Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 214

Sophie’s POV

Day two.

I know it's day two because I've been counting. Counting hours, counting meals I refuse, counting the number of times Bellamy knocks with food I won't touch.

The bedroom has become my entire world: four walls, one window that won't open, a door that locks from the outside.

I sit on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest, and stare at nothing. This is my only power—to refuse. To resist.

The wedding was supposed to be yesterday. Adrian was waiting at the church. Two hundred guests watching him stand at the altar alone.

Does he think I left him? Or does he know Bellamy took me?

And Amelia… My throat closes every time I think about her. She's taken care of, I’m sure—so many wonderful people around her. But she needs her mother. She needs me.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears.

A knock on the door—soft, careful. "Sophie? I brought you lunch."

I don't answer. Haven't answered since yesterday when I told him to leave me alone.

"It's just a sandwich and some fruit. You need to eat something."

I answer with silence. I hear him sigh on the other side of the door. "I'm going to leave it here, okay? It'll be outside whenever you're ready."

His footsteps retreat down the hallway. I stay exactly where I am.

This is what I can control—not the locked door, not the windows—but what goes into my body. I can refuse to cooperate.

It's a hunger strike, the only weapon I have left.

The last thing I ate was breakfast yesterday morning. Two bites of toast before my stomach twisted with nerves. I was supposed to be getting married.

Instead, I'm here.

The afternoon crawls by. I hear Noah's voice downstairs—bright, cheerful, unaware. He thinks this is a vacation.

I hate that Bellamy lied to him, I hate that a child is involved. But it's not Noah's fault, and yet I can't face him, can't pretend everything is okay.

Another knock a few hours later—dinner, probably.

"Sophie, I know you're upset and angry, but you need to eat. Please, at least a few bites."

I close my eyes and say nothing. Bellamy's voice goes quieter. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I just need you to understand that."

The footsteps leave again.

By evening, the hunger isn't just uncomfortable—it's acute, sharp, making my head light and my vision swim. I haven't moved in hours, haven't had water since last night.

Stupid. I'm punishing myself more than him. But I can't give in.

I need the bathroom—the thought hits with uncomfortable urgency. I stand slowly, using the wall for support. The room tilts. I blink hard, wait for it to steady.

The hallway is empty. Voices downstairs—Bellamy and Noah, probably. The bathroom is three doors down.

Two steps out and the dizziness slams into me. The floor rushes up.

Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.

"Whoa, I've got you." Bellamy's voice, close to my ear. "It's probably from exhaustion. I told you you should eat. Should I cook you something specific?"

I try to push away from him but I'm too weak, too dizzy, and he's holding me up like I weigh nothing. "Let me go."

"You're going to pass out."

"I said let me go!"

"Miss Sophie?" Noah's voice, small and frightened, from the bottom of the stairs. "Daddy, what's wrong with Miss Sophie?"

I feel Bellamy tense. He adjusts his grip, clearly intending to carry me back to the bedroom.

"I can walk," I manage, even though we both know it's a lie.

"No, you can't." But he doesn't move yet, doesn't force anything. "Noah, buddy, can you go back to the living room? I'll be right there."

"Is Miss Sophie sick?"

"She's just not feeling well. I'm going to help her, okay?"

Small footsteps retreat. I hear the TV turn back on.

Bellamy shifts, and suddenly I'm being lifted. I'm too dizzy to fight, too weak to do anything but let him carry me. Not to the bedroom—to the kitchen.

He sets me down carefully at the table, one hand staying on my shoulder like he's afraid I'll fall off the chair. I probably would.

"Stay here." It's not a command, just a plea.

I watch through blurry vision as he moves around the kitchen. Opening the fridge, pulling out containers. He returns with a plate—crackers, cheese, sliced apple. Simple, non-threatening food.

"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, have you?" He crouches beside my chair so we're at eye level. "Before the wedding. You were too nervous to eat."

I don't answer, but my stomach chooses that moment to cramp painfully. The smell of food is making me nauseous and ravenous at the same time.

"Sophie, please. You don't have to talk to me or forgive me, but you need to eat something."

He picks up a cracker, holds it out. Waits. Pride wars with survival instinct. I want to knock the cracker out of his hand, to tell him to go to hell, to maintain my resistance.

But I'm so dizzy I can barely sit upright.

I take the cracker, my hands shake as I bring it to my mouth. It tastes like cardboard and salvation at the same time.

Bellamy doesn't move, doesn't speak, just stays crouched beside my chair watching me with an expression I can't read. Concern, maybe guilt. Something that looks almost like pain.

I eat another cracker. Then a piece of cheese. Then apple.

Bellamy gets me water, holds the glass steady when my hands shake too much. The care in every movement—the way he doesn't rush me, doesn't force anything, just stays close enough to help if I need it—makes something in my stomach twist.

Not hunger this time, but something worse. Conflict.

Because this is the man who kidnapped me on my wedding day. Who took me from my daughter, from my life, from everything. And yet here he is, making sure I eat, looking at me like I'm something precious and fragile that might break.

I hate it. Hate him for it. Hate myself for noticing.

When the plate is half-empty and the dizziness starts to recede, I push back from the table. Stand on shaky legs.

"Thank you," Bellamy says quietly.

I don't respond. Saying "you're welcome" would be insane, and saying anything else would require engaging with him, and I can't do that.

I walk back to the bedroom on my own, even though each step feels precarious. Even though I feel his eyes on me the whole way, ready to catch me if I fall again.

The door closes behind me. I lock it from the inside—the one lock I control—and sink onto the bed.

I ate. I gave in. I let him help me.

It feels like losing, even though I know logically that starving myself wouldn't accomplish anything except making myself weaker.

But I kept my distance. Didn't speak to him beyond what was necessary. Didn't let him see how much his care affected me.

That has to count for something.

I pull the blanket over myself and close my eyes, trying not to think about how gentle Bellamy's hands were when he caught me. Trying not to remember the look in his eyes when he made sure I ate.

Trying not to feel the confusing twist in my chest that won't go away.