Sophie’s POV
I wake in the middle of the night, gasping.
For a moment I'm disoriented, caught between dream and reality. My body is hot, flushed, my heart racing. The sheets are twisted around my legs, my sleep shirt rucked up to my waist.
The dream lingers like a physical touch.
Adrian's hands on my skin—rough and demanding. His voice in my ear, commanding and tender, telling me exactly what he wanted, exactly what I needed to give him.
The weight of his body pressing me down into the mattress. His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, lower.
I'm restless, aching. My body responding to phantom sensations that feel so real I could swear he just touched me.
But he's not here. I'm alone in this bed four thousand miles away, and the ache between my legs won't go away.
I miss Adrian with an intensity that feels like drowning. Not just emotionally—though god, I miss him so much it physically hurts.
But physically, desperately. The way we fit together. The intimacy we shared, the way he knew exactly how to touch me, exactly what I needed before I even knew myself.
My body remembers everything.
Stolen kisses in the kitchen while Amelia napped, his hand sliding up my thigh under my skirt. The way he'd pull me close from behind and whisper filthy promises against my neck while his fingers worked between my legs.
The vulnerability and raw need in his eyes when we were alone in the Red Room, when all the walls came down and it was just us—just this.
Submission and release. Trust and intensity. The exquisite contradiction of feeling most safe when I was most vulnerable, when I was giving up all control and trusting him completely with my body, my pleasure, my boundaries.
His commands—"Kneel for me"—and the rush of heat that would flood through me as I obeyed without hesitation.
His praise—"Such a good girl, taking everything I give you"—and the way those words alone could push me toward the edge.
His focused attention, the way he'd study every gasp and whimper and tremor, learning my body like a language only he could speak fluently.
I'm so restless I can't lie still. My skin feels too tight, ny body is demanding something I can't have.
My hand moves down almost without conscious thought. Under the covers. Under my sleep shirt. Between my thighs where I'm already wet and aching.
I bite my lip, trying to be quiet. Bellamy's in the other room and the walls aren't that thick. But I need this, need some kind of release from the tension coiling tight inside me, the desperate ache that won't let me sleep.
I close my eyes and think about Adrian.
The way he'd bind my wrists above my head and take his time, building the pleasure so slowly I'd be shaking and begging before he'd even touched me where I needed it most.
The way his voice would drop to that dark, commanding tone—"Don't you dare come until I tell you"—and I'd fight to obey even when every nerve in my body was screaming for release.
The way he'd watch me, dark eyes intense and focused, reading every reaction as his fingers worked inside me, curling just right, finding that spot that made me see stars.
The way he'd finally, finally give permission—"Now, Sophie. Come for me. Let me see you fall apart"—and I would shatter, crying out his name.
My breathing quickens. My hand moves faster, finding the rhythm I need, chasing the release my body is demanding.
I'm so close. Right on the edge. I can almost feel Adrian's hands instead of my own, almost hear his voice commanding me, almost—
But I can't finish.
Something's blocking me. The release I'm desperate for stays just out of reach no matter how I try.
Maybe it's guilt—touching myself in another man's apartment while thinking about the man I was supposed to marry. Maybe it's the situation itself—how wrong everything is, how far I am from home, how helpless I am to change any of it.
Maybe my body knows the difference between my own touch and his. Knows it's not enough. Knows what I really need is Adrian himself, his hands, his voice, his control, and nothing else will satisfy this ache.
Frustrated, I stop. Pull my hand away and curl onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the sound of my frustrated sob.
The ache is worse now. Unsatisfied and urgent. Restless energy with nowhere to go. My body is still wound tight, still demanding what I can't give it.
I lie there in the darkness, missing Adrian so much I could scream. Missing his touch. His voice. The way he made me feel safe and desired and completely, utterly his.
And knowing I might never have that again.
In the morning, Bellamy looks at me strangely over breakfast. A glance that lingers too long, an expression I can't quite read.
I wonder if he heard something last night. If the walls are thinner than I thought. The thought makes my face heat.
But Bellamy doesn't say anything. Just passes me the tea I like and goes back to his laptop.
That afternoon, we take a walk in a nearby park. It's become routine. Bellamy takes me out once a day—always somewhere public but not too crowded. Always watching.
Today the park is quiet: a few joggers, some mothers with strollers.
We walk in silence, and I remember Bellamy's phone screen. Olivia's photo. The realization that clicked into place.
This is my chance.
"You know, I’ve been meaning to ask…” I say carefully. “Can you tell me more about Olivia?"
Bellamy's stride falters. "What?"
"Your wife. What was she like?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then, slowly, he speaks.
"She was kind, patient with Noah. She loved music—classical, mostly. Played violin before he was born." His voice softens. "She made everything feel lighter, like the world wasn't as hard as it seemed."
I can hear the love, the grief.
"Is that why you're doing this?" I keep my voice gentle. "Trying to recreate with me what you lost with her? Trying to replace her with me?"
Bellamy's face shuts down immediately. "That's not what this is."
"Isn't it? You lost her, and now you're trying to build some fantasy life with me to fill that void."
"You don't know what you're talking about." His voice is sharp, defensive. Angry.
"I think I do. And I think you know it too, deep down. You're not in love with me, Bellamy. You're in love with the idea of replacing what you lost."
"Enough." He grabs my arm—firm, urgent. His face is shuttered. "We're going back. Now."
"Bellamy…"
"I said now." He practically drags me back to the apartment, his grip unyielding. We walk in tense silence, every step radiating his anger.
I've hit a nerve, a big one. Which means I'm right—this isn't about me. It's never been about me. I'm not Sophie to him, not really. I'm Olivia's shadow, her replacement. A way to resurrect the life he lost.
Worse because it means he's even more delusional than I thought. Better because there might be a way to use this. To exploit the crack in his armor.
We reach the apartment. Bellamy unlocks the door and pushes me inside.
"Go to your room," he says, voice flat and angry.
"Bellamy, let’s not…"
"Now, Sophie."
There’s no point in arguing, so I go. Pushing further won't help. I've already planted the seed, already forced him to confront what he's doing.
In my room, I replay the conversation: his face when I mentioned Olivia, the way he shut down, the anger in his voice.
All confirmation that I'm right. And that means I have leverage. I just need to figure out how to use it.