Page 12 of Captive Bride

The low winter sun slanted through the curtains, laying a golden sheen over the living room where Adriana and I sat together, our voices rising in a heated exchange that clashed with the serenity of the scene.

Amber and David Miller were gone.

But this conversation…this had just started.

The chill from the glass panes was a cold whisper against the warmth inside our Delaware home, the sunlight casting long shadows across the floor as it began to retreat, heralding the evening's approach.

"Ade," I said, my voice firm but trying not to let frustration seep into it too much, "you can't just go around telling people our real names. It’s like painting targets on our backs."

Her hands were on her hips, her short, dark hair framing her face in defiance as she shot back, "They're neighbors, Tristan, not hitmen. I need to talk to some normal people.”

I could hear the distant hum of traffic outside—the suburban calmness a stark reminder of how different this world was from the one we left behind. But even here, even now, old habits clung like shadows in the twilight. Adriana felt it too; I could see it in the way her gaze drifted toward the window, her fingers idly tracing the frame.

"Look, I get it. We don’t know anyone here. You’re probably lonely. But we agreed on discretion for a reason.”

The setting sun dipped below the horizon, its departure leaving the room dimmer, the warmth fading with the light. Silence fell for a moment, only the distant sounds of life outside penetrating the stillness of our home. It was a peaceful place, this quiet suburb, a stark contrast to the life we had known before.

If Adriana was right and our new neighbors weren’t actually hitmen.

“I don’t regret it,” she said. “They seem nice.”

I paced back and forth in my wheelchair, the squeak of its wheels over the plush carpet a jarring soundtrack to my agitation. Each turn felt like a tightening coil, frustration mounting with every change in direction.

"Adriana," I started, stopping short as my gaze fell on a book perched high on the shelf—a book that promised a momentary escape from this cage of tension. David had taken it out to play with the spine, to read the author’s name.

Circeby Madeline Miller.

He couldn’t see it from across the room. And it was crooked and it needed to be fixed. He hadn’t put it back properly, he hadn’t pushed it all the way in, and I was sure it was going to fall.

Reaching out was futile; even as my fingers grazed the spine, I knew it was too far up, too far out of reach for someone in my condition. Still, stubbornness drove me to stretch further, the wheelchair groaning in protest.

And then, as if to mock my efforts, a glass of water teetered precariously at the edge of the nearby end table, a casualty of my exertion. With a pathetic clink, it surrendered to gravity, sending a mini cascade across the polished wood surface and onto the floor.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, staring at the spreading puddle. It was just water, but to me, it looked like defeat.

Adriana kneeled down to clean it up. Her hair fell forward, shielding her expression from view as she mopped up the spill. A heavy silence settled between us, thick as the tension that had sparked our argument. I watched from my chair, feeling simultaneously guilty for causing the mess and irritated at my own helplessness.

"Tristan," she finally said without looking up, "I know we have to be cautious, but we can't imprison ourselves in fear."

I slammed my hand on the armrest of my wheelchair, a hollow echo bouncing off the walls of our quiet Delaware home.

"Seriously, I think you need to chill out," Adriana said. She sounded more defeated than angry.

"Chill out?" My voice rose, and I could feel the heat of anger flushing my cheeks. "You think this is about me needing to 'chill'? You revealed our real names to the neighbors, Ade. Our names. Don’t you get it? Anonymity is our shield!"

“I do get it. Despite what you might think, I’m not an idiot,” she replied. Her eyes, those deep pools that I'd fallen into time and again, held mine with a resolve I knew all too well. "They're just people, Tristan. Friendly. They brought over a welcome basket, for heaven's sake."

"Exactly!" I shot back, trying to keep my hands from shaking. "They're people who might want more than just to borrow a cup of sugar. You know what we left behind. What if they start asking questions?"

Adriana let out a sigh, and I could see her will battling against my paranoia, the same way my body fought against its physical limitations every single day.

"Tristan, we can't live like ghosts. We have new lives here. I..." Her voice trailed off, and I could see the plea in her gaze, silently begging me to understand. But understanding was a luxury I couldn't afford—not when every knock on the door could be the past, or worse, death, coming to greet us.

I forced myself to soften my tone, despite how much I wanted to scream.

"Adriana, you're not seeing the full picture here," I said, my frustration growing as I maneuvered my wheelchair closer toher. "They could be anyone, connected to anything. We don't know their intentions."

She shook her head, the evening light casting a soft glow on her determined face. "They're just neighbors, Tristan. Amber and David Miller are nothing but a nice couple. She seemed super sweet. And honestly, I need a friend."

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