Page 17 of Captive Bride

Dr. Martens regarded Tristan thoughtfully, her gaze softening. "You're right," she admitted, her professional mask slipping for a moment to reveal the compassion beneath. "Support networks are crucial during this period. However, our clinic has excellent resources and a dedicated team that specializes in aftercare."

Tristan's brows knit together as he mulled over her words, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his armrest. My heart ached for him—the strong man who had been my rock in countless battles, now confined to a wheelchair with his mobility at the mercy of healing bones and time.

"And I recall when we met and you inquired about physical therapy," Dr. Martens continued, turning back towards her computer to pull up some information. "We have a top-notch program in the hospital that can help with your recovery as well."

Tristan nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. "Yeah. I have an appointment today with physical therapy," he admitted, his voice low.

Dr. Martens brightened at the news, looking genuinely pleased. She leaned back in her chair, her hands steepled together as she considered him. "That's excellent news," she said encouragingly. "Do you know what your prognosis is?"

Tristan hesitated for a moment before answering. "My physiatrist is hopeful. He thinks I'll be able to switch to crutches soon."

A smile spread across Dr. Martens's face, her eyes twinkling with a warmth that felt oddly comforting in the sterile environment. "That's remarkably lucky after a spinal injury," she admitted, her gaze flickering between us both. "I'm glad to hear it."

Of course, this woman had no idea that Tristan had gotten stabbed. She thought it was a car accident, a lie we'd fabricated to avoid unnecessary questions. Tristan nodded, throwing me a quick glance before turning his attention back to Dr. Martens.

"I know," Tristan said, his voice filled with a gratitude he rarely openly expressed. He looked over at me, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

“Okay," I finally said, meeting Tristan's determined gaze. "Schedule the c-section."

"Good choice," Dr. Martens smiled, her relief evident. She turned to her computer, clicking away as she arranged the necessary preparations. "We'll take great care of you both."

And that was that.

The C-section would be scheduled. The twins would be here sooner rather than later.

And everything was going to change.

Chapter Eight: Adriana

The wheels of Tristan's chair whispered across the hospital's polished floor, a soft soundtrack to our determined steps. I walked beside him, my thoughts tumbling like dice in a gambler’s cup—unsure but ready for the roll.

"Feeling ready for this?" I asked, glancing down at him.

"Born ready," he said, his voice carrying that casual confidence that always seemed to push back against any hint of doubt.

"Sure you are," I teased, bumping his shoulder gently with my hip. Our banter was an easy dance, a rhythm we fell into without thought.

"Listen, Ade," Tristan began, steering his wheelchair with one hand as he reached out with the other, touching my arm lightly. "You've got enough on your plate. Don't worry about me."

"Tristan," I chided, "I'll always worry about you. That's not going to change just because my belly decides to impersonate a beach ball."

He chuckled, the sound warm in the cool sterility of the corridor. "Fair point. But I've got this. Once they're done twisting me into a pretzel, I'll be back on my feet in no time."

"Your optimism is infectious," I replied, though a knot of concern still lodged itself in my throat. His recovery was as uncertain as the road we were walking, but I couldn't let that fear seep into my words. He needed my strength now, not my anxiety.

Tristan stopped suddenly, turning to look at me. “Hey, why don’t you go to the cafeteria and get yourself a cup of tea or something? Maybe a fun treat? I think they have Belgian waffles.”

“What? Why?”

"I just..." He hesitated, looking away from me and focusing his gaze on the polished marble floor. "I think I'd rather do this alone."

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I’d love to be with you while…”

“Ade, listen,” he said. “You’re around me all day, every day. You can see how hard this is. You’re seeing me struggle all day long, fighting to get myself a glass of water or trying to figure out how to navigate a tiny European-style kitchen in this wheelchair.”

I bit the inside of my lip. “I hate that kitchen.”

Tristan chuckled again, though it was tinged with a sadness I couldn’t bear to see. “We all do, love. But the point is, I’m working hard, and we’re both stressed. You’re worried about me. I’m worried about you worrying about me. It’s a vicious circle.”

---