Page 20 of Captive Bride

Chapter Nine: Tristan

The chill of the therapy room was a sharp contrast to the warmth I'd left behind in the Callahan manor, yet here I was, willing my body to respond, to heal. The therapist's footsteps echoed like gunshots in the quiet as he closed the distance between us, each step a countdown to the moment of truth.

"Mr. O’Connell," he greeted me with that curt nod I’d come to expect, not an ounce of softness in his towering frame.

"Time to stretch out those muscles," he instructed, eyes scanning the notes on his clipboard before they met mine. There wasn't an ounce of doubt in his voice, and for a fleeting second, it bolstered my own resolve.

"Let’s get to it then," I replied, trying to inject some semblance of confidence into my tone. I swung my legs around, planting my feet firmly on the ground, ready to face whatever painwas necessary for the promise of walking through my territory unaided once again.

I could feel the weariness in my limbs as I began to stretch, coaxed into motion by the therapist's watchful eye. My arms extended first, reaching towards the sterile ceiling, fingers splayed as if trying to grasp something just out of reach. The pull along my biceps was a familiar burn, one that spoke of countless hours spent defending what was mine.

"Good. Now your legs," he directed, impassive as ever.

I shifted my focus, bracing myself for the sharp protests my body would soon unleash. The first stretch was a test of will, my leg extending forward with a trepidation that mirrored my internal struggle. There was a grimace etched onto my face, a silent acknowledgment of the pain blossoming through my recovering sinews.

"Push through it," the therapist urged, his voice a commanding presence in the room.

And push I did, because capitulation wasn't in my nature—not in business, not in life, and certainly not in this small room where every ounce of progress was fought for with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Every wince was a battle cry, every strained tendon a declaration that I was still here, still fighting. My family's legacy demanded nothing less.

My children demanded nothing less.

But fuck, this was hard.

My spine screamed in protest as I forced my legs into the air, one after the other, like leaden weights tethered to my will. Leg lifts, he called them—deceptively simple, agonizing in execution.

"Up again," he commanded, and I obliged, pushing against the invisible force that seemed hell-bent on keeping me grounded.

Each lift was a trial by fire, the heat of effort igniting along my spine, a fiery reminder of the fragility of flesh and bone. But I was Tristan Callahan; I wouldn't bend to the whims of pain. My jaw set in determination, I faced each challenge with an unyielding resolve, the stubbornness that had served me well in the boardroom now my ally in this battle for recovery.

"Knee bends now," he instructed, his tone betraying none of the urgency that clawed at my insides.

I shifted, attempting to mimic his demonstration. My muscles quivered, the strain radiating up my back, but I pressed on, each contortion a testament to my resilience. Sweat beaded on my brow, every drop a marker of exertion as I fought through the crippling discomfort.

"Nice work," he said, and I almost laughed at the normalcy of his praise amidst my inner turmoil. “Okay. We’re going to move on to something hard. Are you ready?”

“Wait, what was that, then?”

“That was easy,” he said, a smirk on his face. “C’mon. You’re up for the challenge, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, man. Always.”

I didn’t feel up for the challenge. But I knew I had to do it.

The bar was cold under my hands, a stark contrast to the sweat slicking my palms. "Stand," the physical therapist said, his voice echoing off the sterile walls of the therapy room. It was time for something new, something terrifying.

"Ready?" he asked, his hands braced on my shoulders.

I nodded once, sharply. My heart thrummed in my chest, a traitor's drum calling me to face an old enemy—gravity. I pushed off from the table, feeling every muscle fiber protest. The world seemed to tilt, but his grip steadied me.

"Take it slow," he advised, as I placed one trembling foot in front of the other, my legs threatening to buckle.

The bar was my lifeline, my fingers wrapped around it so tight I could feel the imprint of the metal biting into my skin. Each step was a battle, my body waging war against itself, a struggle no one could understand unless they've been where I stood.

"Keep going, Ash," the physical therapist urged, his voice a tether pulling me forward through the fog of exertion clouding my mind. It would’ve been better if he used my real name, but I didn’t mind that much.

The encouragement helped all the same.

The bar felt cold under my grip, a stark contrast to the sweat beading at my temples. I could feel every strained muscle in my legs as I shuffled forward, each step a shaky testament to weeks of grueling therapy and exercises at home.

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