Sophie’s POV
The administration building is supposed to be nearly empty—summer session, skeleton staff, quick in and out. I park in the faculty lot, carefully extracting Amelia's carrier from the base with movements I've practiced enough times that they're almost automatic now.
Click, lift, steady. The baby is mercifully asleep, tiny fists curled against her cheeks, face peaceful in that way that makes my chest ache. I tell myself this will take ten minutes maximum.
Submit the Independent Study paperwork, confirm my advisor received the electronic files, done. Back home before Amelia even wakes up.
The building's air conditioning is a relief after the parking lot heat. August in the city is brutal, the kind of humid that makes breathing feel like work. I navigate the hallways with practiced efficiency, carrier balanced on one hip, my free hand steadying it.
These halls used to feel familiar, welcoming. Now they feel foreign, like I'm trespassing in someone else's life. The life I used to have before everything imploded.
The registrar's office is quiet—one bored student worker who barely glances up as I slide documents across the counter. She's young, probably a freshman, and either doesn't recognize me or doesn't care enough to react. I'm grateful for her indifference.
"Sign here. Initial here." She pushes the papers toward me without making eye contact.
Done. Five minutes, not even ten.
I push through the main doors, already mentally planning the drive home—maybe stop for coffee if Amelia stays asleep, or just go straight back and try to nap while I can—when the world explodes.
Cameras flash directly in my face, blinding and disorienting. Bodies surge forward from both sides of the entrance—they were waiting, hidden around the corners, organized and ready.
Someone tipped them off.
The realization hits the same moment a boom microphone swings too close to Amelia's carrier, nearly hitting the plastic canopy. The baby wakes with a startled cry that quickly escalates into full-blown wailing.
Questions hurl at me like weapons, overlapping and aggressive, coming from all directions at once.
"Is Professor Lewis the father?"
"Did he groom you from day one?"
"Are you pressing charges against the university?"
"How does it feel raising a scandal baby?"
"Does the administration know you're still seeing him?"
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I think it might break through. I try to push forward—the car is right there, thirty feet away, I can see it, but they close in like a wall. Cameras and microphones and hostile faces creating a barrier I can't penetrate.
The flashes keep coming, directly at Amelia's face despite the carrier canopy. Relentless. Blinding. The baby's cries escalate into terrified screaming, the kind that tells me she's genuinely afraid.
"Stop!" My voice cracks, desperation bleeding through. "The flashes are scaring her! She's just a baby! Get away from us!"
They don't stop. If anything, they press closer. More cameras, more questions shouted over Amelia's screams. Someone yells that I'm unfit to parent—a woman's voice, sharp with judgment.
Someone else asks if I'm ashamed of what I've done, if I regret seducing my professor. The circle tightens, bodies pressing in from all sides.
Then someone jostles me—hard, aggressive. I can't tell if it's intentional or just the press of the crowd, but it doesn't matter. I stumble sideways, my footing lost, and the carrier tilts dangerously to the left.
My hands scramble to keep it steady, to prevent Amelia from tipping completely. The angle is wrong, too steep, and for one horrifying second I think I'm going to drop her.
Going to let my daughter fall onto concrete while cameras capture every moment.
Amelia's screams intensify, high-pitched and terrified. I'm crying now too, tears streaming down my face as I try to shield her with my body, turning away from the cameras that won't stop flashing.
My arms shake from the effort of holding the carrier at this awkward angle while being pushed from multiple directions.
"Please," I sob, "please just let me through."
Suddenly he's there.
Bellamy materializes through the crowd like he was never anywhere else, like he's always been there waiting. He doesn't ask permission. Doesn't hesitate or assess the situation.
His body becomes a barrier between us and them, one arm wrapping around my shoulders with protective force, the other hand deflecting cameras with enough strength that one photographer curses loudly and stumbles backward.
"Back off!" Bellamy's voice cuts through the chaos, cold and absolute. "Now."
He creates a path through sheer physical presence, his body moving forward with controlled aggression that makes the crowd part. They're still shouting questions, still flashing cameras, but they move aside when Bellamy pushes through.
He guides me and Amelia toward the car with practiced efficiency, his arm never leaving my shoulders, his other hand staying raised to block cameras from our faces.
We're in the vehicle in under thirty seconds. Bellamy behind the wheel, engine already running before I've even buckled Amelia's carrier into the base. He pulls out of the parking lot with controlled speed, leaving the swarm of paparazzi behind.
The drive is silent except for my ragged breathing and Amelia's wails from the backseat. I try to reach back, try to soothe her, but my hands are shaking too badly to be of any use. I can't stop the tremors running through my entire body.
Bellamy's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He doesn't speak, doesn't look at me.
Just drives with focused intensity that suggests he's using every ounce of control not to turn the car around and do something he'd regret.
At the apartment, Bellamy carries Amelia inside while my legs threaten to give out completely. The adrenaline is draining away, leaving behind shock and exhaustion.
He sets the carrier down gently, takes the baby out with competence that looks effortless, rocks her until the crying subsides into hiccupping whimpers. I collapse on the couch, still shaking, unable to make my body cooperate.
Bellamy makes tea. Brings it to me without comment, pressing the warm mug into my trembling hands. Stays nearby—not hovering, not demanding I talk about it, just present—until my breathing normalizes. Until my hands stop trembling enough to actually hold the cup without spilling.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet but absolute, leaving no room for argument. "You're not going anywhere alone anymore. Not while they're hunting you."
It's not a request, not a suggestion. It’s a statement of fact.
I don't argue. Don't have the energy. Just nod and sip the tea that tastes like nothing.
Later, after Bellamy has left to check the perimeter and I'm alone with Amelia finally sleeping peacefully in my arms, the full weight crashes down. The outside world will never let us forget.
There's no statute of limitations on scandal. No forgiveness for our particular brand of sin. This is forever—the cameras, the questions, the constant reminder that I destroyed my life for a man who couldn't even be bothered to answer his phone today.
I called Adrian twice from the car, both times straight to voicemail.
The person who showed up to save me wasn't Adrian.