Page 16 of Captive Bride

As long as our past didn’t come looking for us in Delaware, I was almost sure we were safe.

Chapter Seven: Adriana

We were going to the hospital for a check-up.

I should have been happy, but I was just scared.

The hospital's sliding doors shuddered open with a whoosh, swallowing us whole. Tristan wheeled himself in, his broad shoulders squared against the frame of his chair, while I trailed behind, clutching our paperwork to my chest. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile. I missed the dim comfort of our home, but this—these check-ups—were non-negotiable.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist's voice cut through my thoughts, her smile mechanically friendly.

"Adeline O’Connell," I said, handing over the documents that Tristan had forged for me. "We have an appointment with Dr. Martens."

"Of course," she replied, typing swiftly. "If you'll just take a seat, she will be with you shortly."

Tristan nodded, maneuvering towards the designated area. The waiting room was a minefield of scattered toys and outdated magazines. We settled into a quiet corner, away from curious eyes that lingered a second too long on Tristan's wheelchair.

I could feel the weight of those gazes, heavy with unspoken questions about the man beside me. But they didn't know Tristan—the resilience beneath his calm exterior or the way his blue eyes could darken with determination, hinting at the complexities he concealed so well.

"Adeline? Ash?" A voice broke through the murmurs of the waiting room. I almost forgot those were our names, but Tristan nudged me so I looked up to see a woman approaching, her auburn hair a soft wave against her white coat. It was Dr. Martens, our neighbor from across the street…who also just happened to be my new obstetrician. I didn’t love it, but it was nice to have a presence that felt steady in our lives, even if that was all a fiction.

Her handshake was firm, her demeanor exuding confidence without a trace of arrogance—a rarity in our world. Refreshing, too.

"Nice to see you, Dr. Martens," I said, sensing Tristan's silent appraisal beside me.

"Please, call me Miranda. We’re neighbors after all," she insisted with a warm smile. "Shall we?"

As we followed her through the corridor, I couldn't help but notice how natural it felt to trust her. Maybe it was the way she matched her pace to ours, respecting Tristan's independence while offering support. Or perhaps it was the straightforward kindness in her eyes—something genuine in a realm where sincerity was often a carefully played card.

The sterile scent of antiseptic was the first thing that hit me as Miranda, Dr. Martens, guided us into the examination room. The walls were a calming shade of pastel blue, a stark difference from the opulence of our usual surroundings. The clinical environment always put me on edge, but today, there was more at stake than just my own discomfort.

"Alright, Mom, let's have you up here," Dr. Martens said, patting the cushioned exam table with a practiced smile. I obliged, hoisting myself onto the table with a grunt, feeling the twins shift within me like restless co-conspirators. Tristan parked his wheelchair close by, his presence a solid reassurance despite the quiet tension in his jaw.

"Let's see how these little ones are doing," she continued, her voice steady as she unfolded the tape measure with a flick of her wrist. She measured my belly, her touch professional yet gentle. I watched Tristan watch her, his eyes sharp, missing nothing—not the slight furrow between her brows nor the way her lips pressed together in thought.

"Strong heartbeats," she murmured, moving the Doppler across my skin, the sound of life thrumming through the room. As she listened, her expression shifted subtly—a change only someone like me, who lived a life reading others, would catch.

"Is there a problem?" Tristan asked before I could voice the question myself. His tone was level, but it carried the weight of a man used to getting straight answers.

"Your babies are healthy, but they're quite big for their gestational age, and from what you’ve said, their growth hasn’t slowed," Dr. Martens explained, her gaze meeting mine directly. "Given their size and your petite frame, I'm concerned about the risks of a traditional delivery."

"Are you saying..." My voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

"I recommend a C-section," she finished, her words clear and unflinching. "It’s the safest option for both you and the babies."

I searched Tristan's face for any sign of his thoughts. He'd faced down rival families, survived ambushes, and now, we were navigating this—our most personal battle yet. The idea of surgery made me feel vulnerable in a way I wasn't accustomed to, stripped of control, but if it meant safety for our children, I'd face it head-on. Tristan reached out, his hand finding mine, his grip firm.

“Now, I know some Moms have their hearts set on natural deliveries, but—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Whatever it takes.”

She smiled. "Look," she continued, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that left no room for doubt, "a c-section is not without risks, but it minimizes complications for you and the babies."

Tristan's hand tightened around mine, his silent strength a reminder of the fortress we had built together—a fortress that now extended to protect the fragile lives within me. His unwavering gaze told me he was with me, wheelchair or not.

“My concern is that we have no support network here,” Tristan interjected. “We’re…this is a new place to us, and our families are far, and, uh, unable to travel in time. I don’t know how it works, but I assume the recovery time is longer with a C-section, and I want to help, but…”

He looked around at his wheelchair.

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