Sophie’s POV
Three weeks have passed.
I've settled into a rhythm I never wanted but can't escape. The days blur together in a haze of routine—wake up, shower, eat breakfast under Bellamy's watchful eye, retreat to Adrian's study to pretend I'm still a normal student living a normal life.
My world has shrunk to the size of this apartment.
The Independent Study program structures my days with lectures streamed to my laptop, assignments submitted through the university portal, video calls with advisors who look at me with thinly veiled curiosity.
They never ask directly about the scandal, about the pregnancy, about why I'm completing my degree from a wealthy man's apartment instead of a campus dorm. But I see the questions burning behind their professional smiles.
I work from Adrian's study when he's out—which is often, these days, always meetings and business he won't explain. When he's home, I migrate to the living room, spreading my books across the coffee table like I'm claiming territory.
The apartment has become my classroom. My prison. My entire world. And Bellamy is always there.
He shadows me to doctor's appointments, a silent presence in waiting rooms, his eyes scanning every entrance and exit like he's expecting an attack at any moment.
He waits outside the bathroom when I take too long. Follows me onto the balcony when I step out for fresh air, positioning himself between me and the railing as if I might throw myself over.
He doesn't speak unless necessary. Doesn't engage beyond clipped professional exchanges. But his presence is constant, suffocating, a reminder with every breath that I'm not trusted to exist without supervision.
I push back at every opportunity.
I take longer routes through the apartment just to make him walk more, circling through the kitchen to reach the living room when the hallway would be faster.
I close doors in his face, savoring the small satisfaction of making him wait. I ask pointed questions I know he won't answer, needling at his walls just to watch them hold.
"Did you sleep at all last night, or do you just stand in the corner charging like a robot?"
"Classified."
"What exactly are you watching for? Assassins? Paparazzi? Rogue journalists with telephoto lenses?"
"All of the above."
"Has anyone ever told you that you have the conversational skills of a brick wall?"
"Several people. I considered it a compliment."
Our exchanges are barbed—my frustration meeting his indifference, sparking into something hostile and exhausting. Neither of us enjoys it. Neither of us stops.
One afternoon, I'm struggling with an essay on post-colonial literature, my laptop screen blurring as I try to construct an argument about cultural displacement that doesn't sound like every other essay written on the subject.
The cursor blinks at me mockingly. I've written the same sentence three times and deleted it twice.
Bellamy appears in the doorway. Checking on me. Again. For the hundredth time today.
"Still alive," I say without looking up. "Still breathing. Still not spontaneously combusting. You can go back to your post."
"Spontaneous combustion would at least make my job interesting." His voice is dry, flat. "The most exciting thing that's happened this week was you burning toast yesterday."
I look up, irritation flaring. "Maybe if you weren't constantly hovering, I could focus enough to not burn toast. Has that occurred to you? That your presence is the problem, not the solution?"
"My presence is keeping you safe."
"Your presence is driving me insane." I slam my laptop shut harder than necessary.
"I can't think with you watching me all the time. I can't write, I can't study, I can't do anything without feeling your eyes on the back of my head. It's like living with a surveillance camera that judges me."
"I don't judge you."
"You absolutely judge me. Every time I eat something you don't approve of, every time I stay up too late, every time I do anything that doesn't fit your definition of appropriate pregnant woman behavior—I can feel you disapproving."
"That's paranoia." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I don't care what you eat."
"You made a face when I had ice cream for breakfast."
"That wasn't judgment. That was a concern for basic nutrition."
"See? Judging!" I grab the nearest throwable object—a decorative pillow from the couch—and hurl it at his head.
He catches it without blinking. Doesn't even flinch. Just plucks it out of the air like he's been expecting exactly this reaction, his expression unchanged.
"Feel better?"
"No." I slump back against the couch. "Give it back. I might need to throw it again."
He tosses the pillow onto the chair beside him. "I'll be in the kitchen. Try not to set anything on fire while I'm gone."
"I make no promises."
He disappears, and I'm left alone with my half-written essay and my mounting frustration. The apartment feels smaller every day, the walls closing in, the weight of everything I've lost pressing down until I can barely breathe.
***
When Adrian comes home, he finds me curled up on the couch with a book I'm not really reading. He sets down his briefcase, loosens his tie, and crosses to press a kiss to my forehead.
"How was your day?"
The question is casual, routine. He asks it every evening, and every evening I give him the same answer.
"Fine." I manage a smile that feels hollow even to me. "Got some work done on my essay. Attended a video lecture. The usual."
"And Bellamy? Is he behaving himself?"
I glance toward the kitchen, where I can hear the faint sounds of Bellamy doing whatever it is he does when he's not actively shadowing me. "He's fine. We're fine. Everything's fine."
Adrian studies my face for a moment, and I wonder if he can see through the lie. If he knows that fine is the furthest thing from what I feel.
But he just nods, accepting my answer at face value. "Good. I'm glad it's working out."
And speaking of the devil. Bellamy appears in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment—and he says nothing.
Doesn't contradict my lies, doesn't mention the pillow I threw at his head or the dozens of small battles we've fought throughout the day. He just stands there, silent, letting me have my fiction.
That night, I lie awake in the darkness.
Adrian sleeps beside me, his breathing deep and even, one arm draped across my waist. The city glows outside the window, a million lights belonging to a million people living lives that don't involve scandals and bodyguards and impossible choices.
My hand moves to my stomach, pressing against the swell that's become impossible to hide. The baby shifts beneath my palm—a flutter, a reminder, a question I don't know how to answer.
The paternity results should arrive any day now. The clinic said two to three weeks, and we're past that window. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart seizes in my chest. Every email notification feels like a grenade about to detonate.
Adrian is the father. That's what I've been telling myself. What I need to believe. The timing, the circumstances, everything points to him.
But Cassian's voice echoes in my memory. Whatever the results show, my feelings won't change.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to sort through the tangled mess of my own heart.
Which outcome am I hoping for?
Adrian's child would mean certainty. A clear path forward, a family built on the foundation we've already laid, for better or worse. It would mean Cassian disappears from my life entirely, as he promised.
But Cassian's child would mean... what? Complication. Impossible choices. A reason to reconsider everything I've committed to.
Would that be a relief, some small part of me whispers. Would it be permission to escape?
I don't know. I still don't know.