Adrian’s POV
Three weeks since the wedding disaster.
I'm barely functioning. Sleep comes in two-hour bursts, if at all. Food is something I force down because my mother insists. Showers happen when I remember. Everything else is noise.
But in the chaos, something unexpected has emerged. Amelia.
I've grown closer to my daughter in ways I never imagined possible. Before Sophie disappeared, I was present but distant—working late, leaving the night feedings to Sophie, showing up for the good moments but missing most of the daily grind.
Now she's all I have.
She's become my anchor, the one thing keeping me from going completely mad. When I hold her, when she grabs my finger with her tiny hand, when she falls asleep on my chest—those are the only moments I feel anything close to human.
The nanny Claire is here daily, handling the practical aspects I'm too destroyed to manage: bottles, diapers, sleep schedules. She's competent, I'll give her that. Amelia is clean and fed and content.
But lately I've noticed Claire's started dressing differently.
Skirts a bit shorter. Necklines a bit lower. Makeup more pronounced. She stands closer than necessary when we talk, touches my arm when making points about Amelia's feeding schedule.
I'm too destroyed to process why. Don't even care, honestly, as long as Amelia is taken care of.
This morning, when Claire reaches out to touch my forearm while discussing whether we should try a new formula, I move away automatically.
The contact makes me uncomfortable in a way I can't articulate.
"Mr. Lewis?" She looks concerned. "Are you alright?"
"Fine. Just tired." I pick up Amelia from her playmat, needing the distance. "I'll handle her nap today. You can take an early lunch."
Claire's smile tightens slightly but she nods. "Of course. I'll be back in an hour."
When she's gone, I exhale.
Late that evening, I'm holding Amelia close, rocking her gently as she fusses. She's fighting sleep, making those small distressed sounds that tug at my heart.
"Mama will be back soon," I whisper against her soft hair, my voice breaking despite my efforts to stay steady. "Daddy's going to make sure of it. I promise you, sweetheart. Soon."
Amelia's eyes—Sophie's eyes, the same warm brown that made me fall in love—stare up at me with that serious infant expression. She's studying my face, this tiny person who doesn't understand why her mother disappeared or why her father sounds like he's breaking.
Then her little mouth opens. "Ma...ma."
I freeze. The rocking stops. My breath catches. Everything narrows to this single moment.
Her first word.
I should be recording this. Should be calling my mother, Sophie's parents, everyone. Should be celebrating this milestone, this incredible moment of development.
Instead, tears stream down my face as I hold my daughter tighter.
Because Sophie is missing this. Missing her baby's first word. Missing Amelia calling for her, asking for her in the only way she knows how.
And I can't fix it. Can't bring Sophie home to hear it. Can't give our daughter what she's asking for.
"That's right, baby girl," I manage, my voice thick and broken. "Mama. She loves you so much. She wants to be here. I promise she wants to be here."
Amelia reaches up, her tiny hand touching my wet cheek. Like she's trying to comfort me. Like she knows something is wrong even if she can't understand what.
"Mama," she says again, clearer this time.
I've never felt more helpless or more determined in my life.
***
I spend hours reviewing leads.
Bellamy's old military contacts—we've interrogated every one we could find. They yielded nothing. Either they genuinely don't know where he is, or they're loyal enough to stay silent despite the pressure Vincent's people applied.
Financial records—clean. No suspicious transactions, no money trails to follow. He's either using cash exclusively or has accounts we can't trace.
Known associates—uncooperative or genuinely ignorant. The few who talked gave us nothing useful.
My father's network is hunting too. Every resource at their disposal, every contact, every source. But even they're hitting walls.
It's like Bellamy vanished into thin air.
My phone rings—Lolita.
"Tell me something good," I say by way of greeting.
"I wish I could." Her voice is tight. "Lisette's attacks are escalating. More leaks, more innuendo. She's got someone feeding stories to three different tabloids now. The 'runaway bride' narrative is gaining traction."
"How is she even managing this?" The question comes out sharp, frustrated. "She ran away from a psychotic stalker. She's discredited. Why would anyone believe her?"
Lolita's answer is clinical, professional.
"She's using intermediaries—people with clean reputations who have no visible connection to her. They're the ones leaking to the press, not Lisette directly. And she's framing everything as 'concerned sources' or 'industry insiders.' The press doesn't know it's coming from a discredited source."
"But…"
"Plus, there's just enough truth mixed in with the lies to make it stick. Your family does have connections to organized crime—that's not a secret, even if it's all in the past. Sophie did disappear on your wedding day. The facts are real; Lisette's just twisting the interpretation. By the time we trace it back to her, the damage is already done."
I should care about this. Should be strategizing about how to fight back, how to protect Lewis Enterprises, how to counter Lisette's manipulation.
But I don't. None of it matters if I can't find Sophie.
"Do whatever you think is best," I tell Lolita. "Issue statements, threaten legal action, whatever. I trust your judgment."
"Adrian?"
"I have to go. Amelia's crying."
She's not—Amelia is sleeping peacefully in her crib. But I can't talk about Lisette anymore. Can't pretend I have the energy to care about business or reputation or anything that isn't finding Sophie.
I hang up.
Late at night, after Claire has left and my mother has gone home and Amelia is asleep, I find myself in the Red Room.
I haven't been down here since Sophie disappeared, couldn't face it. The memories are too sharp, too painful.
But tonight I need it. Need to stand in the space where we used to exist together.
The room is exactly as we left it. The St. Andrew's cross in the corner. The cabinet with all the implements we used. The bench where Sophie would kneel, where I would bind her, where we would lose ourselves in each other.
I run my hand along the leather of the bench.
Three weeks ago, she was here. In this room. In my arms. Mine.
Now she's thousand miles away—I'm almost certain of it, though I can't prove it. Bellamy has resources. Military training. The kind of skills that would let him disappear internationally.
Switzerland. Germany. France. Somewhere in Europe, probably. Somewhere I can't reach.
I sink onto the bench, head in my hands.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty room. "I'm so sorry, Sophie. I should have protected you better. Should have seen this coming. Should have stopped him before…"
My voice breaks.
The Red Room doesn't answer, just sits in silence, holding the ghost of what we had.
I think about Amelia's first word. About how Sophie should have been there to hear it. About all the milestones she's going to miss if I can't find her.
First steps. First day of school. First everything.
And I'm sitting here, helpless, with no leads and no answers and no fucking clue how to bring her home.