Chapter 33
CLAYTON.
Long before he became the country's youngest decorated general, Clayton Bradford had always been a boy who struggled to express what he felt. He wasn't born without feelings. He simply didn't know how to wear them where the world could see.
When he was six, the jagged edge of a stone sliced deep into his knee. Blood poured freely from the wound, staining his socks. The pain stung enough to make his eyes water and yet he did not shed a single tear.
Weirdly enough, he pushed himself to his feet and limped up the stairs to his parents room. The sight of blood running down his leg was enough to make even his ever-imperturbable mother almost pass out in fear.
If his first accident had taught him anything, it certainly wasn't caution.
Four years later, curiosity led him into trouble once again.
At ten years old, he ignored his father's repeated warning and climbed a half-built treehouse while no one was around.
A thin branch cracked beneath his weight, and he plunged to the ground.
The impact snapped his arm. Agony shot through him, fierce enough to make any child scream, yet not a sound escaped his lips.
He merely cradled the injured arm against his chest and walked calmly to his father, explaining in an even voice what had happened.
It was the only time he ever saw his father's composure shatter.
The color drained from his old man's face until he was as pale as a white sheet.
Since then, his parents lived with a quiet fear that something was wrong with him. What child remained so composed after getting hurt? What child buried every feeling so deeply that not even pain could draw tears from his eyes?
They sought out the best child psychologists, psychiatrists, and behavioral specialists. They even enrolled him in counseling. But after everything, however, they all reached the same conclusion that there was nothing wrong with him.
He feels pain. He feels sadness. He feels joy. He simply doesn't express those emotions the way most children do.
His parents finally stopped trying. They came to accept that he was simply different.
Years passed by, that quiet reserve never left him. If anything, life only honed it into discipline. The little boy who never cried became the man who could face bullets without flinching, shoulder unbearable burdens without complaint, and hide every wound behind an unreadable expression.
But he never knew the very qualities that earned him the nation's highest honors and shaped him into an exceptional soldier would, in the end, cost him the person who had mattered most.
The irony was almost cruel. Clayton Bradford-the man who had spent his life protecting the country and saving lives could not save his own marriage. The man who had conquered every battlefield was ultimately defeated by the one battle that raged inside his own heart.
Tonight, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey by his side, he stared at the moonlit pool, contemplating the greatest mistake of his relatively short life: failing to save the one woman he had stood before God and vowed to cherish and protect.
Unable to bear the weight of those thoughts any longer, he drew in a deep breath and slipped into the inviting pool, hoping to clear his head. Unfortunately, the icy water brought no peace. The moment his body was submerged, memories of that fateful day came rushing back with brutal clarity.
He drew one slow, measured breath before plunging his head beneath the water. The world above vanished behind a veil of rippling blue as he let himself sink.
Seconds stretched into an eternity. Every instinct screamed at him to swim to the surface, yet he remained still, even as black spots crept across his fading vision and his heartbeat slowed into heavy, uneven thuds.
Fear and uncertainty came with being submerged for far too long, but it was the realization of what she must have endured that struck him without warning.
The relentless burn in her lungs. The crushing ache for air as her world narrowed to the desperate instinct to survive. She must have searched the water for someone to save her. She must have searched for him. But he had been looking everywhere except at her.
Regret hit him with a force greater than any wave.
He wished he had jumped into the lake that day. More than anything, he wished he could turn back time and make a different choice.
He would ignore every distraction and run straight to her. He would pull her from the freezing water before fear ever had the chance to claim her. He would wrap her in his arms and never let go.
And after that...
He would tell her everything he had spent years keeping locked inside.
That he loved her. That he had loved her far longer than she had ever known.
That every quiet glance, every small act of concern, every instinct to protect her had been love, even if he had never found the courage to call it by its name.
Perhaps then she would never have doubted her place in his life.
Perhaps she would never have walked away believing she had always come second.
Perhaps they would still be together. They could have shared the ordinary life he had been too blind to realize was worth more than every honor he had ever received.
But none of it had come to pass. Those tomorrows had dissolved into memories before they ever had the chance to unfold.
Reality returned with ruthless force.
The fire in his lungs intensified until every breathless second became agony. Panic clawed at his chest, and for one horrifying instant, he truly believed he would never see the surface again.
With the last strength he possessed, he thrust himself upward. His arms sliced desperately through the water until his head finally broke the surface.
He burst into the night air with a violent gasp.
Water streamed down his face as he threw his head back and coughed uncontrollably.
When the coughing finally subsided, he wiped the water from his eyes and let out a hollow, humorless laugh.
He couldn't even punish himself properly.
No matter how long he stayed beneath the water, no matter how desperately he tried to drown the guilt, it rose with him when he surfaced.
With a weary sigh, he climbed out of the water. Droplets streamed from his body, leaving a trail across the stone tiles.
His gaze drifted to the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting where he had left it. For the first time that night, he had no desire to reach for it.
He picked up the dry shirt draped over the lounge chair and pulled it over his head. The cotton clung slightly to his damp skin as he raked a hand through his wet hair.
A moment later, he headed for the house. The instant he stepped inside, the glow from the living room caught his attention. His gaze drifted to the long sofa, and his footsteps came to an abrupt stop.
His mother sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap while his father stood beside her, his broad arms crossed over his chest. Judging by the expressions on their faces, they had been waiting for him for quite some time.
Neither of them looked pleased.
"I had no choice. I had to bring your father here to knock some sense into you," Lily said softly the moment their eyes met.
She slowly rose to her feet and walked toward him. "People depend on you, Clayton. You're not an ordinary man who can simply walk away from his duties whenever life gets difficult. You don't have that luxury. Whether you like it or not, people are counting on you. You have responsibilities."
Her gaze slowly traveled across his face. A rough layer of stubble shadowed his jaw, and the redness in his bloodshot eyes spoke of nights without sleep.
A pained sigh escaped her lips.
"When did you stop caring about yourself?" she shook her head in disbelief. "Look at you... I don't even recognize you anymore."
"If you came here to lecture me about my life choices, then save your breath. I don't need it. Just leave, Mom."
It was the first thing he had said since they arrived. All he wanted was to be left alone. The sooner they walked out that door, the better.
But Lily made no move to leave.
Instead, she stood her ground, meeting his weary gaze without flinching. She barely reached his shoulder, yet there was nothing small about her presence. Beneath her gentle appearance was a fierce woman who refused to be intimidated, not even by her own son.
The sharp scent of alcohol clinging to his clothes made her nose wrinkle in distaste.
"Do you really think drowning yourself in alcohol will bring her back?"
The question struck a raw nerve.
For a brief moment, he nearly lost his temper. But his father was standing right there.
He could argue with anyone else. But one thing he would never do was raise his voice at his mother. Disrespecting her was something his father would never tolerate.
He clenched his jaw and turned his back before he would end up saying something he could never take back. He had barely taken two steps when a firm hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt."
"Enough."
For the first time in years, he was reminded of what it felt like to be a little boy standing before his father after doing something terribly wrong.
His father was the very definition of calm, a man almost impossible to provoke. He rarely raised his voice or lost his temper, and that was precisely what made his anger so terrifying.
"I've tolerated your behavior long enough," Grey's voice thundered with impatience. "You've neglected your duties. You've locked yourself inside this house for days. You've drowned yourself in whiskey. And now you've turned your back on your own mother, after she's done nothing but worry about you."
His gaze hardened.
"I didn't raise you to become this man."
Clayton's muscles tightened. He had seen that look before. As a boy, it usually came a heartbeat before punishment. He braced himself, expecting a punch to land across his face at any second.
But it never came.