Sophie’s POV
I spend the morning exploring the apartment on my own. Bellamy's given me space—or maybe he's just confident I can't go anywhere. He's in the other room, and I'm alone to investigate.
I start with the windows. Living room: locked. Kitchen: locked. Bedroom: locked. Every single one has that special mechanism—the kind requiring a key to open from inside. I try them all anyway, searching for weakness.
Nothing.
Eighth floor. Even if I could open a window, jumping would be suicide. I'm brave, but not reckless. I have Amelia to get back to.
The doors next. Front door: deadbolt locked from outside. Second door to a service entrance—also locked. I check the hinges, the frame, looking for structural weakness.
Nothing.
Every escape route sealed. Bellamy's thought of everything. In the living room, I find his laptop on the coffee table. My heart jumps. If I could get in, I could email someone, call for help…
I flip it open. Password prompt.
Of course.
I try obvious combinations. "Noah." "Olivia." "Sophie." Random sequences.
All wrong. After the fifth attempt: "Too many incorrect attempts. Device will lock for 1 hour."
I close it quickly. Frustrated, I move to the kitchen. And that's when I notice.
The cabinets are stocked with food—which isn't surprising. Bellamy has to eat. But as I start opening things, inspecting the contents, a cold realization creeps over me.
These aren't just random groceries.
There's the specific tea I like—chamomile with lavender, the expensive organic brand I always splurge on. The granola bars I always kept in my bag at work, the kind with dark chocolate and sea salt.
Even the exact brand of yogurt I preferred—Greek, honey flavor, from that local dairy I discovered last year.
My favorite crackers. My preferred coffee. The pasta sauce I always buy. Item after item, all chosen with deliberate precision.
The level of attention to detail is unsettling.
I stand there in the kitchen, staring at a jar of my favorite jam, and feel something cold settle in my stomach. This isn't coincidence. This isn't lucky guessing.
Bellamy's been watching me, learning my habits, memorizing my preferences.
For how long?
I close the cabinet, suddenly not hungry anymore. The apartment feels smaller now, more oppressive. Like the walls are closing in.
That afternoon, Bellamy goes out.
"I need to pick up a few things," he says, keys already in hand. "I'll be back in an hour."
I don't respond, just watch as he leaves, hear the deadbolt click into place from the outside. He locks me in like I'm a prisoner. Which I am.
I spend the hour he's gone testing everything again. The windows, the doors, the laptop that is still locked. Looking for anything I missed the first time. Still nothing.
When I hear the key in the lock, I retreat to the bedroom. Don't want to seem eager, don't want him to think I was waiting for him.
Bellamy appears in the doorway a few minutes later, holding shopping bags.
"I got you some things," he says, setting them on the bed. "Clothes. I thought you might want more than what I packed."
I look at the bags but don't move to open them.
"I can't keep you in the same three outfits forever," he continues when I don't respond. "I tried to get comfortable things. Your style."
That makes me look up. "My style?"
He just nods.
Curiosity wins. I approach the bed and pull items from the bags. Jeans in my size. Soft sweaters. T-shirts that look like something I'd actually choose. A light summer dress. Everything comfortable, casual, exactly what I'd pick for myself.
All in my size. All in the colors I tend to wear.
"How did you know what I like?" The question comes out more suspicious than I intend.
Bellamy's answer is quiet, almost careful. "I've known you for months, Sophie. I pay attention."
The words make my skin crawl. Not because they're threatening, but because they're true.
He has been watching. Has been paying attention to details I didn't even know were noticeable. What I wear. What I eat. What I drink.
How much else does he know about me?
I don't know if that's thoughtful or creepy. Maybe it's both.
"You shouldn't have," I say, the words coming out flat.
"You needed clothes."
"I need to go home." I look at him directly. "Everything else is just... pretending. Acting like this is normal when it's not."
Bellamy's jaw tightens but he doesn't argue. Just nods once and leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
I stare at the clothes spread across the bed.
Part of me wants to refuse them, to keep wearing the same three outfits Bellamy packed, to make a point about not accepting anything from him.
But that's stupid. Impractical. I need clean clothes. I need to be comfortable if I'm going to survive this.
So I take them. But I don't thank him.
Later, after dinner, which we ate in silence, I retreat to the bedroom and try on the dress.
It's light and summery, the kind of thing I'd wear on a warm day. Soft cotton, pale blue, hitting just above my knees. Comfortable without being frumpy. Pretty without being too dressy.
Exactly something I'd choose for myself.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and stop. I look... normal.
Not like someone who's been kidnapped. Not like a hostage held against her will. I look like someone on vacation. Someone exploring a new city. Someone relaxed and content.
The cognitive dissonance makes me feel sick.
Because I'm not on vacation, I'm not exploring Geneva by choice. I'm not relaxed or content. I'm a prisoner in a locked apartment four thousand miles from my daughter, from the man I was supposed to marry, from my entire life.
But looking at my reflection, you'd never know. I look fine, I look like everything is fine. And that's the most disturbing part.
How easy it would be to pretend. To slip into this life Bellamy's trying to build. To accept the comfortable clothes and the favorite foods and the careful attention to my preferences. To let the days blend together until I forget what I'm fighting for.
I tear the dress off and throw it on the floor. Put my old clothes back on—the jeans and sweater I've been wearing all day. The ones that feel more honest. More real.
But even as I do, I know I'm being irrational. The dress is just a dress. The clothes are just clothes. They don't mean anything.
Except they do.
They mean Bellamy's been watching me long enough to know exactly what I like. They mean he's planned this carefully enough to stock an apartment with all my favorite things. They mean he's trying to make me comfortable here.
Trying to make this feel like home. And the scariest part is, I can feel it working. Just a little bit.
The comfortable bed. The familiar tea. The clothes that fit perfectly. Small comforts that make captivity slightly more bearable.
Stockholm syndrome, I think. That's what this is. The beginning of it.
I sit on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. I can't let this happen. Can't let Bellamy's careful planning and attention to detail make me forget what he's done. What he's taken from me.
I need to remember I'm a hostage, a prisoner, a mother who's been stolen from her child. I need to remember that no amount of favorite tea or comfortable clothes changes that fact.
I need to remember Adrian. Amelia. Home.
Even when Bellamy makes it so easy to forget.