Adrian’s POV
Sophie’s late.
I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Fifteen minutes past the scheduled start. The church is full—two hundred guests dressed in their best, murmuring in that polite way people do when something's wrong but no one wants to be the first to say it.
I stand at the altar in my tuxedo, hands clasped in front of me, trying to project calm. The officiant gives me a sympathetic look. My mother, sitting in the front pew with Amelia in her lap, catches my eye with a question I can't answer.
I pull out my phone, call Sophie. It rings once, twice, goes to voicemail. Her voice on the recording—bright, casual, so fucking normal—makes my jaw clench.
"You've reached Sophie. Leave a message."
I hang up and immediately dial Bellamy. He's supposed to be driving her, supposed to have gotten her here twenty minutes ago. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.
Something cold slides down my spine.
Cleo appears beside me, her face pale. "I can't reach her. I've been calling and calling…"
"I know."
"Adrian, where is she?"
"I don't know."
The whispers are getting louder now. I hear fragments—"cold feet," "changed her mind," "poor man." The guests are starting to shift in their seats, checking their own phones, looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
Thirty minutes.
Sophie's father approaches from where he's been waiting with the wedding party. Derek’s expression is tight with concern. "Adrian, what's happening? Emma's been trying to reach Sophie—nothing. Madison too. Even Abby can't get through."
"I don't know." The words feel like admitting defeat. "She's not answering, neither is Bellamy."
"Bellamy's driving her, right?"
"He was supposed to."
Derek's face does something complicated. He knows about Bellamy's feelings—we all know, it's been the unspoken tension hovering over this wedding for weeks. "You don't think…"
"I don't know what to think yet."
But I do. I know exactly what to think. The cold feeling in my spine spreads to my chest, my hands, my entire body.
Cleo grabs my arm. "We need to go look for her. Right now. This isn't cold feet, Adrian. Sophie wouldn't do this. Not to you, not to everyone here. Something's wrong."
She's right. Sophie might have doubts—God knows we've had enough complications to fuel a lifetime of doubts—but she wouldn't leave two hundred people sitting in a church without a word.
She wouldn't do that to her family, to Cleo, to me.
Unless she couldn't.
I walk down from the altar, ignoring the gasps from guests as they realize the groom is leaving. My mother stands, holding Amelia. "Adrian, what…"
"Take Amelia to your house. Keep her there. I'll call you."
"What's happening?"
"I don't know yet. Just keep her safe."
Eleanor's expression shifts from confusion to understanding to fear in the span of a second. She nods once, gathering Amelia's things with practiced efficiency.
Outside the church, the spring air feels wrong—too warm, too bright, too normal for what's happening. I loosen my tie, already pulling out my phone again.
Still nothing.
"Where would she go?" Cleo asks, practically running to keep up with my stride toward the parking lot. "If she got cold feet, where would she go?"
"Our apartment." It's the only place that makes sense. "She'd go home."
We drive in silence—me, Cleo, and Derek, who insisted on coming. Emma stayed with Sophie’s sisters. The fifteen-minute drive feels like hours, my mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
Cold feet. She panicked. She's sitting in our apartment right now, crying, terrified of the commitment she almost made.
Or…
Or someone took her.
The thought crashes through everything else, sharp and terrible. Someone took her. And there's only one person who would, only one person with the motive and the access and the fucking audacity.
Bellamy.
I drive faster.
The apartment building looks exactly as it did this morning—same doorman, same lobby. I take the stairs, two at a time, key already in my hand.
The door opens to silence.
Everything is exactly as we left it. Sophie's coffee cup from yesterday morning on the counter, her laptop on the dining table, Amelia’s toys scattered around the house, all of Sophie’s items in their places.
"Sophie?" I call out anyway. "Sophie!"
Nothing. I move through quickly. Bedroom: empty. Bathroom: empty. Nursery: empty.
Her overnight bag is gone—the one she packed for the honeymoon. But everything else is here: her jacket, her running shoes, the book on the nightstand.
She didn't pack to leave. She packed for a honeymoon she thought she was going on.
That's when it clicks completely.
She didn't leave on her own. Someone took her.
And I know exactly who.
I'm back in the living room before I realize I've moved. Cleo and Derek are standing there, looking lost, looking at me for answers I don't want to give.
"She's not here," Derek says unnecessarily.
"No."
"Then where…"
"Bellamy took her." The words come out flat, factual. "He took her, and I'm going to find them."
Cleo's face goes white. "You think Bellamy kidnapped her?"
"I know he did."
The wedding day transforms in an instant: no more ceremony, no more guests. This is a hunt.
My phone is already out, scrolling through contacts. Tech people who can trace signals. Old connections from my father's network. Private investigators. Anyone who might help.
"We need to call the police," Derek starts.
"Not yet." I'm dialing. "Right now, Bellamy thinks he has time. The second we involve police, he'll know. He'll run."
I'm already talking to Kyle Romano, a security consultant. "I need a trace on two phone numbers. Immediately. Quiet."
We reconvene at my apartment: Cleo coordinates with Sophie's family, Derek tries to keep Emma calm.
Ayden arrives eventually, takes one look at my face. "What do you need?"
"Your car."
"I’ll drive—no objections. You're in no state."
He's right. My hands shake with rage and fear. But I force myself to focus, to channel everything into the hunt.
Cleo appears beside me as I'm pulling off my tie, throwing it aside, unbuttoning my collar. "I'm coming with you."
"Cleo…"
"Sophie is my best friend." Her voice is steel. "Someone just kidnapped her on her wedding day. I'm coming with you, and if you try to stop me, I will follow you anyway and make everything harder."
I look at her—small, fierce, completely serious—and nod. "Fine. But you do what I say and when I say it. This isn't going to be pretty."
"I don't care about pretty, Professor. I care about finding Sophie and bringing her home. And to beat up Bellamy’s ass once we find them."
If it weren't for the stress of the current situation, I would have even allowed myself to smile—Sophie knew how to choose her friends. I was glad that she had such devoted people around her who cared so much about her.
Ayden's already in the driver's seat when we get downstairs. Cleo slides into the back. I take the passenger seat, phone pressed to my ear, already making the next call.
We will find Sophie. I will find Sophie.
And when I do, Bellamy is dead.