Sophie’s POV
That evening, I emerge from my room with a specific purpose.
Bellamy's in the living room, working on his laptop. He looks up when I enter, surprised—I've been avoiding him most of the day, staying locked in the bedroom like a sullen teenager.
I don't waste time on pleasantries.
"I need books," I announce. "Real books, not whatever's on your shelf."
He blinks, clearly caught off guard by my direct approach. "What kind of books?"
"I don't care. Novels, fiction—something to keep my brain from rotting in this prison."
I expect resistance. Expect him to say no, or to negotiate, or to set conditions. Maybe he'll say I have to earn privileges. Maybe he'll use it as leverage to get something from me.
Instead, Bellamy just nods.
"Of course," he says simply. "Anything you want. I can go to a bookstore tomorrow. English language, I assume? There's a good one near the university."
His instant compliance catches me completely off guard. I stand there, arms crossed, staring at him. Waiting for the catch, the condition, the "but."
It doesn't come.
"Why are you being so accommodating?" The question comes out more accusatory than I intend.
Bellamy closes his laptop, giving me his full attention. "Because I’m not an enemy to you, and you’re not my prisoner, Sophie. I want you to be as comfortable here as possible, want you to be okay here."
"I'll never be 'okay' here." The words are sharp, defensive. "I'm kidnapped. This is a prison. You can stock it with all my favorite things and buy me all the books in the world, but that doesn't change what this is."
"I know." His voice is quiet, accepting. Not arguing, not trying to convince me otherwise. Just... acknowledging it.
The honesty throws me off balance.
I sit down in the chair across from him. Not because I want to be close, just because standing feels confrontational and I'm suddenly too tired for confrontation.
We sit in silence for a moment.
"How's Noah?" The question surprises me as much as it probably surprises him. But I've been wondering. The boy was kind to me, sweet. He doesn't deserve to be caught up in his father's mess.
Bellamy's expression softens immediately. "He's adjusting. The school is good—international program, so there are other kids who speak English. He made a friend on the first day. Another boy from London."
"Does he ask about me?"
"Every day." Bellamy's smile is sad. "He wants to know when you'll be back from your 'important work trip.' I keep telling him soon."
The lie sits heavy between us. Noah thinks I'm working, thinks this is all normal and temporary. Another thing Bellamy's stolen—the boy's understanding of reality.
"What did you tell him about the cabin? About why we had to leave so suddenly?"
"Adventure. I said we were going on an adventure to a new country. He's five, it's easy to make things sound exciting when you're five."
I think about Amelia, about how young she is, how she won't remember me if I'm gone too long. How this might become her normal—a mother who disappeared, a father who's drowning trying to find her.
"You're good with him," I say, surprising myself again. "With Noah. The way you talk about him. It's obvious you love him."
"He's my whole world." Bellamy's voice carries absolute conviction. "After Olivia died, Noah was the only thing that kept me going. The only thing that made sense."
There it is—the grief I've seen glimpses of, the pain that's shaped him into whoever he is now.
"Tell me about the school," I say, changing the subject before it gets too heavy. "What's he learning?"
Bellamy's face lights up. He starts talking about Noah's classes, his teacher, the way he's picking up French phrases already. The art projects he brings home. The soccer game he scored a goal in.
And as he talks, I see it—a glimpse of the man I used to know.
The one who worked at Lewis Enterprises, who was professional and competent. The one who smiled at me across conference rooms and brought me coffee without being asked. Before everything got twisted. Before obsession replaced connection.
He's still in there somewhere: the normal person, the good father, the man who's capable of love and tenderness and care.
It makes everything more complicated. Because it would be easier if he were purely a monster. Easier to hate him, to resist him, to hold onto my anger without complication.
But he's not. He's a person—a damaged, broken person who's made terrible choices, but a person nonetheless.
"...and I took a photo of his first art project. Let me show you."
Bellamy reaches for his phone, scrolling through his photos. He's clearly looking for something specific, and I watch as he swipes through image after image.
"I sent you some of these before," he says absently, still searching. "Back when… Ah, here it is."
He turns the phone toward me, and I see a photo of Noah holding up a finger painting. It's abstract chaos—bright colors everywhere, no discernible image. But Noah's grin is enormous, proud.
I smile despite myself. "It's very... colorful."
"He says it's a dragon."
"Of course it is."
Bellamy swipes to another photo, about to show me something else, when the screen shifts slightly. Just enough that I catch a glimpse of what's set as his phone's wallpaper.
The image appears for only a second before he tilts the phone away again, but it's enough. A girl's silhouette. Dark hair. A profile that's familiar even though I've never seen it in person.
And something just... clicks.
Immediately. Instinctively.
Olivia.
It has to be. The way Bellamy holds the phone, the unconscious gentleness in how he touches the screen. The wallpaper he sees every time he unlocks his device, every time he checks the time, every single day.
His dead wife. Still there. Still present. Still the woman he's mourning.
I don't say anything, don't let on that I noticed. But the realization settles over me like a cold blanket. Because suddenly I understand. This isn't really about me at all.
I'm not Sophie to him, not really. I'm a replacement, a substitute for something—someone—he lost. He sees Olivia when he looks at me, sees a second chance. A way to undo what happened.
That's why he knows all my preferences. Why he pays such careful attention to detail. Why he's so desperate to make me comfortable, to make me happy, to make me stay.
Because in his broken mind, if he can just get this right—if he can just make me love him the way Olivia did—he can fix what broke when she died.
The thought makes me feel sick. And sad. And angry all over again.
Because I'm not Olivia. I never will be. And trying to turn me into her, trying to recreate whatever they had, is doomed to fail.
But Bellamy doesn't see that. Can't see that.
He's still talking about Noah's art project, completely unaware that I've just had this realization. Unaware that I've seen past his careful facade to the broken, grieving man underneath.
"Sophie?" He's looking at me now, concerned. "Are you okay? You look…"
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just tired. I think I'll go to bed early."
I stand before he can respond. Before he can ask more questions or see too much on my face.
"I'll get those books tomorrow," he calls after me.
I don't answer. Just retreat to my room and close the door, lean against it and try to process what I've just learned.
Bellamy's not trying to build a life with me. He's trying to resurrect the one he lost. And I'm the unwilling ghost he's chosen to play the part.