Page 22 of Captive Bride

He smiled. “No, I meant a pro.”

“Like a shrink?” I scoffed, my instinctive reflex to reject the idea. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with. Now he wanted me to pour out my soul to some stranger?

“Or a counselor,” he suggested calmly, undeterred by my resistance. “Someone who specializes in trauma and loss, who can help you navigate this new reality."

My laughter was brittle, the sound echoing harshly off the tiled floor. "I don't need someone to tell me it's okay to feel like crap."

“No,” he agreed, surprisingly sincere. “You already know that. But maybe you need someone to stand with you while you figure out what else you’re feeling.”

His words stung because they were true. I was hurting, drowning in grief for all I had lost, but there was more lurking beneath the surface—that flicker of hope, the fierce determination that pushed me through each grueling therapy session.

“Look, a counselor won’t fix everything. They might not even fix anything. But they’ll give you the tools to fix yourself.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” he said. “It worked for me, so why wouldn’t it work for you?”

Because you weren’t born a mafia prince, I wanted to say, but of course I couldn’t actually say that. So all I could do was sit there and nod.

Chapter Ten: Tristan

We were waiting for a call from the hospital.

The shrill ring of Adriana's phone sliced through the cozy evening air, a sharp reminder that even in moments of seeming peace, life in The Callahan Domain was anything but ordinary. Even in fucking Delaware.

I watched from my spot on the floor, surrounded by planks and screws, as she moved with the grace of survival, her frame silhouetted against the fading light.

"Hello?" Her voice was the calm before a storm, a still surface hiding undercurrents of trepidation. As she listened, the lines of her face drew taut, etching the news deep into her expression—serious, somber, a silent narrative unraveling behind her guarded eyes.

"Six weeks," she murmured, a whisper meant for no one, yet it carried the weight of our intertwined fates. The call ended with a soft click, the finality of it echoing louder than any goodbye.

“Six weeks for what?” I asked.

“The C-section,” she said, then looked at her burner phone. “A Monday.”

She sank onto the couch, the cushions receiving her like an old friend, but there was no comfort in their embrace this time. Her mind was a fortress under siege, thoughts and emotions clashing behind the stoic barricade of her demeanor.

I rolled across the room in my chair, the soft hum of its wheels a stark contrast to the cacophony in my mind. Adriana's stillness was a silent alarm, signaling a storm I couldn't chart. Parking beside her on the couch, I studied her profile, the way her jaw set, eyes distant yet drowning in thought. "Ade, talk to me. Are you okay?" My voice betrayed the concern gnawing at my edges.

She turned to me slowly, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Her gaze was an open window into her soul—gratitude woven with strands of sorrow. "I'm as okay as I can be," she confessed, her voice a delicate thread fraying with vulnerability. It was a dance we had mastered; her stoicism met by my unwavering presence, both of us clinging to a semblance of normalcy in a life that was anything but.

I reached out, letting my fingers entwine with Adriana's, a silent offering of whatever solace I could give. "Is there anything I can do?" My question was an anchor thrown into the turbulent sea of her thoughts, hoping to steady her even for a moment.

“I can’t think of anything. I just wish I could stop thinking about all the things I’m worried about.”

I smiled. “I think I can help you with that.”

Her eyebrow arched in curiosity, a silent question amidst the chaos of her mind. She didn't need to say a word; I recognized that look, the slight lift of her brow that served as an invitation, a challenge.

With my wheelchair right in front of her, I reached for her face. I cupped her cheek and traced the outline of her jaw with my fingers. “You’re so beautiful. Are you ready to be a mom?”

She laughed. “No. Not at all.”

"But you'll be an amazing one," I reassured, my hand slipping from her cheek to rest on the swell of her stomach. She closed her eyes at my touch, and I saw the tension ease out of her.

She snorted softly, a rare moment of brevity in the midst of our churning worries. "You're biased."

"Maybe," I conceded, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. But then my voice dropped lower, a solemn whisper against the hush of the room. "But it doesn't make it any less true."

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