After Him Chapter 8

Just as Jameson was drowning completely in alcohol and self-blame, an old military friend sketching in a small city on the Southeast coast sent him some landscape photos. In the corner of one, a woman's silhouette—holding a plain parasol, wearing a linen dress—bore an uncanny resemblance to Emma.

Just that one glimpse, and Jameson—like seeing a ray of light in endless night—instantly snapped out of his stupor. He drove through the night, traveling a thousand miles to that small city without hesitation.

He removed his rank insignia, stayed in the cheapest hostel, ate at the simplest roadside stalls, and with Emma's photo in hand like the most obsessive sentry, day after day he walked the ancient city's cobblestone streets, asking every passing resident and tourist, yet finding nothing.

Until one morning at the market, in the bustling crowd, he saw a slender figure selecting fresh fish at a vendor's stall. That lake-blue cotton dress, that pale, graceful nape—every detail was carved into his bones!

"Emma!"

He couldn't contain his ecstatic shout. The figure stiffened sharply, slowly turning around—it was Emma! But the instant she recognized him, all color drained from her face, her eyes bursting with extreme terror, as if she'd seen death itself! Without hesitation, she dropped her basket and like a startled deer, plunged into the surging crowd, vanishing into the maze of narrow alleys in seconds.

Jameson frantically pushed through the crowd chasing her, but couldn't catch even a corner of her clothing.

After the wild joy came deeper anxiety and helplessness. He forced himself to calm down. All clues pointed to one possibility—his grandfather had been involved.

Jameson returned directly to Fort Bragg and knelt straight down before the imposing gates of the Carter family estate, ignoring the strange looks from passing guards.

He knelt there for seven full days.

"Grandfather... I'm begging you..." His face was covered in stubble, his eyes sunken, the once-sharp gaze now holding only humble pleading. "Tell me the truth... Emma's not dead, is she? That body... was fake, wasn't it?"

"Nonsense! Look at yourself! Get up!" The General's angry rebuke came from inside the study.

"I won't get up!" Jameson pressed his forehead hard against the cold tiles, his shoulders shaking violently with suppressed sobs. "I know I was wrong! I was an asshole! I drove her away! I don't dare ask her forgiveness... I just need to know she's safe... give me a chance to atone..."

Like a lost child, wounded all over, he laid bare his deepest regret and most humble desire before these gates that symbolized his family's honor.

Jameson knelt on the cold ground, forehead pressed to the floor, his voice hoarse as a broken bellows. "Grandfather... please... is Emma still alive?"

General Carter, seated behind his mahogany desk, looked out the window at his grandson—once proud as an eagle, now humbled into the dirt—complex emotions crossing his stern gaze: heartache, helplessness, and deep sighs over all that had passed.

He was silent for a very long time—so long Jameson nearly despaired—before finally speaking slowly, his voice heavy and gravelly: "Yes. Emma... is alive."

"Really?!" Jameson's head snapped up, almost blinding joy bursting from his eyes. His entire body trembled violently from the massive shock. "Where is she?! Is she okay now?!"

"That body was from an unidentified female casualty after a border conflict, severe facial damage. I... made arrangements for her." The General's words were like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the fire in Jameson's eyes. "She came to me then, said she couldn't take it anymore... only by 'dying' could she completely escape you, get free of Riley's endless harassment. Jameson, tell me—exactly how badly did you hurt her that she'd choose such a desperate method, give up everything, just to leave you?"

Jameson knelt there frozen, the color draining from his face bit by bit until only deathly gray remained. Crushing guilt settled on him like the heaviest shackles, choking him until he could barely breathe.

She was alive.

But she'd rather "die" than escape him.

His self-righteous "love" and "protection" had been, for her, a hell more terrifying than death itself.

Scalding tears fell without warning. He opened his mouth but his throat seemed blocked—he couldn't make a sound.

"She only bought a one-way ticket south. I don't know exactly where she went." The General, seeing him so utterly lost, softened slightly. "I only know she wanted to find somewhere quiet to live peacefully. Jameson... don't disturb her anymore."