Clayton woke before dawn, the oppressive heat making sleep impossible. He rolled out of bed, longing for the comfort of coffee, but he knew better—it would only intensify his discomfort.

Grabbing his phone, he glanced at the screen. No messages. No calls. The silence gnawed at him, an emptiness he couldn't shake.

Determined to clear his restless mind, he decided to go for a run. It was his new outlet, a promise to Alice to trade old vices—drinking, smoking, casual sex—for something healthier, something worth holding on to.

He pulled on shorts and a lightweight shirt, stepping out into the street as the lingering night air battled the rising heat. Midnight Oil's gritty melodies filled his ears, pulsing through the borrowed iPod from Danny—a keepsake from his last stop in the States.

With each stride, Clayton's thoughts refused to settle. The market came into view, its shuttered stalls barely stirring in the early light. He pushed harder, hoping the rhythm of his steps, the sweat trickling down his face, and the music pounding in his ears would hush the chaos inside. But even as his feet pounded the pavement, his mind remained anything but clear.

*****

By six in the morning, the aroma of spices and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, stirring Clayton's hunger. Sweat clung to him, and the humid breeze did little to ease his irritation. All he could think about now was food.

He stopped and, with clumsy Portuguese, managed to order piri piri chicken paired with hand-cut potato fries and a cold brew coffee. The meal was simple, yet it promised relief from both his hunger and his running-induced exhaustion.

Settling into the warmth of the rising sun, he savored the chicken's heat and the fries' crispness as the church bells rang out in the distance. The rhythmic chime was soothing, almost meditative, though not enough to tempt him to step inside. He felt at peace, but only on the surface.

His gaze wandered to the families nearby. Since meeting Alice, he'd begun to see himself in that role—becoming a father—something he might actually embrace after the wedding. But as his thoughts meandered, the ghosts of his past crept in.

Erika was first—a spitfire with her southern drawl and cowboy boots. His first love and high school sweetheart, though the marriage had been more about obligation than passion. Their marriage barely lasted through his basic training, yet he occasionally wondered if she was still chasing her dream of singing in Dallas. Was he still her muse?

Then there was Brianna, the woman who grounded him in a way few others could. She'd wanted children, stability—the kind of life he couldn't offer during deployments. He used to wonder if her second marriage, to a cop, gave her the happiness she deserved. He thought about going back to her every so often. It was a quiet pull, a lingering thread in the back of his mind—until Alice walked into his life, filling the cracks of his damaged soul.

A parade of faces followed: Sadie Corkrane, the quirky forensic pathologist whose peculiar charms almost won him over before their separation; Alaia and Queenie, the flirtatious dancers from New York; fleeting flings like Starr and blurred nights with Olivia and Kennedy. Each memory was tinged with regret.

And then there were the three indistinct Madisons, plain Abby from the car dealership, Collins, the feisty, crooked police officer, his hard edged employer, Claudia, and Martha. Oh god Martha, the married housewife who had warmed his bed but never his heart. The possibility of fathering her baby darkened his thoughts. Martha knew how to play her cards—the vulnerable wife, the passionate lover, the potential mother of his child—each role wielded like a weapon. The baby—if it even existed, if it was even his—was just her latest move in a game he should have stopped playing long ago.

He finished the last of his food and gulped down the remnants of his coffee, its bitter tang matching the storm cloud brewing in his chest. Rising, Clayton set off for home, the weight of his reflections heavy on his shoulders, his strides quickened as he tried to outrun the shadows of his past.

******

When Clayton arrived, sweat dripped from his brow as he trudged up the stairs. At the top, he found Samuel slumped in the doorway, his disheveled appearance telling the story of a brutal hangover. Bruises hinted at a night that likely involved more than just heavy drinking.

"How's it going, Sam?" Clayton asked, pushing the door open and savoring the cool rush of air from inside the house.

"Had a wild one. Jack's back in town. Oh, and I ran into Vanessa last night... they've both been asking about you."

Samuel grinned, the kind of smirk that only comes from indulgence without remorse. Of course, the mention of "asking about you" wasn't innocent. Clayton knew exactly who Samuel meant—the women who frequented their nights in South America. There was a time Clayton had been just as familiar with them, but Samuel had taken it further, losing himself in a cycle of vice and fleeting company, never settling for anything real.

Clayton had once dared to hope Samuel might stay with Celia, but that dream seemed far gone now, just another casualty of Samuel's self-destructive habits.

After a quick shower, Clayton dressed in the last of his clean summer clothes—a shirt and trousers that felt slightly out of place on his tall frame. Though he looked awkward, he made it work as best he could.

***

By mid-afternoon, Clayton tracked down Carlos's address—a new one since their last encounter. Grabbing Samuel's jeep keys, confident his friend wouldn't be going anywhere for hours, he headed out.

The jeep roared to life, purring with more vigor than his aging truck back home. Shifting into drive, Clayton maneuvered through the bustling streets toward the city center, anticipating his meeting with Carlos. It had been a while, but Clayton knew Carlos would expect him sooner or later.

After a tedious hour of navigating through traffic, Clayton finally arrived at the heavily guarded warehouse. The sight of the fortified gates immediately put him on edge—security was far tighter than he remembered from his visit years ago.

A cold-eyed gateman, clipboard in hand, approached as Clayton parked. "Name?" he asked, voice devoid of warmth or curiosity.

"Miller," Clayton replied, cutting the engine. It struck him then—he hadn't made an appointment.

The guard scanned the clipboard, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he stepped away to make a call. The tension gnawed at Clayton during the two-minute wait. Finally, the guard returned, hit a button, and the gates creaked open.

Clayton eased the jeep forward, noting the armed guards stationed at intervals. Carlos stood ahead, beside a gleaming, showy classic car, dressed head-to-toe in crisp white. The sight made Clayton suppress a smirk—Carlos's style was as flamboyant as ever.

"Mr. Miller," Carlos greeted, smirking as Clayton stepped out of the vehicle.

"Carlos, good to see you. It's been years. How have you been?" Clayton extended a hand, which Carlos took briefly.

"Still rich," Carlos quipped. His smile sharpened. "It's been four years since I learned you slept with my sisters."

Clayton froze. Ah, yes. That.

Carlos brushed it off, though his words carried weight. "Congratulations, by the way. I hear you've settled down. What can I do for you?"

Clayton produced a photo of Richard Booth, holding it out. "I'm looking for this man. Crooked American banker. Disappeared. Heard anything?"

Carlos studied the photo, his eyes narrowing with recognition. "I know him. Older now, but it's the same guy. Come on, let's talk inside."

Following Carlos into the warehouse, Clayton's gaze swept over the lavish displays—vintage cars, rare gemstones, priceless artwork. It resembled a grand museum curated by a master of excess. Workers buzzed about, preparing what seemed like a grand event, white notes marked with ID numbers catching Clayton's eye.

Carlos's office was just as over-the-top: a stuffed bear, ancient swords adorning the walls, and a massive marble desk resting on a plush rug.

Seated behind his desk, Carlos leaned back. "Booth's in hiding. He owes a lot of people, myself included. We call him Ouro Vazio —empty gold. Useless. Word is, someone's targeting his family to flush him out. He won't surface, too greedy. I can't help you, Clayton. If I find him, I'll kill him."

Clayton's stomach sank. What could he tell Alice now? He mulled over his next move when Carlos offered an alternative. "Try the club, Empress. He used to frequent it. Someone there might know."

Before leaving, Carlos handed Clayton a number—a contact, apparently one of Booth's cousins in Florida. "Also, watch for Booth's eldest, Frederick. Lives in London. Cocky little bastard, thinks his father's innocent."

Clayton tucked the number away, grateful for the lead.

"Oh, and Clayton," Carlos added with a grin. "Invite me to your wedding. Personally."

The emphasis made Clayton pause, but he nodded.

Back in the jeep, Clayton relished the air conditioning, bracing himself for what lay ahead.

*****

Clayton stepped through the door at four o'clock sharp, the familiar hum of Samuel's voice drifting from the kitchen where he was, once again, glued to his phone. Leaning against the counter, Clayton kept his silence, scrolling through his own device while waiting for Samuel to finish.

No messages from Alice. Not even a word from his parents or sisters. Just a single text from his brother, Nate, announcing he'd be home on leave in December—a relief. Knowing Nate would be there as his best man brought a small smile to Clayton's face.

Minutes ticked by. At last, Samuel hung up, flashing an apologetic grin. "Sorry, man. What's up?"

Clayton glanced away from his phone. "How do you feel about hitting a club tonight—to dig up some information?"

Samuel's eyes sparked with excitement, no need for words. Clayton already knew his answer.

"Twenty-three hundred, then. I've got leads from Carlos," Clayton added, watching Samuel's enthusiasm bloom.

"Works for me. Hey, Helena might show. And Vanessa. Maud too—wouldn't mind all three," Samuel said, his tone brimming with mischief.

Helena. The name alone stirred something uneasy in Clayton. They'd crossed paths before during his work with Carlos—a weakness from his past, an allure he knew too well. But no, that was behind him now. He wanted Alice. He loved Alice. With an unconscious flick of his fingernail crossing his heart, his mind reminded him to stay true.

"Right," Clayton said, brushing off the thought. "We'll leave at twenty-three hundred."

He headed to his room, sitting down heavily on the bed as he dialed Alice's number. He needed to hear her voice, to center himself before temptation could creep in.

Three rings in, she answered.

That voice—it anchored him instantly.

"Hey, babe. Are you okay?" she whispered.

For a moment, he said nothing, caught in the comfort of hearing her.

"Clayton? Are you there?" Her voice, now louder, pulled him from his daze.

"Yeah, Miss Alice. I just...needed to hear you," he admitted, a hint of worry in his tone.

"Are you really okay?" she asked. He pictured her sitting at her desk at home, her fingers fidgeting nervously as they always did.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "I wanted to check in. Heading to a club tonight for some leads."

Her relieved breath carried through the line.

"I miss you, Alice," Clayton said softly, the need to feel her presence overwhelming. "Where are you?"

"Home," she murmured, the sound of a yawn escaping. "Just working on some homework in my room. The Williams are at church. I miss you too."

Quiet filled the space between them, each listening to the rhythm of the other's breath. Clayton closed his eyes, imagining her twirling a lock of hair, lost in thought.

"You want to help me clear my mind for a bit?" he asked, an idea forming as he spoke.

She giggled "What like phone sex?"

He was serious "Yes, don't worry. I will tell you what to do."

And he did....for over an hour.