11. Chapter Eleven Adriana
Chapter Eleven: Adriana
S omething was wrong.
I bolted awake, the clock's red numbers glaring back at me: 2:37 AM. The room was still, Tristan's breathing deep and even beside me. But inside, I was a mess of nerves, my pulse thudding in my ears. Twinges in my abdomen, sharp and unrelenting, yanked me from the comfort of sleep.
"Okay, Ade, just breathe," I murmured to myself, easing out from under the sheets. I tiptoed across the plush carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the bathroom door.
With each step, the twinges tightened, like a vice grip on my insides. Could this be it? My hand grazed the cool marble countertop as I steadied myself against another jolt of pain. Don't wake Tristan, not yet. He needed his rest.
"Come on, Adriana, you've handled worse," I whispered, trying to muster the bravado that had gotten me through countless meetings with wary eyes assessing my every move. But this...this was different. This was life, our life, making its untimely entrance, ready or not.
I glanced back at Tristan, his form shadowed in the darkness—a man whose strength and secrets were matched only by his fierce protectiveness. Soon, I'd need him, but for now, I'd let him sleep a few minutes more while I figured out if these were just false alarms or the real deal knocking at our door.
The silence of the night was a sheer curtain, one that seemed to close in around me as I sat on the edge of the bathtub. I had always been one to listen to my gut, to trust the instincts that so often whispered warnings beneath the din of family obligations. But now, those whispers were screams, each twinge a siren's call that something significant was shifting inside me.
I exhaled slowly, watching the fogged mirror reclaim clarity, revealing my face—a canvas of worry lines and wide eyes shadowed by uncertainty. This wasn't supposed to happen yet; six weeks early was too soon, even for twins known for their unpredictability. I pressed my palms against my abdomen, feeling the stirrings of life and the tightening grip of what I feared might be more than mere Braxton Hicks.
"Tristan," I breathed out his name like a talisman, hoping it would grant me strength. But there was no magic here, only the stark reality of a situation quickly spiraling beyond my control. I couldn't do this alone—not this time.
Rising with a steadiness I didn't feel, I padded back to our bedroom, where Tristan lay still ensconced in slumber. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of dreams I hoped were sweeter than the chaos about to unfold. "Tristan," I said again, this time a whisper meant to rouse rather than reassure.
"Tristan," I urged once more, my voice trembling as much as my hands when I reached out to shake his shoulder. My touch was light but insistent, a harbinger of the urgency that knotted my stomach.
His eyes fluttered open, the blue of them muted in the darkness but no less piercing. They found mine immediately, reading the fear written across my features like the pages of an open book he knew by heart. Concern etched his brow, and the corners of his mouth drew down, ready to ask questions I wasn't sure I had answers to yet.
"Something's wrong," I managed to say, my voice a frayed thread dangling between panic and the need to remain composed. There was no room for doubt now, not with lives—our children's lives—poised on the brink of a too-early beginning.
“What’s going on, love?”
"Hospital. I think we need to go."
“Okay,” he said. “Take a deep breath. Let’s see where we’re at.”
The blood pressure cuff was in his hands before I could blink, wrapped around my arm with practiced ease. His fingers were steady, but his jaw clenched as the numbers betrayed a truth neither of us wanted to admit—my blood pressure was high.
"Let's call ahead," Tristan said, his voice a low rumble of controlled concern. "They should know we're coming."
Nodding, another contraction clawed at me, ripping a breath from my lips. I grasped his hand, knuckles whitening as I fought through the pain. Every inhale was a battle, each exhale a shaky truce.
"Okay," I panted, "okay."
The phone felt like a lifeline in Tristan's hand as he punched in the hospital's number with a precision that belied the chaos churning within. "We might have an early labor situation," he stated, voice steady, gaze never leaving my contorted face. Another contraction was building, a mounting pressure that threatened to sweep away any remaining pretense of control.
"Adria…I mean, Adelaine O’Connell," he said into the phone, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, a silent reassurance amidst the storm of my fraying nerves. "Yes, twins. No, not due for six more weeks—but something's off."
I tried to focus on the pattern of his breathing—deep and even—to regulate my own erratic one. But it was a losing battle; pain crested within me once more, and I doubled over, a low groan escaping my lips. Tristan's arms were my sanctuary, wrapping around me in an embrace that was the epitome of his paradoxical nature—strong yet gentle, decisive yet fraught with anxiety.
"Can't talk...can you time them?" I managed between gritted teeth. His head dipped in a subtle nod, the blue of his eyes darkened by concern. He pulled out his phone, and I knew he was sliding into that role he played so well—the protector, the fixer. The bedside clock ticked away seconds that stretched into eternities, each minute marked by the tightening grip of another contraction.
"Three minutes apart, Ade," he murmured, the edge of fear sharpening his words. "They're coming faster." The cold reality of those words sent a shiver through me despite the pain's searing heat.
"Okay," I whispered back, clinging to the undercurrent of strength in his voice. "Okay, we can do this." But the question lingered unspoken between us: could we really, when everything was happening too soon and all at once?
The world tilted with the force of my contractions, each one a merciless wave attempting to drag me under. With Tristan's steady presence behind me, I fought through the haze of pain, clinging to his whispered count—three minutes apart.
"Could be Braxton Hicks," I gasped, trying to convince myself more than him. The room spun gently, the soft hum of suburban life from outside our window a cruel reminder of normalcy.
Tristan gave a tight nod, but his eyes betrayed his concern—a blue ocean in turmoil. "Just breathe, Ade," he coaxed, though his voice wavered like a leaf caught in the wind.
But as another contraction clenched my abdomen, white-hot and unyielding, I knew. "Fuck. What if they—what if—" The words tumbled out, steeped in fear. His arms tightened around me, his embrace a shield against the onslaught.
Panic clawed at my throat, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "I can't—I can't do this!" I cried out, the rational part of my mind receding as hysteria threatened to take hold.
"Hey, look at me," Tristan urged, his face swimming into my blurred vision. Concern etched deep lines across his brow, the usually composed features now etched with stark worry. "I've got you."
He reached for his phone with hands that were steady despite the chaos. Punching in 911, he spoke with an urgency that was foreign to his usually calm demeanor. "Okay. Yes, we need an ambulance.”
He rattled off our address, his voice a solid anchor amidst the storm raging within me.
"Contractions, three minutes apart," he said into the phone, then paused to comfort me with a gentle squeeze. "Yes, she's in a lot of pain. No, this is too early. Twins, six weeks early."
My heart hammered, each beat a drum in the silence of the night as I clutched at the bed sheets, drenched in a cold sweat. The pain came in waves, an unyielding tide that left me reeling with its intensity. Through the haze of fear, Tristan's voice was the only thing I could cling to—a lifeline in the chaos.
My heart hammered, each beat a drum in the silence of the night as I clutched at the bed sheets, drenched in a cold sweat. The pain came in waves, an unyielding tide that left me reeling with its intensity. Through the haze of fear, Tristan's voice was the only thing I could cling to—a lifeline in the chaos.
"Her contractions are less than three minutes apart," he relayed to the 911 operator, his words punctuated by my sharp intakes of breath. "They're getting stronger."
"Help is on the way, Ade. Just hold on," he said, turning to me, his eyes a beacon of strength. The love in his voice was a balm to my fraying nerves, even as another contraction seized me, wrenching a gasp from my lips.
"Something—something's not right," I managed to stammer out between clenched teeth, my mind racing with thoughts of our unborn twins. "It's too soon, Tristan, it's too soon!"
"Tell them something is happening!" I heard him say into the phone, urgency sharpening his tone. "She's due in six weeks. I just told you that!” Tristan practically screamed at the operator, his free hand finding mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
The room seemed to spin, and I fought to keep myself anchored to the moment. Anxiety gnawed at me, its teeth sinking deep as I envisioned every possible outcome. In this quiet Delaware suburb, where danger felt worlds away from Tristan's realm, the threat was now internal, unpredictable, and it shook me to my core.
A scream tore from my throat, raw and edged with the fear that had been mounting inside me. "Tristan, I think—I think I'm having these babies now!"
His arms were around me in an instant, strong and steady, the familiar scent of his skin cutting through the haze of panic. His phone was lost on the bed somewhere.
His voice was calm, but I could feel the tension in his body. "Okay, Ade, just breathe. We're going to get you help."
"Six weeks early," I gasped out, the pain splintering through me. Each contraction was a wave trying to pull me under, and I clung to Tristan as if he were my lifeline. The room spun, the soft hum of the Delaware night breaking against the chaos unfurling within me.
"Stay with me, baby." His words were a command, one that I latched onto with all the strength I had left. My mind scrambled for something solid, but found only the swirling torrent of what-ifs. Fear gnawed at me, relentless and hungry, but Tristan's presence was like a beacon in the storm.
The pain started again. I grit my teeth, trying not to scream. The pull of…nothingness…was so fucking appealing.
"Adriana!" Tristan's voice cracked like a whip, snapping me back to the present. "Help is coming, they're on their way."
"Too soon," I repeated, though I knew time held no sway over the urgency of life making its entrance. With each passing second, I felt a tug-of-war between dread and the fierce desire to see our twins safe in our arms. My body was a battleground, and I was both warrior and territory.
"Keep talking to me," he urged, his hand squeezing mine, his eyes never leaving my face. There was no room for doubt in his gaze; it was all unwavering support and love, the kind that could weather any storm.
"I'm scared," I admitted, the words barely audible over the crescendo of my own heartbeat in my ears.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice slicing through the fog of my agony. "You are the strongest person I know. You've got this, and I'm right here with you." His affirmation was more than words; it was a vow, a declaration that we were in this together, no matter how treacherous the path ahead.
As another contraction hit, I leaned into him, my head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It was a drumbeat of life amidst the uncertainty, a reminder that even in the darkest hours, there was a pulse of hope flickering stubbornly within the shadows.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “You’ll be okay. I promise.”
I didn’t believe him.