Sophie’s POV
I wake to knocking on my door—just steady, measured knocks that pull me from sleep.
"Sophie?" Bellamy's voice. "Can I come in?"
I sit up, pulling the covers around me. "Yeah."
The door opens. Bellamy stands in the doorway, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. His hair is disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are red-rimmed.
He looks like he hasn't slept.
"You were right," he says without preamble.
I blink, still foggy from sleep. "What?"
He steps into the room, leaving the door open behind him. Not trapping me, not cornering me. Just standing there looking exhausted and broken and more vulnerable than I've ever seen him.
"About Olivia. About everything." His voice is rough, like he's been crying. Or screaming. Or both. "I've been trying to recreate something that's gone, and I've hurt everyone in the process. You, Adrian, Noah, Amelia... everyone."
I'm fully awake now, sitting up straighter. My heart starting to race.
"Bellamy…"
"I spent all night looking at photos of her. Really looking at them. Remembering who she actually was, not the version I've been using to justify this."
He gestures vaguely at the space between us. At the apartment. At the situation. "And she would hate what I've become. She would be horrified."
His voice breaks on the last word.
I don't know what to say. Don't know if this is real or another manipulation or…
"I need to take you home."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My eyes fill with tears before I can stop them. "What?"
"I'm taking you back." Bellamy's hands clench at his sides. "To Adrian, to your daughter. This was never right, and I... I can't keep doing this, can't keep pretending that if I just wait long enough, you'll choose to stay. That's not how this works, not how any of this works."
I'm crying now: full tears streaming down my face. Not sad tears. not happy tears, just... release.
"You were right about all of it. There's no endgame where this works out. No scenario where you fall in love with your captor and we all live happily ever after."
He continues, his own eyes are wet.
"I've been delusional, and I've hurt you. I've stolen time you can never get back with your daughter. I've put you through hell because I couldn't face my own grief properly."
"Bellamy," I try again, but I don't know what to say. Don't know what words exist for this moment.
"I'm sorry." The words are barely more than a whisper. "I know that doesn't fix anything. I know it doesn't give you back the time I stole. But I'm sorry. For all of it."
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Try to compose myself enough to speak coherently.
"When?" The word comes out thick with emotion.
He hesitates. "I need a few days to arrange things. Make sure Noah is settled somewhere safe before Adrian comes for me. Because he will come for me, won't he? The moment you're back."
"Yes." No point lying about that.
"I figured." He almost smiles. Almost. "I deserve whatever he does to me. Whatever the law does to me. I know that. I'm not trying to run. I just need to make sure Noah is okay first. That he's with Marie, or with Olivia's parents, or somewhere that isn't anywhere near me when everything falls apart."
"A few days," I repeat, testing the words. Trying to understand if this is real. If he means it.
"Soon." His voice is firm now, decided. "I promise. Then I'll drive you to the airport, put you on a plane home. And face whatever comes next."
I don't know whether to believe him. This could be another game. Another manipulation. Another way of keeping me compliant by dangling hope I'll never actually receive.
But something in his face tells me it's real—the exhaustion, the resignation. The way he's standing there like a man who's already accepted his fate.
"Why now?" I ask. "What changed?"
"I stopped lying to myself."
He leans against the doorframe.
"I stopped pretending that the moments we shared meant what I wanted them to mean. Stopped telling myself that your smiles were genuine instead of survival. Stopped convincing myself that Olivia would understand why I did this."
"And what did you realize?"
"That she'd be disgusted. That I've become exactly what I always feared. That you deserve your freedom more than I deserve... whatever fantasy I thought I was building here."
He takes a shaky breath. "That loving someone means letting them go. Even when it destroys you. Maybe especially when it destroys you."
The words hang in the air between us.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just sit there—me on the bed, him in the doorway—processing what this means.
"Thank you," I finally say. It feels inadequate. Insufficient. But it's all I have.
"Don't thank me." His voice is bitter. "Don't thank your kidnapper for finally doing the bare minimum decent thing after weeks of torture."
"I'm not thanking you for kidnapping me. I'm thanking you for letting me go."
"It's not the same thing."
"I know." And I do know. This doesn't absolve him, doesn't make what he did okay, doesn't erase the trauma or the lost time or the damage. But it means I get to go home. It means I get to see Amelia.
It means this nightmare is ending.
"A few days," Bellamy says again. "I just need to make sure Noah is safe. Then I'll take you to the airport myself. You have my word."
"Okay." I want to push for a specific date. Want to demand he take me today, right now, this instant. But I also understand that he needs to protect his son. That Noah is innocent in all this.
"Okay," Bellamy echoes.
He turns to leave, then pauses. Looks back at me.
"For what it's worth, and I know it's worth very little, the moments we shared? The conversations, the laughter, the connection? That was real for me. Even if it was survival for you, even if it meant nothing. It was real for me."
"I know," I say softly.
He nods. Then he's gone, the door closes quietly behind him.
I sit there on the bed, tears still streaming down my face, the stuffed lamb clutched to my chest.
For the first time in weeks, in over a month of captivity, I feel hope.
Real, tangible hope.
I'm going home. To Amelia. To Adrian. To my life.
Not because I escaped, not because Adrian found me. But because Bellamy finally, finally saw the truth and chose to let me go.
The irony isn't lost on me. All my planning, all my intelligence gathering, all my careful observation of routines and patterns—none of it mattered in the end.
What mattered was Bellamy's realization that you can't build love on the foundation of captivity.
I lie back down, still holding the lamb, still crying. But these are different tears now.
These are tears of relief, of anticipation. Of the beginning of the end.