Sophie’s POV
I wake with a sense that something is different.
Not wrong, exactly. Just... shifted. Like the air pressure has changed. Like a storm is building on the horizon even though the sky is clear.
I lie in bed for a moment, trying to identify what triggered this feeling. Nothing obvious: the apartment is quiet, morning light filters through the curtains. Everything looks the same as it did yesterday.
But something feels different. I get up, pull on clothes, go to the kitchen. Bellamy is already there, coffee in hand, staring out the window.
"Morning," I say.
He startles slightly, like he was deep in thought and didn't hear me approach.
"Morning." His voice is distracted.
I watch him—he's tense, more tense than usual. His shoulders are tight, his jaw set. He keeps glancing at his phone on the counter.
"Everything okay?" I ask, pouring my own coffee.
"Fine." Too quick, too dismissive.
Throughout the morning, I notice it more: the restlessness, the way he checks his phone constantly. The way he looks out windows like he's expecting something—or someone.
The way he keeps touching his keys in his pocket, as if reassuring himself they're still there.
Something is happening. Or about to happen. I can feel it.
That afternoon, we end up on the balcony again.
It's become our space somehow. The place where we have the conversations that matter. Where the pretense drops and we're just two people trapped in an impossible situation.
Bellamy leans against the railing, looking out over the Old Town streets. His phone is in his hand again. He checks it, puts it away. Pulls it out thirty seconds later.
I decide to take a risk. "What's your endgame here, Bellamy?"
He looks at me. "What?"
"Your endgame. The long-term plan. What happens next?" I keep my voice level, conversational. "We can't live like this forever. Eventually you'll have to make a choice—keep me prisoner for years, or let me go."
His jaw tightens. "Sophie…"
"What happens when Amelia is two?"
I press forward, not letting him deflect.
"Three? Five? When she doesn't remember me anymore because I've been gone so long? When the face she knows is Adrian's new partner, or Eleanor, or whoever ends up raising her because her mother disappeared?"
"That won't happen."
"It will." I lean forward. "Children forget, especially babies. Amelia is seven months old. If I stay away another year, two years—she won't know me. I'll be a stranger to my own daughter."
Bellamy's knuckles are white on the railing.
"And you know Adrian won't stop looking. Ever. He'll search for decades if that's what it takes. He'll hunt you to the ends of the earth."
I don't give Bellamy time to recover and continue to press even harder.
"So what's the plan? Run forever? Change countries every time he gets close? Raise Noah on the run, never settling anywhere, never letting him have a real home or friends or stability?"
"I can protect us."
"Can you?" I cut him off. "Because it seems like you're getting nervous about something. Checking your phone every five minutes, looking out windows, acting like you're expecting someone."
His silence is telling.
"So let me ask again: what's your endgame? Do you really plan to keep me here for years?"
I keep my voice steady.
"Watch me fade away from depression and isolation while you pretend we're a happy family? Watch Noah grow up thinking this is normal? Watch yourself become exactly what you said you were afraid of—your father?"
"Don't."
"Or do you let me go?" I lean closer. "Do you actually do the right thing for once? Let me get back to my daughter and my life, and deal with whatever Adrian does when he finds out?"
Bellamy's breathing is uneven now. His hands grip the railing so hard I'm afraid it might crack.
"Because those are the only options," I say quietly. "Run forever and destroy everyone including yourself. Or end this and face what comes next."
"There's a third option." His voice is rough.
"What?"
"You choose to stay." He finally looks at me. "You decide that this—us—is what you want. That becomes the endgame."
The delusion in his voice is heartbreaking.
"Bellamy." I keep my tone gentle. "I'm not going to choose to stay. You know that. Deep down, you've always known that."
"You've been happy here." There's desperation creeping in now. "I've seen it: the way you laugh with Noah, the way you've relaxed, the conversations we've had. You can't tell me none of that was real."
"It was real," I admit. "But it doesn't mean I want this. It means I've been surviving, adapting. Making the best of an impossible situation. That's not the same as choosing it."
"But you could choose it." He turns fully to face me. "You could decide that Adrian isn't who you want. That the life you had wasn't making you happy. That starting over here, with me, with Noah—that could be enough."
"I have a daughter."
"Who could join us eventually. When things settle, when Adrian moves on, when…"
"Adrian will never move on. And I will never choose this."
The words are certain.
"Even if you make me the most comfortable prisoner in the world, even if I laugh and relax and have moments of genuine connection with you—I will never choose captivity over freedom. I will never choose you over my daughter."
The truth lands between us like a stone.
Bellamy turns back to the railing. His shoulders sag slightly. For a long moment, he doesn't speak.
"I haven't thought past the fantasy," he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. "You're right. There is no endgame. There never was."
"So what now?"
"I don't know." He sounds exhausted, defeated. "I don't know."
We stand there in silence. The Old Town spreads out below us, beautiful and ancient and completely indifferent to the crisis playing out on this balcony.
"You could end it," I say softly. "Right now. Today. Just let me go. Drive me to the airport, put me on a plane home. Face whatever comes next knowing you at least did the right thing in the end."
"I'm not ready."
"When will you be ready? When Amelia's a year old? Two? When Noah asks why Miss Sophie left and you have to explain that you held me against my will?"
"I don't know." He's still not looking at me. "I just know I'm not ready yet."
The admission hangs in the air between us. He knows this is wrong, knows it can't continue. Knows there's no happy ending where I choose to stay and we all live happily ever after.
But he's not ready to let go of the fantasy. Not yet.
Even knowing it's destroying everyone. Even knowing Adrian is out there hunting for us. Even knowing that eventually—inevitably—this will end badly.
He's still not ready.
I look at him standing there, gripping the railing, shoulders tense, phone in his pocket vibrating with some notification he's too distracted to check.
Something is coming, I can feel it. Some shift that's about to happen whether Bellamy is ready or not.
The storm I sensed this morning is closer now, almost here.