The Mysterious Doctor

Vincent Blackwood's hands were trembling. Not from exhaustion or hunger. Though he'd been on his feet for fourteen hours and hadn't eaten since breakfast. No. His hands trembled from the quiet, familiar rage that had taken up space in his chest.

He stood in the hospital parking lot, watching the evening sky. Another day. Another shift. Another stack of research notes that would never bear his name.

"Vincent, Marcus needs your findings on the cardiac trial."

His father's voice echoed in his head. Calm. Dismissive. As if Vincent's years of work were nothing more than a file to be passed around.

"You'll be promoted next quarter, son. Just help your brother get settled first."

Vincent had heard that promise for three years now. Three years of handing over his research, his data, his breakthroughs and everything to Marcus. His stepbrother. The golden child. The one who smiled at board meetings and took credit for things he couldn't even pronounce.

And Vincent? Vincent was the failure who still believed his father's lies.

He got into his car, an old sedan with a cracked dashboard. His father drove a Mercedes. Marcus drove a Porsche. And Vincent drove this, because Vincent was the one who didn't deserve better.

The drive home was silent. No radio. No calls. No texts. His wife hadn't messaged him all day.

He pushed open the front door of the small apartment he paid for with his meager salary. The lights were off. The air was still. On the kitchen counter, a single piece of paper waited for him.

"Vincent — went to my parents' for brunch. Come if you want. — Amelia."

No "I love you." No "Hope you had a good day." Just an invitation to a family gathering he wasn't truly welcome at.

Vincent read the note three times. Then he crumpled it slowly, deliberately, and dropped it in the trash.

He changed out of his scrubs. He put on the only suit that still fit and was slightly frayed at the cuffs, but clean. He looked at himself in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Hollow cheeks. A man who'd been drained dry by everyone who was supposed to love him.

Come if you want.

She didn't expect him to show. She probably hoped he wouldn't. Vincent grabbed his keys and walked back out the door.

"""" """"

The Hamilton estate sat at the top of a hill, overlooking the city like a king surveying his kingdom. Amelia's family had money, the kind that didn't need to talk about it. Vincent had never belonged here. Every visit reminded him of that fact.

He was shown to the terrace by a servant who didn't bother to hide her pity. The Hamilton family brunch was in full swing: expensive glasses, white linen, laughter that floated through the warm afternoon air.

And there, at the center of it all, sat Amelia. She was beautiful. She'd always been beautiful. Dark hair pulled back, pearls at her neck, a smile that once belonged to him. Now it belonged to the man sitting beside her.

Marcus. Vincent's stepbrother lounged in his chair like he owned it which, Vincent supposed, he eventually would. Marcus wore a black suit that cost more than Vincent's entire wardrobe. His hand rested casually on the back of Amelia's chair, proprietary and intimate.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to take.

"Vincent!" Amelia's mother, Margaret Hamilton, spotted him first. Her voice was dripping with false warmth. "You actually came. We were just saying how busy you must be. Working so hard at the hospital though I suppose that's why Marcus is the one getting promoted, isn't it? Some people just have that gift."

Vincent's jaw tightened. "Mother-in-law."

"Margaret, please. You make me sound old." She laughed, but her eyes were cold. "Come sit. We saved you a spot."

The empty chair. The one at the far end of the table. The one no one wanted to sit beside. Vincent sat.

"Vincent!" Amelia's father, Richard Hamilton, boomed as he strode onto the terrace, still in his golf attire. He didn't bother to change for brunch. He didn't need to. He was Richard Hamilton. "Look who finally showed up. I was just telling Marcus here about the new wing we're donating to the hospital. He'll be running it soon, you know."

"Father-in-law." Vincent nodded stiffly. "I heard."

"Heard?" Richard dropped into his seat and waved for more champagne. "You should be taking notes, son. Marcus is going places. He's got the charm, the connections, the vision. Meanwhile, you're still running tests in the basement. I don't say this to be cruel. I say it because someone has to."

Vincent felt the familiar sting. He'd heard it all before. Every visit. Every holiday. Every conversation.

Marcus is better. Marcus will go further. Marcus is the son everyone wanted.

"Vincent's work is actually quite impressive, Mr. Hamilton," Marcus said smoothly, cutting into his eggs benedict. "He's been helping me with the cardiac trial. Very detailed stuff. I couldn't have gotten the data without him."

The table laughed. Amelia laughed. His wife laughed at her lover's joke about Vincent's stolen work.

"Helping," Vincent repeated quietly. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Don't be modest, Vincent," Amelia's mother chimed in, swirling her mimosa. "Marcus speaks so highly of your research. He says you're brilliant just not good with people. You know, if you'd just learn to smile more, maybe you'd get somewhere in life."

Smile more. Be more like Marcus. Stop being yourself.

Vincent gripped his fork until his knuckles whitened.

"Vincent," Amelia finally spoke. Her voice was sweet. The voice she'd used to tell him she loved him. "Why don't you bring some of your research to Marcus? He could use your help with the new trial. You'd be doing him such a favor."

Vincent stared at her. She looked back. No guilt. No shame. Just mild impatience, as if he were being difficult.

"Of course," Vincent said. "Whatever Marcus needs."

"See?" Richard Hamilton clapped his hands together. "That's what I like about Vincent. He knows his place."

His place.

Vincent watched his wife's face light up as she turned back to his stepbrother, laughing at something Marcus whispered in her ear. Her hand touched Marcus's arm. Casually. Intimately. As if she'd done it a thousand times. She probably had.

"More champagne, Vincent?" Margaret Hamilton asked, though she didn't wait for his answer before pouring. "You look so tired. I hope you're taking care of yourself. Amelia worries about you, you know."

Amelia didn't look worried. Amelia was busy stroking Marcus's sleeve.

"Vincent works too hard," Marcus said, with mock concern. "Maybe you should take some time off. Rest. Let me handle the heavy lifting at the hospital."

"Let you handle," Vincent said slowly. "Like you handled the immunology research I gave you last year? Or the oncology data you presented at the conference?"

The table went quiet.