I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.
And now… on with the show!
Chapter 05—Let The Games Begin!
That workout was just what I needed. I didn’t think I would ever rid my mind of the thought of Ms. Steele gagged and suspended in my playroom. Even now, after nearly destroying the treadmill in the gym downstairs and the shock shower that followed, I’m still suffering from a minor throb in my pants—but at least I’ve gotten control of it. A minor throb that I can control beats a massive, raging, painful boner that can’t be satisfied any day.
When I return to my study, I see that Welch has forwarded to me the background check on one Dr. Anastasia Rose Steele, Psy.D. Let’s see what makes her think she is so fucking high and mighty.
Upon closer examination, there’s nothing really extraordinary about Ms. Steele. It looks like she puttered aimlessly around Bates Community College for a while until she got a scholarship from the Seattle Business and Professional Women’s Association and subsequently attended the University of Washington in Seattle for undergrad and grad school. She did her internship at the Center for Child and Family Well-Being… interesting choice. She has a practice in downtown Seattle, not too far from Grey House in fact. So, what’s with this community center thing? I was right, though, she’s only 26—three years younger than I, but she feels like she can tell me something about life? Presumptuous little thing, isn’t she?
Her childhood seems pretty uneventful. Her father died shortly after she was born. Even though her parents were married, she doesn’t carry her father’s last name. “Steele” is her stepfather’s name—her mother’s second husband. Strange. They lived in Montesano a couple of hours from Seattle until Ms. Steele was 14 and then relocated to a suburb of Nevada when her mother, Carla married for a third time to some guy named Stephen Morton. I wonder if Carla is as insufferable as her daughter. It looks like they lived in one of the more affluent areas just outside of Vegas, even though Morton didn’t make much money.
I can’t help but notice that there aren’t any records from ages 15 to 17. She went to Green Valley High School in Henderson for her freshman and part of her sophomore year. Then she appears to have dropped off the map. However, she miraculously shows up back in Tacoma just before her 18th birthday. So, here’s this unremarkable psychologist doing this group therapy thing on a volunteer basis two nights a week at a community center, and she has me by the balls for another 22 hours out of the next six weeks. This has to be some kind of comic tragedy!
My blackberry buzzes with a call from Elena. You had your chance, now go away. I ignore the call and dial Welch instead.
“Welch, there are two years missing on Anastasia Steele’s background check. What the fuck is going on?”
“I’m trying to figure that out myself, sir,” Welch explains. “Records show that Ms. Steele left Green Valley High near the end of her sophomore year, but there’s no indication why she left or information concerning where she may have gone back to school.” This doesn’t make any sense.
“Well, find out what happened. Did she leave the country? Go into witness protection? Abducted by aliens? You’ve got the resources—find out what happened!”
I have just finished my yoga class at 8 Limbs and I decide to get some skewers from Chicken Valley on my way home. I think I may have overdone it a bit today because my hamstring is hurting like hell. I just need to get home and soak in a hot bath. Today was light in terms of my patient load, a lot lighter than a normal Wednesday. Tuesday and Wednesday are usually back-to-back patients and long days since I don’t see them on Monday and Thursday. Today, however, I chose to keep it a little light since my weekend was ruined by an unexpected visitor and my group sessions seem like they’re going to be a bit more trying than usual this round.
I drop my keys, purse, and briefcase on the dining table and go to the kitchen to “prepare” my dinner. I have some steamed broccoli and some leftover tomato and basil topping in the refrigerator. I arrange my skewers and broccoli on a plate and put them in the microwave while I top a few pieces of bruschetta with the tomato and basil mixture. I forgo the Cabernet tonight for a fruity chardonnay. Just as I sit down at the breakfast bar to eat my dinner, my blackberry buzzes with a text:
**Jewel, I think I’m in love. **
It’s Al. These are words I never thought I would hear from him. This must be a test.
**Sure, you are. **
I wait for a response as I take another bite of my dinner.
**Seriously, Jewel. I think I’ve found the one. **
The One? These words… from Al? Am I being punked? Seriously, where’s Ashton Kutcher?
**Is it James? **
Almost immediately, he responds:
**Of course, it’s James! Who else would I be talking about? **
Okay, I was taught to never talk with food in my mouth, but my blackberry is getting all greasy and gross and this conversation is way too intense for text. I hit speed dial 3 and put my blackberry on speaker.
“Hello.” Al’s disembodied voice comes over the speakerphone.
“How the hell was I supposed to know it was James? You change men like you change ties, slut!” Al laughs loudly.
“Well, that is true, but I just had the man over to your place three days ago. You had to know I was talking about him.”
“So, is he any good in the sack?” Al giggles like a little girl.
“Oh Em Gee, he is the best! I’m glad you didn’t call Sunday morning ‘cuz he wore me out!” Now I’m jealous of my gay friend.
“So, is there any reason why you wouldn’t pursue this? I mean, he’s a beautiful, chivalrous, delicious black man who makes a great living and… how does he feel about you?” There’s a pause.
“I don’t know.” I almost choke on my food.
“You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know? You’re falling head over heels for this guy and you don’t know how he feels about you have I taught you nothing?” I say that last part all in one breath.
“I know, Jewel, I know. I just can’t help it…” I start thumbing through my mail as I listen to my friend drone on about his lovely bronze god and how he has unwittingly allowed James to sweep him off his feet. Although I mentally chastise him for not being more careful with his feelings, I totally understand how he could be so taken with James. I mean the guy is gay and I was drooling over him on Saturday night… that is, before Edward showed up.
“So now what, Al? Do you just walk around with your heart on your sleeve and hope for the best or are you going to ask him how he feels about you? You don’t want to get…” I stop mid-sentence when my eyes roll across a hand-written envelope from Montesano.
I haven’t spoken to him in a while, but that’s more my fault than anybody’s. Why didn’t he just call me? Why did he write a letter? Is everything okay? Oh, God, I’m suddenly afraid to open the letter.
“Jewel? Jewel? What’s going on? Are you alright?” I completely forgot that I’m on the phone with Al.
“Yes, Al, I’m fine. Listen, I have to call you back.”
“Jewel, is everything okay? Do you need me to come over there?” He’s concerned now.
“No. No, really, I’m fine. There’s just something I need to do. I’ll call you back.” I end the call before he has a chance to ask any more questions. I shakily open the envelope and begin to read the letter:
I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked. I haven’t heard from you in a while and I would really like to know how you’re doing. You know your mother and I don’t talk unless there’s a funeral involved and even if we did, I don’t know if the two of you are speaking, so I don’t know much about what’s going on in your life these days. I have something I really need to discuss with you and it needs to be face to face. I’ll be in Seattle next weekend. I’ll be staying at the Inn at the Market. Please get in touch with me if you’ll be available to see me while I’m there. I’m really sorry about the letter, Annie, but I felt a little strange calling you after we hadn’t talked for so long and I didn’t want it to be awkward for either of us. I hope to hear from you soon and I hope you’re doing well.
I’m dumbfounded. Why wouldn’t he just call? He’s the only real “daddy” I’ve ever known, yet he sends me a letter to request a meeting? And why is he staying at a hotel? Why didn’t he just ask to stay with me? I have plenty of room, he knows that. And what’s going on that he has to stay in a hotel to visit in the first place? He lives less than 2 hours away! I know it’s been a while since we talked—9 months to be exact, but he’s still Ray and I’m still Annie. I just don’t understand. It’s not too late and I hope this isn’t too awkward. I pick up my blackberry and press speed dial 2.
“Hi, Annie. I guess you got my letter.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Nobody writes letters anymore, but bill collectors and lawyers, Ray. You had me scared,” I answer softly.
“I’m sorry, Annie. We just hadn’t talked in a while and, well, you know—I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”
“You can always call me, Ray. I’ve been busy and I’m sorry we don’t talk as much, but you can call me anytime… okay?” I say, almost pleading.
“Okay, Annie. I won’t forget.” I can hear him smiling through the phone.
“So, what has you staying in Seattle overnight?”
“Actually, it’ll be more like a couple of days, maybe, but I’d like to see you while I’m there.”
“Ray, why are you staying at a hotel? And the ‘Inn?’ That’s never been your kind of place. Why don’t you just stay with me?”
“Well, Annie…” He’s having a hard time with this. Spit it out, Ray!
“What is it, Ray? Is something wrong?”
After another pause, he says, “I’ll be meeting someone there.”
“Meeting who?” I still don’t understand.
“Well…” He’s still pretty hesitant. Then the penny finally drops. He’s meeting a woman!
“Oooooh!” I exclaim. You would think that as smart as I claim to be, I would have figured this out sooner. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? Why all the secrecy?”
“Well, I haven’t seen anyone since your mother, and I just didn’t want it to be awkward for you.” Awkward for me? He’s so cute.
“You really are old fashioned, Dad. Mom remarried… and I’m not a kid anymore. I’m sure I can take it.”
“I love it when you call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“Dad.” I can hear him smiling again.
“Me too, Dad.” I smile back. “So, when will you be here?”
“I’ll drive in on Friday. I was thinking we could meet for dinner on Saturday?” he questions.
“Sure. I’ll see you then.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, Annie.” I hang up the phone.
I could just choke Ray Steele! Why would he do that to me? Now I’ve got butterflies in my stomach and my dinner’s gone cold. I cover the chicken and broccoli and put it in the refrigerator. Maybe I’ll eat it later. I top off my chardonnay and take it along with the rest of the bruschetta over to the living room. My living room is also decorated to entertain small parties. I may not have a significant other at this time, but I do love having my friends around.
Four Bahama short legged coffee tables in a four-square pattern are flanked on three sides by four Jax suede armless sofas. Two cream sofas sit side by side to make one long bench in the center. Two tan suede ottomans with mahogany trays sit on either end of the white sofas and act as end tables. Two chocolate brown Jax suede sofas are on either side so that all of the seating forms “C” around the coffee table arrangement. Each sofa has complimenting pillows and throws. On the wall opposite the white sofas is a built-in gas fireplace and a large flat-screen television. Behind the white sofas are four large floor-to-ceiling windows that boast the Seattle skyline.
Before I have the opportunity to get comfortable with my bruschetta and chardonnay, there’s a most earnest knock at the door. It’s nearly 9:00! Who’s coming to see me now? I’m looking through the peephole this time. The last time I had an uninvited guest, I ended up crying myself to sleep. I see the distorted view of a very perturbed Al on the other side of my door.
“Jewel, open this damn door!” I sigh heavily. I’m going to hear it for hanging up on him.
“Come in, Al,” I groan, as I open the door.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Missy! What the hell is going on?” Al strides in like he owns the place.
“I told you I was fine. What are you doing here?”
He put his hands on his hips. “You stopped talking in the middle of a sentence. Then you got all creepy quiet, and then you hung up on me! What the hell did you expect me to do, heifer?”
“Okay,” I shift my weight to one foot and point in his face, “I’m not going to be too many more names, Al!”
“Save that sensitivity for somebody who cares! What the hell is going on?” He’s dug his heels in and I’m not going to win this. I go back to the coffee table where I have left my chardonnay and bruschetta and take a seat on the couch.
“I got a letter from Ray.” That got his attention.
“A letter? What are we in the 18th century? What did he say?”
“He’s coming to Seattle in a couple of weeks and he wants to see me.” I take a bite of the bruschetta.
“Why didn’t he just call?” Al asks as he goes to the kitchen for his own glass of wine.
“I know, right? Scared the shit out of me! Who sends letters anymore? Letters are always bad news!”
“So why did he send it?”
“He said that he was nervous because we hadn’t talked in a few months, so he sent a letter instead of calling, most likely as a buffer to feel me out before he talks to me.” Al makes a smacking noise with his lips.
“Your dad.” He chuckles as he takes a sip of his wine and sits next to me on the sofa.
“There’s more.” He leans in. “He’s met someone. I’ve got a feeling he wants me to meet her.”
“Well, go, Ray!” Al does a little wiggle of his head. “I guess he still got it, huh?”
“I guess he does.” We laugh as we clink our wine glasses.
It’s Thursday again. I’m both looking forward to as well as dreading this day. I don’t know which is more prevalent, but I guess we’ll see after this afternoon’s group session. For reasons of which I am not entirely sure, I’ve decided to wear my Club L Fit and Flare cobalt blue dress with capped sleeves, fitted high waist, and soft pleated flare skirt. My uncertainty with this dress comes from the fact that it’s cut to mini-length and I have completed the outfit with a black skinny belt with a gold buckle and black suede platform stiletto shoes. I could very easily wear this outfit out clubbing, but today I’ve decided to wear it to work. My hair is completely straightened and I’m minimal on my make-up, as usual.
When I get to 239, they’re all mulling around again like they need instructions before they take a seat. I soon discover why this is the case—at least with the women. As Mr. Grey stealthily makes his way to a seat, the women all shamelessly clamber to get the seat next to him. Evelyn goes so far as to snatch one of the chairs next to Mr. Grey before Michelle is actually able to sit down. Not to be thwarted, Michelle drags the next chair over to the space next to Mr. Grey and quietly declares victory. It’s absolutely embarrassing to watch! It’s a good thing that I let the participants be seated first and then I take whatever seat is left. I conspicuously drop my head, pop my neck, and get ready for another “thrilling” session.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” The lemmings all respond with some various murmurings. “I normally like to start our sessions by asking if anyone has anything to share. I know that we don’t really know each other yet, so I understand if no one is comfortable doing that right now. But hopefully as time goes on, we’ll all loosen up a bit and get more relaxed around one another and open up a little more. So, I’ll start by asking—does anyone have anything they would like to share? It can be anything—something good that happened through your day, somebody pissed you off, you had a bad hair day—anything? Anyone?”
Yet again, crickets.
“Okay, so for this session we are going to be doing some ‘opening up’ exercises. Last time, we discovered why you’re here and what you hope to get out of these sessions. Today, we’re going to try to learn some things about you and maybe get you to open up a little to see how we can help you help yourselves. So, I want you to take one of these and pass the rest around,” I give a stack of handouts to the person on my right, which happens to be Logan—my other COA. “Just look it over, it should help to get you started on what you might want to say today.”
I take a moment to let everyone read over the handouts. After a few moments, I say, “I like to make it easy for everyone by going first. This way, no one is put on the spot.” I look over and notice that Mr. Grey is glaring at me; he hasn’t taken his eyes off of me once, not even to take the handout. I start to speak anyway.
“As you all know, my name is Ana, short for Anastasia. It’s a Russian name after Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna. It’s not that my mother is a history buff or wanted me to have a strongly significant name, or anything like that… she just liked Ingrid Bergman a lot.” This statement got a little chuckle out of the group. Thank God, they’re alive!
“My favorite color is blue; I like Motown, some R&B, but mainly, I love jazz music—smooth jazz… words, horns, guitar, percussion… anything but Dixieland!”
Another laugh, we’re getting warmer.
“I like to read… like, not a huge fan, just like… although I adore movies with subtitles. My favorite movie of all time is Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Now the laughs get louder. I stand and put my hands on my hips indignantly. “Don’t laugh at me,” I say, feigning hurt. “It is my dream to one day wear that black Givenchy Audrey Hepburn dress… or some cheaper knockoff anyway,” I say waving my hands, eliciting yet more laughter. “Then I’ll put my hair in a bun, find myself a tiara, and eat my pastry while gazing into the window at all of that delicious jewelry.” I drop my head on the word delicious as if I need to catch my breath. My audience applauds and I do a little mock curtsey before taking my seat. Mr. Grey has still not moved a muscle. He just sits there glaring at me. This guy is really starting to creep me out.
“Okay, enough about me. Who wants to go next?”
“I’ll go.” A blonde a few seats over on the left raises her hand. I sit down and surrender the floor to her. “My name is Liz. And, like you, I have a ‘Hollywood connection.'” She makes the quotation marks with her fingers. “My mom was completely obsessed with Elizabeth Taylor… when she was married to Richard Burton… the first time.”
There’s always one.
“I really love to dance… I’ve always wanted to dance professionally, but it never worked out for me….” I start to take notes as Liz goes on and on about her favorite things and her aspirations—after all, the whole idea is to get them to open up, right? I can’t help but notice that Liz sounds a bit like a valley girl…
… And he’s still glaring at me.
Kathy jumps at the opportunity to go next. No “Hollywood connection” or namesake to speak of, just Kathy—a Midwest girl who followed a job opportunity to Seattle…
… And he’s still glaring at me.
Then comes Evelyn, the lady who lost her bid for a seat next to Mr. Grey. Evelyn speaks with that practiced high society slur that sounds so pretentious that you want to just shake her and tell her “Shut up and start over.” The entire time she’s talking, she’s using unnecessarily ostentatious wording so that nobody is really following what the hell she’s saying, which is what I write in my notes…
… And he is still fucking glaring at me!
Let’s see what you’ve got today, Ms. Steele. I will say she looks hot in this little blue number that she’s wearing. It really brings out her eyes… hardly appropriate for work, though. And what the hell is this zoo going on next to me? One woman grabs a chair and the next one drags a seat over in its place. It’s just a face, wenches. Control yourselves!
So now, she’s going on about sharing—fuck if that’s going to happen—and then she passes out these instructions about breaking the ice and opening up. Yeah, give it up, Little Miss Doctor Girl. Not Christian Grey, and certainly not here. I wonder how she likes really being the center of attention? Let’s just see.
It takes a lot of control to stare at someone for 56 minutes. Elliot used to play that staring game with me when we were kids, and he always lost. The difference with that game is that you couldn’t blink. Mine and Elliot’s record is 97 minutes. With this little game, blinking doesn’t matter. You see, with most adults, when you discover that you’re staring at someone, the first reflex is break eye contact. I watch as she animatedly tells her story about wanting to be Audrey Hepburn and wear a tiara to Tiffany’s.
No one does that sort of thing anymore, Sweetheart, but it’s kind of cute.
Each time she turns her gaze to me, I fix my eyes on hers—like I’m trying to read her eyes and see what’s behind them. What stories will those two missing years from your background check reveal, Ms. Steele? I’ve conquered many companies, won many negotiations with that stare. Thanks, Lelliot. As expected, she breaks her gaze with me and moves on. I would expect that in this setting, though. I can concentrate my attention solely on you, Ms. Steele, but you can’t concentrate your attention solely on me.
She looks over at me again, and I can see that I’m starting to unnerve her. Good. Learn, Ms. Steele, I am in control of this situation—even if I don’t say a word. I guess she decides to grant herself a reprieve from these mindless drones (and my non-stop gaze, no doubt) by announcing the half-time break, at which time she beats a somewhat hasty retreat to the door. I know I’ve got her on edge, and I relish this kind of control. I haven’t touched her, haven’t said one word in an hour, but I’ve got her all flustered and unable to concentrate.
I check my blackberry and it appears that Elena has finally found a sub for me. Good, it only took you four fucking days. She’s slipping. She’s going to be really pissed off if I stop using her services, so she had better get it together. I see the puppy-dog-eyed women trying to inch their way over to me. Oh, fuck, time to go. I dial Elena’s number and start walking towards the door for some privacy.
“Don’t waste my time, Elena. What do you have for me?”
“Well, hello to you, too, Christian!” she says, clearly affronted. Is she fucking kidding me?
“Are you honestly going to pretend like you didn’t show up at my apartment three days ago, pretending to have a sub for me when you didn’t?” I say, brusquely. I’m in the hallway now standing a few feet away from Taylor.
“Oh, I had a sub for you, Christian. You just didn’t want her. I did the best I could on such short notice,” she whimpers, feigning injury. I so don’t have time for this.
“Do you have one for me or not?” I say sternly. I’m quickly losing my patience.
“Yes, I do have one. We will be at Escala at 8:00. Does that work out for you, Mr. Grey?” Oh, now she’s attempting to be hurt as she stresses the “we.” Just as I’m about to tell Elena how full of shit she can be, Ms. Steele steps off the elevator and spots me. I can tell that she’s coming straight for me even though I’m standing right in front of the door to room 239. There’s determination in her gaze. She’s not going to the door; she’s coming to me. That’s right, baby. Come on.
Where the fuck did that come from?
“Christian, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, Elena. I’ll see you at 8.” I end the call just as Ms. Steele gets to me.
“Mr. Grey, may I speak to you for a moment please?” I pull my attention away from my blackberry.
“Is there something you need, Ms. Steele?” Yes, I’m still calling her Ms. She sighs heavily. I can see her getting more and more irritated as each second passes.
“I would like to know why you’re staring at me throughout the entire session!” She folds her arms.
“I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Steele. I’m just paying attention,” I say flatly.
“Yes, just to me! There are 19 other people in the class, most of which had the floor today, and you spend the last hour staring at me!”
“Maybe I find you interesting, Ms. Steele.” I’m really starting to like this little game. She’s rubbing her forehead like she’s trying to rid herself of a headache.
“Mr. Grey,” she hasn’t raised her head yet or released her forehead, “I have a job to do, and I am only trying to do my job. I don’t have anything against you personally. I think things would go a lot better for both of us if we both just do what we need to do to get through this as easily as possible.” She looks up at me with frustrated, hopeful eyes. Poor little naïve Doctor Girl.
“But that’s what I’m doing, Ms. Steele.” I smirk. “I’m not going to talk about myself at all in that group of people so that someone can sell a story to the first tabloid that will listen. And quite frankly, the life stories of poor deserted housewives and mentally impotent men don’t interest me in the slightest.” I take a step closer and close the distance between us a bit. “The most interesting thing in that room to me is you.” I can hear her breath hitch. I laugh to myself as I watch her swallow heavily and walk around me back into the room. I looked over at Taylor, who just drops his head as I chuckle to myself. This is more fun than I thought it would be.
What the hell is this man doing? What’s the purpose of this exercise? I’m not trying to win a battle of wills here; I’m just trying to do my damn job! He’s not accustomed to not getting his way and he’s clearly not going to stand for losing. I really can’t deal with this shit.
During the second half of the class, I’ve decided to close my eyes and hold my forehead while I listen to the bios, except for when I open my eyes to take some notes. It’s an attempt to keep my eyes from darting over to Mr. Grey every five minutes as well as a futile attempt to quell this headache that has now decided to wreak havoc on my psyche.
I’m listening to one of the participants doing their “opening up” exercise when she stops to ask me if I am paying attention. Since she’s been droning on for about the last 15 minutes, I’m able to basically recite back to her the last few sentences that she said, after which I apologize to the class for my posture, informing them that I’m fighting off a massive headache. I never look up at Mr. Grey again for the rest of the session, or anyone else for that matter. I’m sure that I cannot effectively facilitate these classes this way, but today, I’m just trying to get through it.
I’m almost too thrilled when this particular session is over. I can’t wait to get out of the room. I’m stopped by Ronald Carlisle—the director of the center—just as I pass his office.
“How’s the group going, Ana?” he says, meeting me in the hallway. I want to throw my papers in the air and run down the hallway screaming.
“Same as always, Ron,” I say, rubbing my head, “except…” Just as I’m about to formulate my sentence, I feel him before I see him. Mr. Grey and Mr. MIB are coming up behind me. Please let them pass, I think to myself. The last thing I want is to have a conversation with this man right now. With my head still down, I watch his Cesare Paciotti Italian leather shoes stride past me and over to the elevator.
“Was that Christian Grey?” Ron asks, keeping his voice low.
“Yes. Yes, it was,” I say, my voice full of dread as Mr. Grey and his shadow enter the elevator. “Ron, he is the worst. I can’t begin to tell you how miserable he’s making me.”
“Oh, come on, Ana, it can’t be that bad,” Ron answers incredulously, leaning against the door frame.
“It’s worse, Ron. He’s a power player and he wants everyone around him to know it… at all costs.”
“How did he end up here?” Ron asks.
“Ugh!” Ron shakes his head. I guess it’s all becoming clear now. “Of course, he tried to bribe you to let him out of the sessions.” I shake my head.
“I never gave him the chance. He was in my office the first night, and I just told him that it wasn’t going to happen before he even asked.” I’m still rubbing my forehead, but I guess I had better stop before I draw blood.
“So, you guys certainly aren’t exactly friends right now.” Ron muses.
“Let’s just say I don’t see any cocktail parties in our future!” I say, mocking happy excitement.
“I wouldn’t want to be you right now, kid,” he says, patting me on the back. I walk over to the elevator and push the button.
“Ron,” he turns to look at me, “Don’t call me ‘kid,'” I say stepping into the elevator.
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