Sophie’s POV
The envelope arrives by courier.
I'm in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water I don't really want, when the doorbell rings. The sound sends my heart into my throat.
We don't get unexpected visitors—the building's security is too tight for that. Anyone who makes it to Adrian's door has already been vetted, cleared, approved.
Which means this is expected. Which means this might be what I think it is.
I watch Adrian sign for it, my fingers gripping the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. The courier disappears. The door closes. And Adrian stands in the entryway, holding a plain white envelope that suddenly seems to contain the entire future.
I glance around the apartment, noting the absence that's become impossible to ignore.
Bellamy isn't here.
For the first time in weeks, his shadow isn't lurking in doorways or trailing my movements. No watchful presence by the window, no footsteps echoing mine through the hallways. The apartment feels strangely empty without him, and I hate that I've noticed.
"Where's Bellamy?"
Adrian doesn't look up from the envelope in his hands. His thumb traces the edge of the seal, back and forth, a nervous gesture I've never seen from him before.
"Not necessary today. I'm here, and I'm not leaving." He pauses. "Besides, he requested the day off. Personal reasons."
"Personal reasons?"
"He has a son, Sophie. Sometimes fathers need to be with their children."
The words land somewhere complicated in my chest. Bellamy, absent by choice. Bellamy, who's been a constant, suffocating presence for weeks, suddenly gone on the day that might change everything.
My mind drifts to our last encounter. The electricity in the hallway, crackling between us like a live wire.
His words—you're indeed just like her—spoken in a voice I'd never heard from him, raw and unguarded. The way he retreated afterward, walls slamming back into place, as if he'd revealed something he shouldn't have.
I wonder if his absence today is connected. If I rattled him as much as he rattled me. If he's somewhere across the city, holding his son, trying to forget the moment he let his armor slip.
I push the thought away. There are more pressing matters.
Adrian gestures toward the couch. "We should sit."
"Is that it?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "The results?"
"That's what the return address suggests."
We move to the living room together. I lower myself onto the couch, my hands instinctively moving to my belly. The baby shifts inside me, restless, as if sensing the tension that's thickened the air.
Adrian sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. He holds the envelope between us like a sacred object—or a bomb about to detonate.
"Whatever it says," he begins, then stops. Starts again. "Whatever it says, we'll handle it. Together."
"Just open it, Adrian."
He nods. His fingers slide beneath the seal, tearing the paper with a sound that seems too loud in the quiet room.
I watch his face as he unfolds the document inside. Watch his eyes move across the text, scanning for the information that matters. His expression reveals nothing—that perfect control he wears like a second skin, giving away not a single thought or feeling.
Then he exhales.
It's a sound I've never heard from him before. Something between relief and terror, caught in his throat and released in a single breath that seems to empty his lungs entirely. His hand trembles slightly—barely perceptible, but I catch it.
"Adrian?"
He doesn't speak. Just hands me the paper.
The words blur as I try to focus, medical terminology and laboratory certifications swimming together in my vision. But one line stands out, bold and unambiguous:
‘Probability of paternity: 99.98%’
Adrian is the father.
I expected relief. I've been telling myself for weeks that this is the outcome I wanted—certainty, clarity, a clear path forward with the man I've chosen. No complications, no impossible decisions, no Cassian lurking at the edges of my future.
What I feel is more complicated.
The last thread connecting me to Cassian has been severed. Whatever we shared—the tenderness, the gentleness, the way he looked at me like I was something precious—it's over.
Officially. Irrevocably. He promised to disappear if the test proved the baby wasn't his, and Cassian keeps his promises. I'll never see him again.
The thought should bring relief. Instead, it brings something closer to grief. Not for what we had, but for what we might have been in another life. Another timeline. Another version of this story where I made different choices.
"Sophie." Adrian's voice pulls me back. "Say something."
"I don't know what to say."
"Are you..." He hesitates, and I realize he's afraid. Afraid of what I'm feeling, afraid of what my silence means. "Are you disappointed?"
"No." The word comes out automatically. "No, I'm not disappointed. I'm just..." I shake my head, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions in my chest. "Processing. It's a lot to process."
"I know."
He pulls me close, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, his other hand covering mine where it rests on my stomach. I lean into him, letting his warmth anchor me.
"This is our child," he says quietly. "Ours. Whatever else happens—the scandal, the secrets, all of it—this is real. This is something we made together."
"I know."
"I'm going to be a father." The words seem to surprise him, as if he's only now letting himself believe it. "I have no idea how to do that. No idea if I'm capable of being what this child needs."
"Neither do I." I turn my head to look at him. "But we'll figure it out. Isn't that what you said? Whatever it says, we handle it together?"
"I did say that."
"Then that's what we do. Together."
He doesn't respond with words. Just presses his lips to my forehead, a gesture so tender it makes my eyes sting. Beneath our joined hands, the baby kicks.
A strong kick, definitive, as if announcing their presence in this moment. As if reminding us that whatever complications exist between us, whatever secrets Adrian is still hiding, whatever grief I'm quietly processing—this child is real.
This child is coming. This child will change everything.
Adrian's breath catches. "Was that...?"
"Yes." I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Apparently someone has opinions about being discussed."
"Already opinionated. Definitely our child."
I laugh, and the sound loosens something in my chest. The grief doesn't disappear, but it shifts, making room for something else. Hope, maybe. Or at least the possibility of hope.
Outside the window, the city continues its relentless motion. Cars and pedestrians and a million small dramas unfolding on streets far below. The world keeps spinning, indifferent to the revelation that's just occurred in this quiet room.
But inside, everything has changed. Adrian is the father. Cassian will disappear.
And somewhere in my belly, a life grows that belongs to us—to this complicated, damaged, trying-to-be-better version of us.
I don't know what comes next. But for this moment, sitting in the quiet with Adrian's arms around me and our child moving beneath our hands, I let myself believe it might be okay.