Sophie’s POV
The procedures are clinical, impersonal.
Blood draws in a sterile room with fluorescent lights that make everyone look half-dead. Forms to fill out—name, date of birth, reason for testing.
The nurse doesn't meet my eyes when she asks if I understand what I'm consenting to. I sign where she points and try not to think about what the results might mean.
Waiting. Endless waiting in plastic chairs that squeak against the linoleum, surrounded by other people who are also waiting for answers that might change everything.
A woman across from me bounces a toddler on her knee. An elderly man reads the same magazine page over and over. Everyone is trapped in their own private limbo.
I go through it all mechanically. Let them take my blood, answer their questions, nod when they explain the timeline for results. My body is present, but my mind floats somewhere above it all, detached, protected.
Bellamy waits outside the entire time. When I finally emerge from the clinic, blinking against the harsh afternoon light, he's already moving toward the exit.
No questions about how it went, no small talk to fill the silence. Just efficiency—his long strides eating up the distance to the parking garage, expecting me to follow.
I do. But the silence between us has shifted. It's no longer hostile—it's heavy with something else. The weight of words I shouldn't have said, wounds I didn't know I was inflicting.
We're halfway to the car when I can't stand it anymore.
"I'm sorry."
The words come out quieter than I intended. Bellamy doesn't slow down, doesn't acknowledge that I've spoken at all. His shoulders remain rigid, his pace unchanged.
"About what I said in the car," I continue, forcing myself to keep talking even though every instinct screams at me to stop. "About your wife. I didn't know. I didn't mean to…"
"Don't." His voice is clipped, dismissive. A door slamming shut.
"I'm trying to apologize."
"I heard you. I don't need your sympathy." He still won't look at me, just keeps walking, keys already in his hand. "Save it for someone who wants it."
"Bellamy."
"Drop it, Sophie."
"No." I speed up, putting myself in his path, forcing him to stop or walk through me. "I mean it. What I said was cruel, and I'm sorry. I was angry and frustrated and I lashed out, and I hurt you. That wasn't okay."
He stops and finally turns to face me.
For a moment, I think I see something flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something softer. Then it's gone, replaced by that familiar wall of cold indifference.
"Your opinion," he says slowly, deliberately, "ranks at the very bottom of things I care about. Somewhere between the weather in countries I'll never visit and the dietary preferences of extinct animals."
He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a mildly interesting specimen. "Are we done with this touching moment? Because I have better things to do than stand in a parking garage collecting apologies I didn't ask for."
Something in me snaps. "You know what? I'm trying here." The words pour out before I can stop them, weeks of frustration finally finding an outlet.
"I'm trying to be decent, to acknowledge when I've done something wrong, and you can't even accept a simple apology without being a complete ass about it. What is wrong with you? Is being cold and dismissive your entire personality, or do you actually have to work at being this insufferable?"
Bellamy's expression doesn't change. He just stands there, arms crossed, letting me rant like I'm a storm he's waiting out.
"You've been judging me since the moment we met. Looking at me like I'm some stupid girl who made stupid choices and deserves whatever happens to her. You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through or why I've made the decisions I've made. But you've already decided I'm not worth basic human respect, so why should I bother—"
His gaze shifts past my shoulder.
The change is instantaneous. His entire body transforms—shoulders squaring, weight shifting to the balls of his feet, every muscle coiling like a spring ready to release. His eyes go flat and dangerous in a way I haven't seen before.
Before I can react, his hand closes around my arm. He yanks me behind him, positioning his body between me and whatever threat he's identified, one hand reaching toward his waistband in a motion that's clearly instinctive.
"Bellamy, wait!" I clutch his arm, trying to see past him. "I know him. Stop!"
A figure approaches across the parking garage. Tall, familiar, hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace.
Cassian.
Bellamy doesn't relax. His body remains coiled, ready, his eyes tracking Cassian's every movement with cold calculation. But he lets me step around him, positioning himself close enough to intervene if necessary.
"Sophie." Cassian's voice is cautious, his gaze flicking between me and the man who nearly attacked him. "I saw you go into the clinic earlier. I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"You followed her?" Bellamy's tone carries a clear threat.
"I was in the area. I saw her through the window." Cassian's attention stays on me, though I can see him registering Bellamy's presence with wary respect. "Who's your friend?"
"Security." I move toward Cassian, aware of Bellamy's disapproval radiating behind me. "Adrian arranged it."
"Ah." Something complicated passes across Cassian's face. "That's... actually smart. Given everything that's happened, you should have protection."
He pauses, seeming to weigh his next words. "I'm glad he's taking your safety seriously."
The admission surprises me. Cassian, supporting Adrian's decision. Acknowledging that his rival made the right call.
"How are you?" I ask, searching his face for signs of how he's coping. "Since the trial?"
"Managing." He attempts a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Taking things one day at a time. The job prospects aren't great when your name's been attached to a scandal, but I'm figuring it out."
"I'm sorry. For everything that…"
"Don't." His voice is gentle but firm. "You saved me, Sophie. Whatever else happened between us, you didn't have to do that, and you did. I won't forget it."
A moment of vulnerability passes between us—tender, complicated, honest. All the history we share, all the hurt and confusion and genuine care, compressed into a single look.
Before I can respond, Cassian reaches out. His fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Take care of yourself." His voice drops low, intimate. "Whatever the results show, my feelings won't change. You know that, right?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He holds my gaze for one more moment. Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the maze of parked cars without looking back.
I stand there, watching him go, feeling Bellamy's presence behind me like a weight.
"Well." Bellamy's voice cuts through the silence, dry and caustic. "Must be nice. Two potential fathers fighting over you, plus internet fame. You're really living the dream, aren't you?"
I turn to face him. The vulnerability I felt moments ago hardens into something colder.
"Fuck you." I walk past him toward the car, not waiting to see if he follows.