Sophie’s POV
I begin observing everything with new eyes. The apartment becomes a puzzle to solve. Every detail matters now.
When Bellamy goes out in the mornings to take Noah to school, I time it. Seventeen minutes door to door. Enough time for me to do what? Unlock a window? Find spare keys?
I watch where he puts his keys. Right pocket of his jacket. Always the right pocket. The jacket hangs by the door at night.
I note his routines. Coffee at 6:30 AM. Shower at 7:00. Takes Noah to school at 8:15 on weekdays. Grocery shopping on Wednesdays.
Patterns. Predictable patterns.
I'm not ready to act, not yet. But I'm preparing.
I study the windows: we're on the eighth floor, but there's a balcony two floors down. Too risky to climb, but what if there's a fire escape?
I calculate distances. The apartment door to the street—how many stairs? Thirty seconds? A minute?
I memorize which neighbors are around when. The elderly man in 8C walks his dog every morning at nine. The young couple in 8A leave before eight. The woman in 8B has irregular hours.
Which one would I knock on if I needed help? Which one speaks English?
All information. All potentially useful.
The stuffed lamb sits on my bed now. I look at it and think about Amelia. About going home. About what I'll need to know to make that happen.
That evening, Bellamy makes pasta for dinner.
We've fallen into this routine—him cooking, me helping occasionally, eating together at the small table. It's disturbingly domestic. Normal, even.
I use it.
"This is really good," I say, twirling pasta around my fork. "You're a better cook than I expected."
Bellamy glances up, surprised by the compliment. "Thanks. Olivia used to say I had two good dishes and everything else was questionable."
I smile, not forced. I'm playing a role now, and I need to play it well.
"Tell me about Geneva," I say, keeping my tone casual. "I mean, I've been here for weeks but I barely know anything about the city. What neighborhoods do you like?"
His expression shifts—pleasure mixed with wariness. Like he wants to believe I'm genuinely interested but isn't quite sure.
"Old Town is beautiful," he says slowly. "Cobblestone streets, old buildings. Very historic. And the lake—there are parks along the water that Noah loves."
"Where's the train station?" I ask, taking another bite. "I saw signs for it when we've been out, but I wasn't sure where it actually is."
"Not far from here. About a fifteen-minute walk. Why?"
I shrug. "Just curious. I like knowing where things are. Makes a place feel less foreign."
It's a good answer. Plausible. He seems to accept it.
"There's also the botanical garden," Bellamy continues, warming to the topic. "And several museums. The International Red Cross Museum is interesting if you like that kind of thing."
"You've been?"
"Once. With Noah, before you..." He trails off, not finishing that sentence. Before I was kidnapped. "He liked the interactive exhibits."
I ask more questions. What areas are safest? Where do most expats live? What's public transportation like? Each question designed to sound like casual interest, like I'm finally engaging with the reality of being here instead of fighting it.
Bellamy answers eagerly. I can see the hope in his eyes—the belief that maybe, finally, I'm starting to accept this. Starting to see Geneva as our city instead of my prison.
"There's a neighborhood called Plainpalais," he says. "Very bohemian, lots of students and artists. There's a flea market on Wednesdays and Saturdays."
"That sounds nice." I keep my voice even, interested. "Maybe we could go sometime. With Noah."
The words taste wrong in my mouth, but I say them anyway. Because Bellamy needs to hear them, needs to believe I'm softening.
"I'd like that." His smile is genuine, warm. "Sophie, I'm glad you're... I'm glad you're asking about the city. About our life here."
Our life. As if this is a choice. As if we're building something together instead of him holding me hostage.
I smile back. "I can't change what's happened, but I guess I can try to make the best of it."
The lie comes easily now, maybe too easily.
Bellamy reaches across the table like he might take my hand, then thinks better of it. The gesture is restrained, respectful of boundaries I've established.
He has no idea those boundaries are tactical, strategic. Part of the performance I'm giving to keep him comfortable while I gather every piece of information I can.
We finish dinner talking about Geneva. About neighborhoods and shops and restaurants. He tells me about a bakery that makes amazing croissants, a bookstore that has English sections, a park where street musicians perform on weekends.
And I map it all in my mind.
Train station: fifteen-minute walk. Old Town: cobblestone streets, tourists, crowds. Lake parks: public spaces, people around. Red Cross Museum: staff, security cameras possibly, other visitors.
Every detail is a potential escape route. Every location is somewhere I might run to, might find help, might use to get home.
After dinner, I help him clean up. We work side by side at the sink, me washing and him drying, like a couple in a normal relationship doing normal couple things.
"Thank you for tonight," Bellamy says quietly. "For talking, for asking questions. It means a lot to me."
"Of course." I hand him a plate, maintaining the fiction. "I want to understand where we are, where... where we're living now."
Where you've trapped me, I don't say. Where I'm being held against my will.
But he hears what he wants to hear, sees what he wants to see. And that's exactly what I need.
Later, alone in my room with the door closed, I mentally catalog everything I learned tonight.
Train station location. Walking distance. Public transportation routes. Neighborhoods and their characteristics. Tourist areas versus residential. Places with crowds versus places that are quiet.
Knowledge is power.
Even if I never use it, knowing these things gives me a sense of control I haven't had since the wedding day. Since Bellamy drugged me and stole my choices.
I'm reclaiming them now. One piece of information at a time.
I pick up the stuffed lamb from my bed. Hold it close.
"I'm coming home, baby girl," I whisper to it, to Amelia thousands of miles away. "I promise. Mama's going to find a way home."
And I will. Because I'm not the helpless victim Bellamy thinks he rescued. I'm not the broken captive who'll eventually fall for her kidnapper.
I'm a mother who'll do whatever it takes to get back to her daughter. I'm a woman who survived everything life threw at her and came out fighting.
And I'm gathering the knowledge, the information, the power I need to save myself.
Bellamy has no idea what's coming. He sees me softening, engaging, accepting.
What he doesn't see is the steel underneath. The determination. The systematic collection of everything I'll need when the moment is right.
Knowledge is power. And I'm becoming very, very powerful.