Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 212

Bellamy’s POV

The car pulls up exactly on schedule. I watch through the cabin window as Marcus cuts the engine—same vehicle he's driven for fifteen years, same careful approach he's had since our Army days.

He opens the back door and Noah tumbles out, still half-asleep, clutching his backpack and the stuffed dinosaur he can't sleep without.

Marcus catches my eye through the window. One nod. We're good.

I step onto the porch as Noah spots me, his face lighting up in that way that still makes my chest tighten. He's groggy, confused about being woken up and driven somewhere in the middle of the night, but he's not scared. Not yet.

"Daddy!" He runs toward me, stumbling slightly over his own feet. I catch him, lifting him into my arms even though he's getting too big for it. He's warm and solid, and for a second I let myself just hold him.

"Hey, buddy. You okay?"

"Uncle Marcus said we're going on an adventure." Noah's voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Is it a camping trip? Did you bring the tent?"

"Something like that." I set him down gently, keep one hand on his shoulder as Marcus approaches with Noah's overnight bag.

Marcus stops a few feet away. His face is carefully neutral. "He ate two hours ago, fell asleep in the car." His voice is low. "Bell, you sure about this?"

"I'm sure."

"Once this gets out, there's no walking it back."

I know. "What’s done is done."

Marcus glances past me toward the cabin. His jaw tightens. "The kid doesn't need to see whatever's happening in there."

"I know how to take care of my son."

"Do you?" The question hangs heavy. "Make it make sense. Because right now, all I see is you throwing away everything for a woman who doesn't want you."

The words hit hard. "She doesn't know what she wants. Adrian's been controlling her. If she could just see clearly…"

"That's not your call to make." Marcus's voice stays quiet but there's steel underneath. "You took a woman on her wedding day. You know what that makes you."

I do. The word sits in my mind, heavy. Kidnapper.

"Thanks for bringing Noah."

Marcus stares at me, then shakes his head. "When this goes wrong, and it will, don't expect me to help clean up the mess."

He walks back to his car. I watch the taillights disappear and try to ignore the tightness in my chest.

Noah tugs on my hand. "Daddy, I'm tired. Can I go back to sleep?"

"Yeah, buddy. Let's get you inside."

I'd left the heat on, made sure his room was ready. Sophie isn't in the living room. I hear water running—she must be in the bathroom.

"Where are we?" Noah asks.

"A cabin in the woods. We're staying here for a little while."

"Like a vacation?"

The lie comes easily. "Yeah. Like a vacation."

"Is Miss Sophie here?"

I hesitate. "She's here. She's not feeling well though. We need to be extra nice to her, okay?"

Noah nods with simple trust.

I carry him to his room, help him into pajamas, and tuck him in. He's asleep within minutes, breathing soft and even.

I stand watching him sleep, and doubt creeps in. Marcus's words echo: The kid doesn't need to see whatever's happening in there.

What am I doing to him?

The bathroom door opens. Sophie's footsteps move toward the guest bedroom. I should check on her, make sure she's okay.

She's in the bedroom when I knock. "Sophie?"

"Go away." Her voice is hoarse.

I open the door anyway, staying in the threshold. She's changed into the clean clothes I left—jeans and a sweater. Her hair is wet, hanging in dark tangles. She looks small, fragile.

"I brought you some food." I hold up the tray. "You should eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Sophie, you…"

"I said I'm not hungry." She's by the window, arms wrapped around herself. "Where's Noah?"

"Asleep."

"You brought him here." Her voice shakes with fury. "You involved your son in this."

"He's safe. He doesn't understand what…"

Sophie cuts me off. "You're delusional if you think there's any version of this that doesn't end with you in prison and Noah in therapy."

The words find every weak spot. I set the tray down. "Just eat something. Please."

"Stop pretending you care!"

"I do care. That's why…"

"No. You care about what you want. But you don't actually care about me and what I want."

I can't make myself leave. "I know you're afraid, but given time, without Adrian's manipulation—you'll see this could be good."

Sophie stares at me, then laughs—broken and bitter. "You're worse than delusional. You're dangerous."

She moves toward the door. I reach out automatically to stop her. My hand closes around her wrist.

She flinches. Violently. Her whole body recoils, and I see real terror.

I release her immediately, hands raised. "I'm sorry…"

But she's backing away, breathing rapid. "Just leave me alone. Please."

I do this time. I leave the food and close the door. Standing in the hallway, I try to process what happened. She flinched from me. Like I was going to hurt her.

This is what I've become in her eyes—not a friend, but a threat. Something to fear.

The realization sits heavy, makes my stomach turn. I never wanted this, never wanted her to look at me the way she just did.

I check on Noah. He’s still sleeping, dinosaur fallen to the floor. I pick it up and tuck it beside him. Guilt settles deeper in me.

In the living room, I pull out my phone. The screen lights up: 47 missed calls from Adrian. Dozens of texts, each probably more frantic than the last.

I don't read them. I know what they say—threats, demands, promises of what he'll do when he finds us.

When, not if. Adrian will find us eventually—I know him well enough to know he won't stop. As much as I know how he loves and needs Sophie, even if he never admitted it out loud.

My lock screen catches my eye. Olivia, laughing, sunlight catching in her hair. Taken when she was seven months pregnant with Noah. Two weeks before everything went wrong during the delivery. Before I lost her.

I stare at her face, trying to remember exactly what her laugh sounded like. The specific way she'd tilt her head. The details are blurring at the edges. I'm losing her, have been losing her slowly for five years.

Sophie isn't Olivia, I know that. Sophie is sharper where Olivia was soft, more challenging where Olivia was accepting. Different in every way.

But sometimes, when Sophie smiles a certain way or turns her head at a particular angle, I see something that reminds me of what I lost. And in those moments, the desperate need to hold onto something good becomes almost unbearable.

I should change this photo, move on properly... replace it with something current, something that reminds me of where I am now instead of where I've been.

But I can't. Not yet.

I power down the phone completely, then pop out the SIM card—can't risk them tracking the signal, even powered off. I'll destroy it tomorrow, bury it somewhere far from the cabin. One more precaution in a plan built on precautions.

The screen goes dark.