Sophie’s POV
Days pass in strange rhythm.
We cook together in the mornings—Bellamy making coffee while I scramble eggs, working around each other in the small kitchen like we've done this a thousand times.
We watch movies in the evenings, sitting on opposite ends of the couch with careful space between us. We exist in careful orbit, never quite touching but always aware of each other's presence.
One evening, after dinner, Bellamy brings out a deck of cards.
"Noah loves this game," he says, shuffling. "I thought you might want to learn it. For when…" He stops himself, doesn't finish that sentence.
‘For when you're part of our life permanently, for when this becomes real instead of forced’. That’s probably what he wanted to say, yet didn’t.
I should say no, should retreat to my room and maintain distance. Instead, I hear myself say, "Okay. Teach me."
We sit at the table. He deals the cards, explaining the rules. It's simple—a children's version of poker, all about matching patterns and reading other players.
"The key is keeping a straight face," Bellamy says. "Noah's terrible at it, he grins every time he gets a good hand."
"I'm probably just as bad." I look at my cards—three matching. Not great, not terrible.
"Let's find out." His eyes meet mine across the table. There's something lighter in his expression tonight, less haunted. Almost playful.
We play a few rounds. I try to keep my face neutral but apparently fail completely because Bellamy laughs, actually laughs, when I lay down what I thought was a winning hand.
"You smiled," he says. "The second you drew that card, you smiled."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. And you bit your lip. You do that when you're pleased about something."
The observation is too accurate, too knowing. He's been watching me that closely. But instead of feeling violated, I feel something else. Seen, maybe. Known.
"Fine," I admit. "I have a terrible poker face. Happy?"
"Extremely." He's still smiling. It transforms his face, makes him look younger. Less like my captor and more like just... a man. Someone I might have met under different circumstances and thought was handsome, charming, worth knowing.
The thought makes me uncomfortable.
We play more rounds. Bellamy wins most of them, but I manage to take a few through sheer luck. When I win the fifth round, I can't help the small victory celebration—a fist pump and "yes!"
Bellamy laughs again. "Okay, maybe you're getting the hang of this."
"Or you're letting me win."
"I would never." His voice is mock-serious. "This is a competition. No mercy."
It's absurd: sitting here playing cards with my kidnapper like we're friends having a casual game night. Like this is normal. Like this is okay.
But in the moment, it almost feels like it is.
We play until late. Talk about stupid things—movies we've seen, books we've read, places we've traveled before everything went wrong.
Bellamy tells me about taking Noah to see the Swiss Alps last winter, how his son's face lit up seeing snow-covered peaks.
"He wanted to climb them," Bellamy says. "All of them. Five years old and ready to conquer mountains."
I tell him about Amelia's laugh. How it's this pure, delighted sound that makes everything feel worth it. How she smiles in her sleep sometimes like she's dreaming of good things.
For a moment, we're just two people talking about the children we love. Then reality crashes back.
I'm talking about my daughter to the man who took me away from her. Sharing intimate details of Amelia's life with someone who has no right to them. Bonding over parenthood with my captor.
The guilt hits like a physical blow.
"I should go to bed," I say abruptly, standing. "It's late."
Bellamy's expression shifts. The lightness fades. "Sophie?"
"Goodnight, Bellamy."
I retreat to my room and close the door, sit on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands.
What am I even doing?
I enjoyed tonight, genuinely enjoyed it. I laughed with him, talked with him, felt comfortable in his presence in a way that shouldn't be possible given what he's done.
This isn't what captivity should feel like. It should be constant fear and resistance and hatred. It should be cold and brutal and wrong at every moment.
Not this: not cooking breakfast together, not the movie nights, not card games where we laugh over my terrible poker face and talk about our children like co-parents planning a future together.
I think about Adrian constantly. About Amelia. About the life I'm missing—every milestone, every moment, every day without me. The guilt is always there, heavy and unrelenting.
But I'm also starting to understand Bellamy in ways that complicate everything. He's not a monster. He's not some cartoon villain twirling a mustache and cackling over his evil plans.
He's just a man. A broken man who lost the person he loved most and never recovered.
Who looks at his son and sees all the things he can't give him. Who convinced himself that taking me was somehow saving me, somehow giving Noah what he needs, somehow creating the family that grief destroyed.
He's making catastrophic choices, unforgivable choices. Choices that have destroyed lives and stolen futures.
But understanding why he's making them doesn't make him a monster. It just makes him human. Damaged and desperate and deeply, fundamentally wrong, but human.
That understanding doesn't excuse anything. Doesn't make what he's done okay. Doesn't mean I've forgiven him or accepted this or stopped wanting to escape.
But it makes me feel less like a hostage and more like... I don't know what.
More like someone trapped in a situation with another person who's also trapped. Both of us caught in the choices he made. Both of us trying to survive day by day.
I pick up the stuffed lamb from my pillow. Hold it close.
"I'm so sorry, baby girl," I whisper. "I'm trying. I promise I'm trying."
But am I? I'm gathering information, yes. Learning patterns and routines and potential escape routes. But I'm also playing card games. Laughing over dinner. Enjoying conversations with the man who's keeping me here.
The line between strategy and surrender is getting harder to see.
I think about the shirt I wore. How his scent reminded me of home. About the way he looked at me in the living room and how my body responded. About tonight's laughter and easy conversation.
I think about how none of this was supposed to happen.
And the most terrifying part is that I'm not sure I want it to stop. Because the alternative—constant fear, constant resistance, constant hatred—is exhausting. And this, whatever this is becoming, feels easier.
Feels almost like living instead of just surviving.
I hate myself for that thought.
But I can't make it untrue.