Bellamy’s POV
Switzerland is beautiful at this time of year, but we haven't come here for the scenery. We're here because it's far enough away that Adrian can't find us. At least not quickly.
I handed Noah over to a nanny this morning. Marie—highly recommended by some of my military friends in Europe. French, experienced, with a warmth that made Noah smile. He asked where we were going, why Miss Sophie looked so sleepy. I told him she was tired.
I'm getting very good at lying to my son.
Now I'm returning to our temporarily rented apartment with breakfast—croissants, fruit, coffee. Things Sophie might eat if she's in the mood to accept anything from me.
Which she probably won't be.
I left her alone when I went out, but I'm confident nothing happened. First, the floor is too high to jump—eighth floor, and Sophie's brave but not reckless. She has Amelia to get back to.
Second, doors are locked from the outside. Third, windows only open from inside with a key Sophie doesn't have.
And fourth—the sleeping pill I dissolved in her water last night should still be wearing off. She should still be asleep when I arrive.
But I was deeply mistaken.
I hear the crash even before I open the door. Something heavy hitting the wall, followed by shattering glass.
I fumble with the keys. The door swings open.
Sophie is trashing the apartment: coffee table overturned, cushions scattered, a broken lamp on the floor. She's yanking books off the shelf and throwing them.
She looks exhausted—hair wild, eyes unfocused, movements jerky. Like someone waking from a long nap who hasn't shaken off the fog. But she's awake.
I stand rooted in the doorway. Sophie doesn't notice me. She's found a vase now, expensive crystal, raising it above her head.
That jolts me into action.
"Sophie!"
She spins around, sees me, and her eyes flash with pure fury. The vase comes flying toward my head. I duck. It shatters against the doorframe.
Then it occurs to me to quickly lock the door before the neighbors hear and call the police. The last thing we need is Swiss authorities getting involved.
I turn the deadbolt and pocket the key. "Sophie, you need to calm down for a second."
"Calm down?" Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming. "What else do you want me to do?!"
"I know the situation is very controversial…"
"Go fuck yourself, Bellamy!" She grabs another book and hurls it at me. I don't dodge this one, just let it hit my chest and fall to the floor.
"Where are we?" She's breathing hard, looking around the apartment like she's trying to place it. "This isn't the cabin. Where the fuck did you take me this time?"
"Switzerland," I say quietly.
The color drains from her face. "Switzerland. Switzerland? We're not even in America anymore?"
"Sophie…"
"You drugged me! You put me in a car or a plane or…" She stops, her whole body trembling with rage. "How long was I unconscious?"
"About eighteen hours. I had to, you were all…"
She attacks me then. Launches herself at me screaming, fists flying, nails aiming for my face.
I let her. Let her hit me, scratch me, beat her fists against my chest. She's not strong enough to really hurt me, and she needs this. Needs to vent the rage and fear.
So I stand there and take it until she exhausts herself. Until her hits become weaker, more desperate than violent.
When she finally stops, breathing hard and shaking, I calmly offer her the bag of breakfast.
"You should eat something."
Sophie stares at the bag. Then snatches it from my hands.
She reaches inside and pulls out the orange juice. Opens it with angry movements. And then, with absolute relish, pours the entire thing over my head.
Cold liquid runs down my hair, my face, soaks into my shirt. I just stand there, letting it happen. When the juice is gone, she throws the empty bottle at my chest. Hard.
"Fuck you," she says, her voice breaking.
She turns to go into the other room. I can't let her do that.
I grab her from behind and lift her off the floor.
"Let me go!" She kicks and writhes. "Put me down!"
But I'm stronger, and we both know it. I drag her toward the bathroom, her feet kicking uselessly. She's screaming, cursing me, struggling with everything she has.
I get us both into the shower—fully clothed, shoes and all—and reach for the faucet. Turn it to the coldest setting. Icy water hits us both.
Sophie gasps, her body going rigid. I hold her against my chest as freezing water pours down, soaking our clothes, stealing our breath, shocking the fight out of us both.
Surprisingly, it works.
She stops struggling, stops screaming—just stands there shaking from cold and shock and exhaustion.
Only when I feel her go quiet, when her breathing evens out, do I turn her around to face me.
I brush wet strands of hair from her cheeks, water still streaming down.
Her makeup is running, black streaks down her face. She's soaked and shivering and looking up at me with eyes that have gone from furious to something else.
I see that tears have replaced her anger. She's crying now, silent sobs shaking her shoulders as the icy water continues to fall.
"I'm sorry," I tell her, and I mean it. "Sophie, I know this seems crazy, I know you hate me right now. But I need you to understand—I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to save you. Save us both."
"Save me?" Her voice is small, broken. "Again: you drugged me, took me to another country. Whatever you think you're doing, it's not saving—it's something you can be charged for."
"Adrian would never let you go," I say, trying to explain while we stand under the streams of water. "He'd consume you, control you, turn you into something you're not. I've watched it happen. You deserve better than that. You deserve to be free."
"Free?" She laughs, the sound bitter and wet. "You call this freedom?"
"It could be. If you'd just…"
She looks up at me then, water streaming down her face, her hair plastered to her head. And that's when I notice. The water has made her t-shirt completely see-through.
I can see everything: the outline of her bra, the shape of her breasts. Her nipples, hard from the cold water, visible through the thin fabric.
My throat goes dry despite the water still pouring over us. I shouldn't be looking, shouldn't notice, this isn't… She's upset and vulnerable and I'm supposed to be better than this.
Out of respect, I immediately turn away as soon as I come to my senses. Turn my back to her, facing the shower wall, giving her privacy even though we're both soaked and trapped in this small space.
"I'm sorry," I say again, reaching blindly for the faucet. "I shouldn't have… This was…"
I finally manage to turn off the water. The sudden silence is deafening except for our ragged breathing and the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead.
I grab a towel from the rack without looking at her, hold it out behind me. "Here. You should… You need to get dry."
She doesn't take it immediately—just stands there breathing hard, and I can feel her eyes on my back.
Finally, she snatches the towel from my hand.
"Get out," she says quietly.
I leave the bathroom without a fight, closing the door behind me, and lean against the wall in the hallway. I'm dripping all over the hardwood floor, orange juice and shower water mixing in puddles around my feet.
From inside the bathroom, I hear the lock click.