Bellamy’s POV
It's Friday evening. Noah's with me for the weekend, sprawled on the living room floor drawing pictures while Sophie reads on the couch. The scene is so normal it almost hurts.
"Papa?" Noah looks up from his drawing. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, buddy. What is it?"
He sits up, crossing his legs. His expression is serious in that way only five-year-olds can manage when they're thinking about something important.
"When is little Amelia going to join us?"
The question hits me like a punch to the chest.
"What do you mean?" I manage, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is racing.
Noah's face lights up with excitement. "Well, Miss Sophie is here with us now, so Amelia will come soon too, right? And then we'll all officially be a family together!"
He bounces slightly. "You can have Miss Sophie and I'll be with baby Mimi! It'd be so much fun, Daddy! I could teach her things and play with her and we could always be together!"
My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.
He's let himself build this entire fantasy. Not just Sophie staying, but Amelia joining us. The four of us as a happy family: him with a baby Amelia, me with Sophie. Everything perfect and whole and right.
And I let him do it.
I structured everything to look permanent, to look like this was our new life, our new normal.
I never told him Sophie was temporary. Never explained that this situation had an expiration date. Never prepared him for anything except the fantasy I was chasing.
Of course he thought Amelia would come too. In a five-year-old's logic, if Sophie is here, why wouldn't her baby be here? Why wouldn't we all be together?
The worst part, the part that makes me feel sick, is that Noah sees Amelia as someone he likes. Not as a half-sibling, not as competition, but as a potential significant other. A girl who'd be fun to build life with. Permanently.
My son has been imagining a happy ending this whole time.
"Noah," I start, my voice rougher than I intend. "It's not... Amelia already has a home and a family."
Noah's face falls. Confusion clouds his features. "But I thought Miss Sophie was staying with us. You said this was where we live now, that Geneva is our home."
"It is our home."
"Then why wouldn't Amelia come too? If Miss Sophie is part of our family now, doesn't that mean Amelia is too?"
The logic is so simple. So innocent and so completely devastating.
I've done this. I've let my son believe in something that can never happen. Let him get attached to Sophie, let him imagine a future that includes her and her daughter, let him build hopes and dreams around a fantasy I created.
"I know it seems like that," I say carefully. "But sometimes things are more complicated than they look."
"What's complicated?" Noah's voice gets smaller. Uncertain. "Don't you want us to be a family?"
"I do, buddy. I do. But..."
How do I explain this? How do I tell him that what I want isn't the same as what's right? That I've done terrible things to get here? That Sophie isn't choosing us, that she's trapped, that everything he thinks is real is actually a lie?
I can't. He's five years old, he doesn't need to know his father is a monster.
"But sometimes things change," I finish weakly. "Even when we don't want them to."
It's a terrible non-answer and I know it. Noah's eyes start to water. "Is Miss Sophie leaving?"
"I don't know."
"But she can't leave!" Tears spill over now. "We need her. I need her. And she needs us too, doesn't she? She doesn't have anyone else here."
That's the cruelest part. He thinks Sophie needs us. That we're saving her from loneliness. That we're giving her something she wants.
He has no idea.
"Noah…"
"You said we were a family now." His voice breaks. "You said this was where we belong. That Geneva is our home and we're starting new here. That's what you told me."
I did say that. Multiple times. Every time he asked about going back to the States. Every time he mentioned his old school or his old friends.
I told him this was permanent. That we were building something new. That this was where we'd stay.
I never mentioned that the "we" might not include Sophie forever.
"Things are just... complicated right now," I say, pulling him into a hug even though it feels like a lie. "But I promise, whatever happens, you and I are always going to be okay. We're always going to be together."
"But what about Miss Sophie?" He's crying into my shoulder now. "What about Baby Mimi?"
"I don't know, buddy. I'm sorry. I just don't know." It's the most honest thing I've said in weeks.
After I put Noah to bed—after he falls asleep looking sad and confused, his face still tearstained—I sit in the living room with all the lights off.
Sophie went to her room when she heard Noah crying, gave us space. But I wonder if she heard what he said, if she knows that my son has been imagining a future that includes her daughter.
The weight of my choices presses down like a physical thing.
I've hurt my son. My own child. I've let him build false hopes in his innocent mind because I was too caught up in my own fantasy to think about the consequences for him.
Noah doesn't just like Sophie—he's attached to her. He sees her as part of our family now. And he's imagining Amelia joining us, imagining playing with her, teaching her things, being her protector in every way possible.
He's building a life in his head that can never exist.
And when this falls apart—because it will fall apart, I can feel it coming even if I'm not ready to face it—he's going to be devastated.
I've damaged everyone around me. Sophie, obviously. Adrian. Amelia. Eleanor and the rest of Sophie's family. My son.
All for what? For a fantasy that was doomed from the start? For the delusion that I could recreate what I lost when Olivia died?
I think about Sophie in her room right now. About whether she heard Noah's questions. About what she must think of me—not just for taking her, but for letting my child believe in something so impossible.
I think about Amelia, thousands of miles away, growing up without her mother because I stole that from her.
I think about Noah's face when he asked about her. The excitement. The hope. The absolute certainty that we were all going to be a happy family together.
The guilt gnaws at me. Has been gnawing at me since the wedding day. But this feels different. Sharper. More immediate.
Because hurting Sophie was a choice I made consciously, even if I justified it to myself. But hurting Noah? That was collateral damage I didn't even think to prevent.
My son is paying for my catastrophic decisions.
I should end this. Should let Sophie go. Should face whatever consequences come and spare everyone—especially Noah—further damage.
But acknowledging that means facing what comes next. Means admitting I was wrong. Means losing the fantasy I've been clinging to.
And I'm still not ready. Not yet. Even knowing what it's costing. Even seeing the damage in my own child's tears.
I'm still not ready to let go. God help me, I'm still not ready.