Bellamy’s POV
I can't sleep. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the apartment settling.
The faint hum of traffic outside. The tick of the kitchen clock. And from Sophie's room, the creak of her bed as she moves around, restless like me.
I keep thinking about tonight: about how she sat on the couch, how she laughed at my stupid comment about the movie.
That laugh: real and unguarded and genuine. The first time since I brought Sophie here that she's let her guard down, even for a second. The first time she's looked at me like I'm a person instead of a monster.
I know what I am. Know what I've done. But for that one moment tonight, we felt like friends again. Like the people we used to be in those brief, stolen conversations at Sophie’s before everything got complicated.
I reach for my phone, knowing I shouldn't but unable to stop myself.
The screen lights up the dark room. I unlock it with shaking fingers and navigate to the hidden folder I've kept for months. The one I swore I'd delete a hundred times but never could.
Photos of Sophie.
Candid shots I took over the months when she didn't know I was watching. When I couldn't help myself, couldn't stop documenting every moment I could steal.
Sophie reading in the break room, her face soft and focused, lower lip caught between her teeth. Sophie with Amelia at a company event, laughing at something the baby did, her whole face lighting up with joy.
Sophie in the kitchen making coffee, her t-shirt riding up just slightly as she reached for a mug on the top shelf, revealing a strip of skin that made my mouth go dry.
Sophie biting her lip when concentrating on a spreadsheet, the unconscious gesture making me want things I had no right to want.
I swipe through them, my breath coming faster. My body responding before my mind can stop it.
There are dozens, hundreds, maybe. Moments when she was just existing, just being herself, unaware that I was cataloging every expression, every gesture, every detail.
I'm hard already. Have been since she sat on that couch tonight, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, see the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.
My hand moves down my body, under the waistband of my boxers. I shouldn't do this. Know I shouldn't. But I can't stop.
I think about the shower scene. Sophie soaked and trembling in my arms, her t-shirt completely transparent, clinging to every curve. The outline of her breasts clearly visible. Her nipples hard from the cold water, pressing against the thin fabric.
The way she looked up at me with those eyes—angry and vulnerable and so fucking beautiful it hurt.
I grip myself harder, stroking slowly.
I think about the bathroom encounter weeks ago. Sophie in that sundress, standing between my legs at the washbasin. The heat of her body so close to mine. The way her breath hitched when I touched her waist. The way she responded before she remembered she was supposed to hate me.
The feel of her hips under my hands. Knowing that if I'd just slid them higher, I could have cupped her breasts. If I'd slid them lower, I could have…
My breathing is ragged now, my hand moving faster.
I think about tonight. Her sitting on the couch, her legs tucked under her, wearing those soft sleep shorts that rode up her thighs. The way she laughed, the sound going straight through me like electricity.
The way I wanted to close that distance between us. Wanted to pull her into my lap, feel her body against mine, kiss her until she stopped thinking about Adrian and started thinking about me.
I'm close. So close. The images blur together—Sophie wet from the shower, Sophie in the bathroom, Sophie laughing tonight, Sophie in all these photos looking soft and unguarded and perfect.
I come hard, my release spilling over my hand, my whole body tensing with the force of it. Her name almost escapes my lips but I bite it back, biting my tongue hard enough to taste blood.
For a few seconds, there's nothing but the physical sensation. The relief and T he pleasure.
Then reality crashes back. The guilt hits immediately, crushing and complete.
What kind of man keeps a woman captive and then fantasizes about her? What kind of man takes photos of someone without their knowledge? What kind of man gets off to images of a woman who hates him, who wants nothing more than to escape him?
A sick one. A broken one. The same kind of man who kidnaps someone on their wedding day.
I grab tissues from the nightstand, cleaning up with shaking hands. My body is satisfied but my mind is a mess of self-loathing.
I look at my phone, still displaying one of the photos—Sophie smiling at something off-camera, her face full of warmth and life. Back when she was happy. Before I destroyed everything.
I should delete them. Should have deleted them months ago.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Then, before I can change my mind, I start deleting. One by one. Each photo disappearing with a tap.
Sophie reading—delete.
Sophie with Amelia—delete.
Sophie in the kitchen—delete.
Every stolen moment. Every secret documentation of my obsession.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
It takes several minutes. My hand shakes the whole time. Part of me wants to stop, wants to keep just one, wants to preserve these pieces of her that I collected like some kind of trophy.
But I delete them all.
When the folder is empty, I feel simultaneously lighter and more hollow. Like I've lost something I never actually had in the first place.
The photos are gone, but that won't erase what I just did. Won't undo the months of watching her, documenting her, building this twisted fantasy in my head where she could be mine.
Won't change the fact that I'm lying in this bed, four thousand miles from where she belongs, keeping her prisoner while pretending this is somehow for her own good.
From Sophie's room, I hear her moving again. The creak of her mattress. Footsteps to the bathroom. The sound of running water.
And I wonder—did she hear me?
The walls aren't that thick. If I could hear her moving around, could she hear my breathing? The rhythm of my hand? The moment I came?
The thought makes me feel sick, but it also makes my body stir again, a fresh wave of arousal at the idea of her knowing. Of her lying in her bed aware of what I was doing, who I was thinking about.
Knowing and maybe…
No. I cut that thought off immediately.
She wouldn't. Couldn't. She hates me, she's made that clear. Tonight's brief moment of humanity doesn't change that.
I force myself to put the phone away, to close my eyes, to try to sleep.
But all I can see is Sophie on that couch, Sophie laughing, Sophie looking at me with that one expression that would make me come even a hundred more times.
And I know with absolute certainty that I'll never be able to undo what I've done—not to her, not to myself.
The photos are deleted, but the memory of them, the guilt of them, will stay with me.
Just like Sophie's laugh will haunt me. Just like the image of her in that shower, soaked and vulnerable, will replay in my mind every time I close my eyes.