledgmentsChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter Four
Chapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter Eighteen
Chapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-oneChapter Twenty-twoChapter Twenty-threeChapter Twenty-fourChapter Twenty-fiveChapter Twenty-six
CHAPTER ONEIscowl with frustration atmyself in the mirror. Damnmy hair—it just won’tbehave, and damn KatherineKavanagh for being ill andsubjecting me to this ordeal. Ishould be studying for myfinal exams, which are next
week, yet here I am trying tobrushmyhairintosubmission. I must not sleepwith it wet. I must not sleepwith it wet. Reciting thismantra several times, Iattempt, once more, to bringit under control with thebrush. I roll my eyes inexasperation and gaze at thepale, brown-haired girl withblue eyes too big for her facestaring back at me, and giveup. My only option is to
restrain my wayward hair in aponytail and hope that I looksemi-presentable.Kate is my roommate, andshe has chosen today of alldays to succumb to the flu.Therefore, she cannot attendthe interview she’d arrangedto do, with some megaindustrialist tycoon I’ve neverheard of, for the studentnewspaper. So I have beenvolunteered. I have finalexams to cram for and one
essay to finish, and I’msupposed to be working thisafternoon, but no—today Ihave to drive 165 miles todowntown Seattle in order tomeet the enigmatic CEO ofGrey Enterprises Holdings,Inc. As an exceptionalentrepreneurandmajorbenefactor of our university,his time is extraordinarilyprecious—muchmoreprecious than mine—but hehasgrantedKatean
interview. A real coup, shetellsme.Damnherextracurricular activities.Kate is huddled on thecouch in the living room.“Ana, I’m sorry. It took menine months to get thisinterview. It will take anothersix to reschedule, and we’llboth have graduated by then.As the editor, I can’t blowthis off. Please,” Kate begsme in her rasping, sore throatvoice. How does she do it?
Even ill she looks gamine andgorgeous, strawberry blondhair in place and green eyesbright, although now redrimmed and runny. I ignoremy pang of unwelcomesympathy.“Of course I’ll go, Kate.You should get back to bed.Would you like some NyQuilor Tylenol?”“NyQuil, please. Here arethe questions and my digitalrecorder. Just press record
here. Make notes, I’lltranscribe it all.”“I know nothing abouthim,” I murmur, trying andfailing to suppress my risingpanic.“The questions will seeyou through. Go. It’s a longdrive. I don’t want you to belate.”“Okay, I’m going. Getback to bed. I made you somesoup to heat up later.” I stareat her fondly. Only for you,
Kate, would I do this.“I will. Good luck. Andthanks, Ana—as usual, you’remy lifesaver.”Gathering my backpack, Ismile wryly at her, then headout the door to the car. Icannot believe I have let Katetalk me into this. But thenKate can talk anyone intoanything. She’ll make anexceptional journalist. She’sarticulate, strong, persuasive,argumentative,beautiful—
and she’s my dearest, dearestfriend.as I setofffromVancouver,Washington, toward Interstate5. It’s early, and I don’t haveto be in Seattle until two thisafternoon. Fortunately, Katehas lent me her sportyMercedes CLK. I’m not sureWanda, my old VW Beetle,would make the journey intime. Oh, the Merc is a funTHE ROADS ARE CLEAR
drive, and the miles slip awayas I hit the pedal to the metal.My destination is theheadquarters of Mr. Grey’sglobal enterprise. It’s a hugetwenty-story office building,all curved glass and steel, anarchitect’s utilitarian fantasy,with GREY HOUSE writtendiscreetly in steel over theglass front doors. It’s aquarter to two when I arrive,greatly relieved that I’m notlate as I walk into the
d white sandstone lobby.Behind the solid sandstonedesk, a very attractive,groomed,blondeyoungwoman smiles pleasantly atme. She’s wearing thesharpest charcoal suit jacketand white shirt I have everseen. She looks immaculate.“I’m here to see Mr. Grey.AnastasiaSteeleforKatherine Kavanagh.”
“Excuse me one moment,Miss Steele.” She arches hereyebrow as I stand selfconsciously before her. I’mbeginning to wish I’dborrowed one of Kate’sformal blazers rather thanworn my navy-blue jacket. Ihave made an effort and wornmy one and only skirt, mysensible brown knee-lengthboots, and a blue sweater. Forme, this is smart. I tuck oneof the escaped tendrils of my
hair behind my ear as Ipretend she doesn’t intimidateme.“MissKavanaghisexpected. Please sign in here,Miss Steele. You’ll want thelast elevator on the right,press for the twentieth floor.”She smiles kindly at me,amused no doubt, as I sign in.She hands me a securitypass that has “visitor” veryfirmly stamped on the front. Ican’t help my smirk. Surely
it’s obvious that I’m justvisiting. I don’t fit in here atall. Nothing changes. Iinwardly sigh. Thanking her,I walk over to the bank ofelevators and past the twosecurity men who are both farmore smartly dressed than Iam in their well-cut blacksuits.The elevator whisks me atterminal velocity to thetwentieth floor. The doorsslide open, and I’m in another
large lobby—again all glass,steel, and white sandstone.I’m confronted by anotherdesk of sandstone and anotheryoung blonde woman, thistime dressed impeccably inblack and white, who rises togreet me.“Miss Steele, could youwait here, please?” She pointsto a seated area of whiteleather chairs.Behind the leather chairs isaspaciousglass-walled
meeting room with an equallyspacious dark wood table andat least twenty matchingchairs around it. Beyond that,there is a floor-to-ceilingwindow with a view of theSeattle skyline that looks outthrough the city toward theSound. It’s a stunning vista,andI’mmomentarilyparalyzed by the view. Wow.I sit down, fish thequestions from my backpack,and go through them,
inwardly cursing Kate for notproviding me with a briefbiography. I know nothingabout this man I’m about tointerview. He could be ninetyor he could be thirty. Theuncertainty is galling, and mynerves resurface, making mefidget. I’ve never beencomfortable with one-on-oneinterviews, preferring theanonymity of a groupdiscussion where I can sitinconspicuously at the back
of the room. To be honest, Iprefer my own company,reading a classic Britishnovel, curled up in a chair inthe campus library. Notsitting twitching nervously ina colossal glass-and-stoneedifice.I roll my eyes at myself.Get a grip, Steele. Judgingfrom the building, which istoo clinical and modern, Iguess Grey is in his forties:fit, tanned, and fair-haired to
match the rest of thepersonnel.Another elegant, flawlesslydressed blonde comes out of alarge door to the right. Whatis it with all the immaculateblondes? It’s like Stepfordhere. Taking a deep breath, Istand up.“Miss Steele?” the latestblonde asks.“Yes,” I croak, and clearmy throat. “Yes.” There, thatsounded more confident.
“Mr. Grey will see you in amoment. May I take yourjacket?”“Oh, please.” I struggle outof the jacket.“Have you been offeredany refreshment?”“Um—no.” Oh dear, isBlonde Number One introuble?BlondeNumberTwofrowns and eyes the youngwoman at the desk.“Would you like tea,
coffee, water?” she asks,turning her attention back tome.“A glass of water. Thankyou,” I murmur.“Olivia, please fetch MissSteele a glass of water.” Hervoice is stern. Olivia scootsup and scurries to a door onthe other side of the foyer.“Myapologies,MissSteele, Olivia is our newintern. Please be seated. Mr.Grey will be another five
minutes.”Olivia returns with a glassof iced water.“Here you go, MissSteele.”“Thank you.”BlondeNumberTwomarches over to the largedesk, her heels clicking andechoing on the sandstonefloor. She sits down, and theyboth continue their work.Perhaps Mr. Grey insistson all his employees being
blonde. I’m wondering idly ifthat’s legal, when the officedoor opens and a tall,elegantly dressed, attractiveAfrican American man withshort dreads exits. I havedefinitely worn the wrongclothes.He turns and says throughthe door, “Golf this week,Grey?”I don’t hear the reply. Heturns, sees me, and smiles, hisdark eyes crinkling at the
corners. Olivia has jumped upand called the elevator. Sheseems to excel at jumpingfrom her seat. She’s morenervous than me!“Good afternoon, ladies,”he says as he departs throughthe sliding door.“Mr. Grey will see younow, Miss Steele. Do gothrough,” Blonde NumberTwo says. I stand rathershakily, trying to suppress mynerves. Gathering up my
backpack, I abandon my glassof water and make my way tothe partially open door.“You don’t need to knock—just go in.” She smileskindly.I push open the door andstumble through, trippingover my own feet and fallingheadfirst into the office.Double crap—me and mytwo left feet! I am on myhands and knees in thedoorway to Mr. Grey’s office,
and gentle hands are aroundme, helping me to stand. I amso embarrassed, damn myclumsiness. I have to steelmyself to glance up. Holycow—he’s so young.“Miss Kavanagh.” Heextends a long-fingered handto me once I’m upright. “I’mChristian Grey. Are you allright? Would you like to sit?”So young—and attractive,very attractive. He’s tall,dressed in a fine gray suit,
white shirt, and black tie withunruly dark copper-coloredhair and intense, bright grayeyes that regard me shrewdly.It takes a moment for me tofind my voice.“Um. Actually—” I mutter.If this guy is over thirty, thenI’m a monkey’s uncle. In adaze, I place my hand in hisand we shake. As our fingerstouch, I feel an oddexhilaratingshiverrunthrough me. I withdraw my
hand hastily, embarrassed.Must be static. I blink rapidly,my eyelids matching myheart rate.“MissKavanaghisindisposed, so she sent me. Ihope you don’t mind, Mr.Grey.”“And you are?” His voiceis warm, possibly amused,but it’s difficult to tell fromhis impassive expression. Helooks mildly interested but,above all, polite.
“Anastasia Steele. I’mstudying English literaturewith Kate, um Katherine um Miss Kavanagh, atWSU Vancouver.”“I see,” he says simply. Ithink I see the ghost of asmile in his expression, butI’m not sure.“Would you like to sit?”He waves me toward an Lshaped white leather couch.His office is way too bigfor just one man. In front of
the floor-to-ceiling windows,there’s a modern dark wooddesk that six people couldcomfortably eat around. Itmatches the coffee table bythe couch. Everything else iswhite—ceiling, floors, andwalls, except for the wall bythe door, where a mosaic ofsmall paintings hang, thirtysix of them arranged in asquare. They are exquisite—aseries of mundane, forgottenobjects painted in such
precise detail they look ing.“A local artist. Trouton,”says Grey when he catchesmy gaze.“They’re lovely. Raisingtheordinarytoextraordinary,” I murmur,distracted both by him andthe paintings. He cocks hishead to one side and regardsme intently.
“I couldn’t agree more,Miss Steele,” he replies, hisvoice soft, and for someinexplicable reason I findmyself blushing.Apart from the paintings,the rest of the office is cold,clean, and clinical. I wonderif it reflects the personality ofthe Adonis who sinksgracefully into one of thewhite leather chairs oppositeme. I shake my head,disturbed at the direction of
my thoughts, and retrieveKate’s questions from mybackpack. Next, I set up thedigital recorder and am allfingers and thumbs, droppingit twice on the coffee table infront of me. Mr. Grey saysnothing, waiting patiently—Ihope—asIbecomeincreasingly embarrassed andflustered. When I pluck upthe courage to look at him,he’s watching me, one handrelaxed in his lap and the
other cupping his chin andtrailing his long index fingeracross his lips. I think he’strying to suppress a smile.“S-sorry,” I stutter. “I’mnot used to this.”“Take all the time youneed, Miss Steele,” he says.“Do you mind if I recordyour answers?”“After you’ve taken somuch trouble to set up therecorder, you ask me now?”I flush. He’s teasing me? I
hope. I blink at him, unsurewhat to say, and I think hetakes pity on me because herelents. “No, I don’t mind.”“Did Kate, I mean, MissKavanagh, explain what theinterview was for?”“Yes. To appear in thegraduation issue of thestudent newspaper as I shallbe conferring the degrees atthisyear’sgraduationceremony.”Oh! This is news to me,
andI’mtemporarilypreoccupied by the thoughtthat someone not much olderthan me—okay, maybe sixyears or so, and okay, megasuccessful, but still—is goingto present me with mydegree. I frown, dragging mywayward attention back to thetask at hand.“Good.”Iswallownervously. “I have somequestions, Mr. Grey.” Ismooth a stray lock of hair
behind my ear.“I thought you might,” hesays, deadpan. He’s laughingat me. My cheeks heat at therealization, and I sit up andsquare my shoulders in anattempt to look taller andmore intimidating. Pressingthe start button on therecorder, I try to lookprofessional.“You’re very young tohave amassed such an empire.To what do you owe your
success?” I glance up at him.His smile is rueful, but helooks vaguely disappointed.“Business is all aboutpeople, Miss Steele, and I’mvery good at judging people. Iknow how they tick, whatmakes them flourish, whatdoesn’t, what inspires them,and how to incentivize them.I employ an exceptional team,and I reward them well.” Hepauses and fixes me with hisgray stare. “My belief is to
achieve success in anyscheme one has to makeoneself master of thatscheme, know it inside andout, know every detail. I workhard, very hard to do that. Imake decisions based onlogic and facts. I have anatural gut instinct that canspot and nurture a good solididea and good people. Thebottom line is it’s alwaysdown to good people.”“Maybe you’re just lucky.”
This isn’t on Kate’s list—buthe’s so arrogant. His eyesflare momentarily in surprise.“I don’t subscribe to luckor chance, Miss Steele. Theharder I work the more luck Iseem to have. It really is allabout having the right peopleon your team and directingtheir energies accordingly. Ithink it was Harvey Firestonewho said, ‘The growth anddevelopment of people is thehighestcallingof
leadership.’ ”“You sound like a controlfreak.” The words are out ofmy mouth before I can stopthem.“Oh, I exercise control inall things, Miss Steele,” hesays without a trace of humorin his smile. I look at him,and he holds my gazesteadily,impassive.Myheartbeat quickens, and myface flushes again.Why does he have such an
unnerving effect on me? Hisoverwhelming good looksmaybe? The way his eyesblaze at me? The way hestrokes his index fingeragainst his lower lip? I wishhe’d stop doing that.“Besides, immense poweris acquired by assuringyourself in your secretreveries that you were born tocontrol things,” he continues,his voice soft.“Do you feel that you have
immense power?” Controlfreak.“I employ over fortythousand people, Miss Steele.That gives me a certain senseof responsibility—power, ifyou will. If I were to decide Iwas no longer interested inthetelecommunicationsbusiness and sell, twentythousandpeoplewouldstruggle to make theirmortgage payments after amonth or so.”
My mouth drops open. Iam staggered by his lack ofhumility.“Don’t you have a board toanswer to?” I ask, disgusted.“I own my company. Idon’t have to answer to aboard.” He raises an eyebrowat me. Of course, I wouldknow this if I had done someresearch. But holy crap, he’sarrogant. I change tack.“And do you have anyinterests outside your work?”
“I have varied interests,Miss Steele.” A ghost of asmile touches his lips. “Veryvaried.” And for some reason,I’m confounded and heatedby his steady gaze. His eyesare alight with some wickedthought.“But if you work so hard,what do you do to chill out?”“Chill out?” He smiles,revealing perfect white teeth.I stop breathing. He really isbeautiful. No one should be
this good-looking.“Well, to ‘chill out,’ as youput it—I sail, I fly, I indulgein various physical pursuits.”He shifts in his chair. “I’m avery wealthy man, MissSteele, and I have expensiveand absorbing hobbies.”I glance quickly at Kate’squestions, wanting to get offthis ly?” I ask. Why
does he make me souncomfortable?“I like to build things. Ilike to know how thingswork: what makes things tick,how to construct anddeconstruct. And I have alove of ships. What can Isay?”“That sounds like yourheart talking rather than logicand facts.”His mouth quirks up, andhe stares appraisingly at me.
“Possibly. Though thereare people who’d say I don’thave a heart.”“Why would they saythat?”“Because they know mewell.” His lip curls
Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author published an earlier
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