7. Chapter Seven Adriana
Chapter Seven: Adriana
W e 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 The waiting room was a minefield of scattered toys and outdated magazines.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.
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.