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AVINTAGEEBOOKEDITION

FiftyShadesofGreycopyright2011byFiftyShadesLtd.

FiftyShadesDarkercopyright2011byFiftyShadesLtd.

FiftyShadesFreedcopyright2011byFiftyShadesLtd.

Allrightsreserved.ThenovelscontainedinthisomnibuswereeachpublishedseparatelyintheUnited

StatesbyVintageBooks,adivisionofRandomHouse,Inc.,NewYork.All

wereoriginallypublishedinAustraliabyTheWritersCoffeeShop

PublishingHouse,NewSouthWales,in2011.

VintageandcolophonareregisteredtrademarksofRandomHouse,Inc.

FiftyShadesofGrey,FiftyShadesDarker,andFiftyShadesFreedareworksoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitherarethe

productoftheauthorsimaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,

orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.

Theauthorpublishedanearlierserializedversionofthesestoriesonline

withdifferentcharactersasMasteroftheUniverseunderthepseudonym

SnowqueensIcedragon.

VintageeISBN:978-0-345-80357-3

TrilogycoverdesignbyPeterQuach

FiftyShadesofGreyCoverimageRandomHouse,Inc.,

photobyPapuga2006CoverdesignbyJenniferMcGuire

FiftyShadesDarkerCoverimageRandomHouse,Inc.,

photobyE.SpekCoverdesignbyJenniferMcGuire

FiftyShadesFreedCoverimageRandomHouse,Inc.,

photobyKineticimageryCoverdesignbyJenniferMcGuire

www.vintagebooks.com

v3.1_r5

http://www.vintagebooks.com

Contents

CoverTitlepageCopyright

FiftyShadesofGrey

FiftyShadesDarker

FiftyShadesFreed

AbouttheAuthor

FirstpublishedbyTheWritersCoffeeShopPublishingHouse,

Australia,2011

FIRSTVINTAGEBOOKSEDITION,APRIL2012

Copyright2011byFiftyShadesLtd.

Allrightsreserved.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyVintageBooks,a

divisionofRandomHouse,Inc.,NewYork,andinCanadabyRandomHouse

ofCanadaLimited,Toronto.

VintageandcolophonareregisteredtrademarksofRandomHouse,Inc.

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,

characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthors

imaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,events,orlocalesis

entirelycoincidental.

TheauthorpublishedanearlierserializedversionofthisstoryonlinewithdifferentcharactersasMasteroftheUniverseunderthepseudonym

SnowqueensIcedragon.

TheCataloging-in-PublicationDataisonfileatLibraryofCongress.

eISBN:978-1-61213-029-3

CoverdesignbyJenniferMcGuireCoverimageRandomHouse,Inc.,

photobyPapuga2006

www.vintagebooks.com

v3.1

http://www.vintagebooks.com

ForNiall,themasterofmyuniverse

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to thefollowing people fortheirhelpandsupport:Tomyhusband,Niall,

thank you for toleratingmy obsession, being adomesticgod,anddoingthefirstedit.

To my boss, Lisa,thankyouforputtingupwith me over the lastyear or so while Iindulged in thismadness.To CCL, Ill never

tell,butthankyou.Totheoriginalbunker

babes, thank you foryour friendship andconstantsupport.To SR, thank you for

all the helpful advice

from the start and forgoingfirst.To Sue Malone,

thanks for sorting meout.ToAmandaandallat

TWCS, thank you fortakingapunt

Contents

Master-TableofContents

FiftyShadesofGreyCopyrightDedicationAcknowledgments

ChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFour

ChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteen

ChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-oneChapterTwenty-twoChapterTwenty-threeChapterTwenty-fourChapterTwenty-fiveChapterTwenty-six

CHAPTERONE

I scowl with frustration atmyself in the mirror. Damnmy hairit just wontbehave, and damn KatherineKavanagh for being ill andsubjectingmetothisordeal.Ishould be studying for myfinal exams, which are next

week,yethereIamtryingtobrush my hair intosubmission. 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 withblueeyestoobigforherfacestaring back at me, and giveup. My only option is to

restrainmywaywardhairinaponytail andhope that I looksemi-presentable.Kate ismy roommate, and

she has chosen today of alldays to succumb to the flu.Therefore, she cannot attendthe interview shed arrangedto do, with some mega-industrialisttycoonIveneverheard of, for the studentnewspaper. So I have beenvolunteered. I have finalexams to cram for and one

essay to finish, and Imsupposed to be working thisafternoon, but notoday Ihave to drive 165 miles todowntownSeattle inorder tomeet the enigmatic CEO ofGrey Enterprises Holdings,Inc. As an exceptionalentrepreneur and majorbenefactor of our university,his time is extraordinarilypreciousmuch moreprecious than minebut hehas granted Kate an

interview. A real coup, shetells me. Damn herextracurricularactivities.Kate is huddled on the

couchinthelivingroom.Ana,Imsorry.Ittookme

nine months to get thisinterview.Itwilltakeanothersix to reschedule, and wellbothhavegraduatedby then.As the editor, I cant blowthis off. Please, Kate begsmeinherrasping,sorethroatvoice. How does she do it?

Evenillshelooksgamineandgorgeous, strawberry blondhair in place and green eyesbright, although now redrimmed and runny. I ignoremy pang of unwelcomesympathy.Of course Ill go, Kate.

You should get back to bed.WouldyoulikesomeNyQuilorTylenol?NyQuil, please. Here are

the questions and my digitalrecorder. Just press record

here. Make notes, Illtranscribeitall.I know nothing about

him, I murmur, trying andfailing to suppress my risingpanic.The questions will see

you through. Go. Its a longdrive. Idontwantyou tobelate.Okay, Im going. Get

backtobed.Imadeyousomesouptoheatuplater.Istareat her fondly. Only for you,

Kate,wouldIdothis.I will. Good luck. And

thanks,Anaasusual,youremylifesaver.Gathering my backpack, I

smilewrylyather, thenheadout the door to the car. IcannotbelieveIhaveletKatetalk me into this. But thenKate can talk anyone intoanything. Shell make anexceptional journalist. Shesarticulate, strong, persuasive,argumentative, beautiful

andshesmydearest,dearestfriend.

THEROADSARECLEARasIsetoff from Vancouver,Washington,towardInterstate5.Itsearly,andIdonthavetobe inSeattleuntil two thisafternoon. Fortunately, Katehas lent me her sportyMercedesCLK. Im not sureWanda, my old VW Beetle,would make the journey intime. Oh, the Merc is a fun

drive,andthemilesslipawayasIhitthepedaltothemetal.My destination is the

headquarters of Mr. Greysglobal enterprise. Its a hugetwenty-story office building,all curved glass and steel, anarchitects utilitarian fantasy,with GREY HOUSE writtendiscreetly in steel over theglass front doors. Its aquarter to twowhen I arrive,greatly relieved that Im notlate as I walk into the

enormousand franklyintimidatingglass, steel,andwhitesandstonelobby.Behind the solid sandstone

desk, a very attractive,groomed, blonde youngwoman smiles pleasantly atme. Shes wearing thesharpest charcoal suit jacketand white shirt I have everseen.Shelooksimmaculate.ImheretoseeMr.Grey.

Anastasia Steele forKatherineKavanagh.

Excuse me one moment,Miss Steele. She arches hereyebrow as I stand self-consciously before her. Imbeginning to wish Idborrowed one of Katesformal blazers rather thanworn my navy-blue jacket. Ihavemadeaneffortandwornmy one and only skirt, mysensible brown knee-lengthboots,andabluesweater.Forme, this is smart. I tuck oneof theescaped tendrilsofmy

hair behind my ear as Ipretendshedoesntintimidateme.Miss Kavanagh is

expected.Pleasesigninhere,Miss Steele. Youll want thelast elevator on the right,pressforthetwentiethfloor.She smiles kindly at me,amusednodoubt,asIsignin.She hands me a security

pass that has visitor veryfirmlystampedonthefront.Icant help my smirk. Surely

its obvious that Im justvisiting. I dont fit in here atall. Nothing changes. Iinwardly sigh. Thanking her,I walk over to the bank ofelevators and past the twosecuritymenwhoarebothfarmore smartly dressed than Iam in their well-cut blacksuits.The elevatorwhisksme at

terminal velocity to thetwentieth floor. The doorsslideopen,andIminanother

large lobbyagain all glass,steel, and white sandstone.Im confronted by anotherdeskofsandstoneandanotheryoung blonde woman, thistime dressed impeccably inblackandwhite,whorisestogreetme.Miss Steele, could you

waithere,please?Shepointsto a seated area of whiteleatherchairs.Behindtheleatherchairsis

a spacious glass-walled

meetingroomwithanequallyspaciousdarkwoodtableandat least twenty matchingchairsaroundit.Beyondthat,there is a floor-to-ceilingwindow with a view of theSeattle skyline that looks outthrough the city toward theSound. Its a stunning vista,and Im momentarilyparalyzedbytheview.Wow.I sit down, fish the

questionsfrommybackpack,and go through them,

inwardlycursingKatefornotproviding me with a briefbiography. I know nothingabout this man Im about tointerview.Hecouldbeninetyor he could be thirty. Theuncertaintyisgalling,andmynerves resurface, making mefidget. Ive 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,curledup inachair inthe campus library. Notsitting twitchingnervously ina colossal glass-and-stoneedifice.I roll my eyes at myself.

Get a grip, Steele. Judgingfrom the bu