The Mysterious Doctor

Be patient

For a moment, Vincent saw something flicker in Marcus's eyes. Surprise. Maybe even fear. Then the mask was back.

"You're so humble, brother," Marcus laughed. "Always deflecting credit. But I appreciate you supporting my work."

"Your work," Vincent repeated.

"Vincent," Richard Hamilton said loudly, cutting through the tension. "I don't know what you're implying, but Marcus is a fine doctor. Better than you'll ever be, if I'm being honest. He's got the temperament. The bedside manner. The connections. You can't buy charm, Vincent. You either have it or you don't."

Vincent didn't answer. He stared at his plate. At the untouched food. At the family who'd never once defended him.

His mother would have defended him. She'd always believed in him. Even when his father didn't. Even when everyone else laughed. She'd whisper to him at night, pressing her forehead to his, promising him that he was destined for greatness.

"You're going to be someone, Vincent. I know it. I've always known it."

Then she'd died. And within a year, his father had remarried. Within two years, Marcus had appeared older than Vincent, clearly conceived long before his mother's death. The son his father had always wanted. The son he'd been hiding for years.

Vincent remembered the day he'd found the truth. The day he'd confronted his father with evidence of the affair. And his father had just looked at him and said:

"Marcus is my son. He always has been. I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

No apology. No remorse. Just cold, quiet acceptance. And Vincent had stayed.

Because his mother had loved his father until her dying breath. Because some part of him still hoped his father would love him back. Because leaving meant admitting that he'd lost.

He'd stayed. And he'd been losing ever since.

"You know, Vincent," Margaret said suddenly, her voice dripping with false concern. "If you're so unhappy at the hospital, you could always do something else. Something simpler. Marcus shouldn't have to carry the weight alone."

Vincent looked up. "I'm not unhappy."

"You look miserable," she pressed. "Anyone can see it. And it's affecting Amelia, truly. She's been so distant lately. I can't say I blame her who wants to come home to a man with no ambition?"

He suppressed his emotions. Ignore them, Vincent. She is a bitter woman. She only tears others down because she has nothing to build herself.

Margaret Hamilton was very sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, waiting for him to break.

"I have ambition," Vincent said quietly.

"Then why can't you get promoted like Marcus?" Margaret smiled sweetly. "I mean, you've been at that hospital for years. Years, Vincent. And what do you have to show for it? A small apartment. An old car. A wife who's losing patience with you."

The table went still. Amelia's cheeks flushed. "Mother, that's—"

"I'm only saying what everyone's thinking, dear." Margaret patted her daughter's hand. "It's not your fault your husband lacks drive. You married him for love and we all understand. But love doesn't pay the bills. Love doesn't build a legacy. Marcus understands that."

Marcus sat back in his chair, smug and silent.

Vincent saw the weight in Amelia's eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The way she glanced at her mother and said nothing in his defense.

She wouldn't fight for him. She'd never fight for him.

"Vincent," Amelia said, her voice small. "Can we talk later? Alone?"

"About what?" Vincent asked. "About how you've been staying at your parents' house for the past three nights? About how you don't come home until midnight? About how you flinch when I try to touch you?"

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. The silence on the terrace was absolute.

Margaret Hamilton's mouth dropped open. Richard Hamilton's champagne glass hovered mid-air. Even Marcus's smirk faltered.

Amelia's face went pale. Then red. Then pale again. "You're embarrassing me," she whispered.

"Am I?" Vincent pushed back his chair. The legs scraped against the stone floor. "Or are you embarrassed of me? There's a difference."

"I'm not—" Amelia started.

"You don't have to be a doctor to know when your wife is pulling away," Vincent interrupted. His voice was shaking now. "I know what I see. I know what I feel. The question is do you have the courage to say it to my face?"

He looked directly at Marcus. Marcus looked away first.

Vincent didn't wait for their response. He left the terrace, walked through the grand Hamilton house, and didn't look back.

He could hear Margaret Hamilton's shrill voice trailing after him.

"I told you, Amelia! I told you he was unstable! This is what you get for marrying beneath yourself!"

"Mother—"

"He's lucky anyone in this family speaks to him at all! That's what happens when you're born from a woman who couldn't even keep a husband—"

Vincent kept walking. The servant who'd shown him in earlier watched him leave, her expression unreadable.

Vincent didn't care. He reached his old sedan in the driveway and climbed into the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel. His chest heaved with rage he couldn't release.

His phone buzzed. "New message from: Father."

He opened it. "Vincent. Good work on the cardiac data. Marcus will take over the presentation. You'll get credit eventually. Be patient."

Patient. He'd been patient for thirty years. Patient while his father chose Marcus. Patient while his wife drifted away. Patient while everything he built was handed to someone else.

He scrolled up to the last message he'd received from Amelia.

Three weeks ago: "Staying late at the office. Don't wait up."

The office. She worked at a boutique. Her "office" was a shop floor. Vincent stared at the crack in his dashboard. Then he started the engine.

He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just drove.

And in the silence of his rattling car, Vincent Blackwood made a promise to himself.

One day, he thought. One day, they'll need me. And I won't be there.

The fracture in his chest didn't heal. It waited.