Sophie’s POV
I'm helping Bellamy pack.
The suitcase is open on the bed in my room—the room that's been my prison for over a month. My clothes—the ones he bought me, the ones I've worn through captivity—are being folded neatly and placed inside.
Toiletries gathered from the bathroom. The few belongings I've accumulated during these strange, traumatic weeks.
This morning, Bellamy came to my door and said the words I've been waiting to hear: "Today is the day. I'm taking you home."
He's finally letting me go. After all the conversations about Olivia, after looking at photos together, after his realization that this was never going to work—he's actually doing it. Today. Now.
We work in quiet coordination. He hands me a sweater, I fold it and place it in the suitcase.
I gather my toothbrush and shampoo from the bathroom, he packs them into the side pocket. Back and forth, efficient, almost practiced even though we've never done this before.
There's a strange peace between us now that the decision has been made.
No more tension about what comes next. No more uncertainty about whether he'll actually follow through. No more pretending this could be something it never was—a happy family, a chosen relationship, anything other than captivity.
Just two people working toward the same goal: getting me home to Amelia and Adrian and my life.
The surreality of the moment isn't lost on me.
I'm packing a suitcase with my kidnapper. Planning my departure like it's the end of a normal visit instead of the conclusion of a nightmare. Making small talk about logistics like we're friends instead of victim and captor.
But that's what Stockholm syndrome looks like, I suppose. The ability to stand in a room with someone who destroyed your life and feel something other than pure hatred.
To understand their motivations even while condemning their actions. To see them as a person instead of a monster, even though what they did was monstrous.
I don't forgive him, I'll never forgive him. But I understand him. And that understanding is its own kind of prison, separate from the physical one I'm finally escaping.
"What will you do?" I ask, folding a pair of jeans. "After."
Bellamy doesn't look up from the suitcase. "Disappear. Take Noah somewhere Adrian can't find us. Start over."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. Somewhere remote, somewhere I can give Noah a decent life away from this." He pauses, looking at me. "I know I deserve whatever Adrian wants to do to me. But Noah doesn't deserve to lose his father too. Not after already losing his mother."
There's genuine anguish in his voice, real fear for his son.
"So I'm going to disappear before Adrian can find me," he continues. "Let him have you back, but keep my son out of it."
I understand. Even now, I understand his need to protect Noah.
"He won't stop looking for you," I say quietly. Not a threat—just the truth.
"I know." Bellamy goes back to packing. "But at least you'll be home. At least Amelia will have her mother back. Maybe that's enough."
"It doesn't balance everything out. But it matters."
We continue packing in silence after that. The apartment that's been my prison is being systematically dismantled around us. Evidence of my presence being erased with each item placed in the suitcase.
I reach for the stuffed lamb on my nightstand. The one Bellamy gave me that day at the café, when we were pretending to be a normal couple out for lunch. The one that looks almost like Amelia's lamb back home.
I fold it carefully and place it in the suitcase with my clothes.
"You're taking it?" Bellamy asks, surprised.
"For Amelia."
I smooth the lamb's soft fabric one more time before covering it with another shirt.
"A strange memento of the strangest, most traumatic weeks of my life. But she should have it. Something to help explain where Mama was, maybe. When she's old enough to understand what happened."
Or maybe I just want something tangible from this nightmare. Proof that it happened, that I survived it. That even in captivity, there were small moments of kindness mixed in with the horror.
Bellamy nods slowly, doesn't comment further. Just continues packing in that same mechanical way, like he's trying not to think too hard about what comes next.
"How long until we leave?" I ask, glancing at the suitcase that's nearly full now.
"Soon. I need to take Noah to Marie's house. Make sure he's settled with her and doesn't suspect anything is wrong. Then I'll come back here, pick you up, and drive you straight to the airport. Put you on the first flight to New York."
He zips the side pocket closed. "You'll be home by tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
Home. The word feels surreal, like something from a dream I had weeks ago and am only now remembering.
Home to my apartment, to Amelia's nursery, to Adrian and my parents and Cleo and everyone who's been searching for me.
The apartment door crashes open. The sound is explosive, violent. Wood splintering as it slams against the wall with tremendous force.
I spin around, heart jumping into my throat, the stuffed lamb falling from my hands.
And there he is—Adrian. In the doorway of the apartment, standing there in the morning light like some kind of avenging angel.
For a fraction of a second, just a fraction, I think I'm hallucinating. That the stress and anticipation of finally going home has made me imagine him here. Made my mind conjure him because I want so badly to see him.
Because it's impossible. We're in Geneva. Bellamy covered his tracks completely. Adrian couldn't have found us. The odds are astronomical.
But he's real—solid and breathing hard and radiating rage so intense I can feel it from across the room.
His eyes are wild, his jaw is clenched. His entire body is coiled with violence barely contained.
Time stops.
"Adrian," I breathe, not believing my own eyes even as I'm seeing him. Even as every detail registers—the familiar lines of his face, the set of his shoulders, the way he's standing like he's about to go to war.
Everything freezes in this moment. The half-packed suitcase on the bed. The stuffed lamb at my feet. Bellamy standing beside me with a shirt in his hands. The morning light streaming through the windows.
All of it suspended in this impossible collision where my captor and my fiancé occupy the same space for the first time since the wedding day.
But Adrian's not looking at me. He's looking at Bellamy.
And the expression on his face—I've never seen anything like it. Not in all the time I've known him. Pure, undiluted rage. The kind that burns away everything else. The kind that makes violence not just possible but inevitable.
"Adrian…" I start to say something. Anything. Some explanation of what he's seeing. That we were packing to leave. That Bellamy was letting me go. That this isn't what it looks like.
But he doesn't hear me. In two strides, he's across the room, covering the distance with terrifying speed.
His fist connects with Bellamy's jaw before anyone can react.