Sophie’s POV
The change in Bellamy happens overnight, and it's so stark that I notice it immediately.
Gone is the man who listened to me talk about my research paper for over an hour, who offered thoughtful feedback and made me laugh with his observations.
In his place stands someone rigid and formal, all clipped responses and averted eyes.
"Yes ma'am" or "Understood" or "I'll wait in the car."
No warmth, no personal conversation—nothing beyond the bare minimum of security logistics.
It confuses me at first, then hurts more than I want to admit. We were fine two days ago at the symposium. Better than fine—we'd talked easily, celebrated my success, shared dinner like actual friends.
Now he won't even meet my gaze for longer than a second.
I wait until we're alone in the apartment, Adrian having left for a department meeting. Bellamy is checking window locks with methodical precision, his back to me as I approach.
"What's wrong?" I ask directly.
"Nothing." His voice is neutral, professional. "Just maintaining appropriate boundaries."
The corporate speak makes my jaw clench. "We were fine two days ago. What changed?"
His shoulders tense, but he continues his security check without turning around. "Nothing changed. I'm simply ensuring our professional relationship remains clear."
"That's not an answer." I move around to face him, forcing him to acknowledge me. "Bellamy, look at me."
He does, finally, and I see the careful blankness in his expression—the kind of control that takes effort to maintain. "Miss Hale, I need to finish the security sweep."
"Did something happen with Adrian?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Bellamy's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the fading bruise. For a long moment I think he won't answer. Then he sets down his security tablet with deliberate care.
"He asked me to reduce my hours after the wedding," Bellamy says quietly. "Step back from security detail."
My heart sinks, though I'm not entirely surprised. I should have seen this coming after the symposium, after Adrian picked us up and watched how easily Bellamy and I interacted. "What exactly did he say to you?"
Bellamy meets my eyes, and there's something raw in his gaze despite his controlled posture. "That I need to stay professional. That you're his."
The possessive phrasing makes anger flash through me—I'm not property to be claimed, not some territory they're marking. But close behind the anger comes guilt, thick and suffocating, because Adrian's instincts aren't wrong.
There is something between Bellamy and me, something that grows stronger every time we're in the same room despite my best efforts to suppress it.
The thought of him leaving after the wedding creates a hollow ache in my chest that I have no right to feel.
I'm marrying Adrian in three weeks. I should be relieved that this complication will resolve itself, that the distance Bellamy is creating now will make his eventual absence easier.
Instead, I feel like I'm losing something essential.
"Bellamy…" I reach for his hand without thinking, needing the connection, needing him to stop being so distant.
He pulls back as if I've burned him. "Don't." His voice is rough, strained. "This is already hard enough."
"What is?"
"Knowing I have to watch you marry him." The confession slips out before he can stop it, and I see the immediate regret flash across his face. "I shouldn't have said that."
"But you did." My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"And I'm leaving now, before I say anything else I'll regret." He picks up his security tablet and heads for the door with quick, decisive steps.
"Bellamy, wait."
But he's already gone, the apartment door closing with a soft click that feels impossibly final. I stand in the empty living room, staring at the space where he was, my hand still extended toward nothing.
The guilt intensifies, mixing with confusion and a longing I keep trying to suppress. What am I doing? Why can't I just let him go, accept the professional distance, focus entirely on Adrian and our impending wedding?
I'm still standing there, lost in uncomfortable thoughts, when my phone buzzes. Adrian.
Surprise tonight. Your parents have Amelia—I arranged it. Be ready by 7.
I stare at the message, a sense of foreboding creeping through me. Adrian's surprises have been hit or miss lately, swinging between genuinely romantic gestures and desperate attempts to recapture something we've lost.
When he arrives home that evening, there's an intensity in his expression that I recognize—the look he gets when he's determined to prove something, to himself or to me.
"Get dressed," he says, kissing my forehead. "Something elegant. I have plans for us."
"What kind of plans?" I ask carefully.
His smile is slightly too bright, edged with desperation.
"A party. Private, exclusive—like the ones we used to attend before everything fell apart."
He takes both my hands, his grip almost too tight. "Remember who we were, Sophie? When it was just us and that world, before the scandal, before everything got so complicated? I need that tonight. We need that."
My stomach twists with apprehension. Our last party—the "Masks & Submission" event—ended in disaster. Public exposure, scandal, the beginning of our darkest period.
The thought of returning to that world, even to a private gathering, makes anxiety crawl up my spine.
"Adrian, I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Please."
The word comes out almost as a plea, and I see the vulnerability beneath his determination.
"I need to feel connected to you the way we used to be. Everything's been so strained lately, so heavy. Just one night where we can escape all of it. Where we can just be Adrian and Sophie again, nothing else."
I study his face—the genuine need there, the desperation in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands still holding mine.
He's trying so hard, reaching for something we've lost, and part of me wants to meet him there. To recapture what we had, to prove that we can still work.
But another part remembers Bellamy walking out the door, the hollow ache in my chest, the growing certainty that I'm building my future on increasingly unstable ground.
"Okay," I hear myself say, because what else can I do? Push him away three weeks before our wedding? "I'll get ready."
Adrian's relief is palpable. He kisses me deeply, gratefully, his hands coming up to frame my face. When he pulls back, his smile is more genuine.
"Thank you. You won't regret this, I promise."
But as I head to the bedroom to change, as I search through my closet for something elegant and seductive enough for whatever party Adrian has planned, I can't shake the feeling that we're both trying too hard to fix something that might already be broken.