The Mysterious Doctor

De Luca family

Vincent stood frozen in the doorway, the servant's vest clutched in his trembling hands.

Around him, the party continued. Laughter. Clinking glasses. The murmur of important people discussing important things. No one looked at him. No one cared.

He should leave. He should walk out that door and never come back. But his feet wouldn't move.

Some pathetic, broken part of him still hoped. Still believed. Still waited for his father to glance his way and change everything.

Stupid, he told himself. You're so stupid.

He put on the vest.

The clothing was cheap and scratchy against his skin.

A server appeared beside him, shoving a silver tray into his hands. "Table seven. Top shelf whiskey. Don't spill."

Vincent nodded. He couldn't speak.

He walked through the crowd, weaving between guests who didn't see him, didn't acknowledge him. He was invisible.

Table seven was at the center of the room. The best table. The table where his father sat with his wife Brenda, Marcus, and a group of influential businessmen.

Vincent's hands tightened on the tray.

His father stood, tapping his glass with a spoon. The room quieted.

"I'd like to make an announcement," his father said, his voice booming for all to hear. "Tonight marks a new chapter for the Blackwood legacy. I'm proud to announce that my son, my true son Marcus will be taking over the hospital wing starting next quarter."

He gestured to Marcus, who rose from his seat with a smug smile. The room erupted in applause.

Vincent felt the tray slip from his fingers.

The glasses hit the floor with a deafening crash. Whiskey splattered across the marble. Glass shards scattered everywhere.

Every head in the room turned.

Vincent stood frozen, his hands empty, his face pale. He stared at the shattered glass. At the whiskey spreading across the expensive floor like blood.

The whispers started immediately.

"Did you see that? Pathetic."

"He can't even serve drinks properly."

"No wonder his father chose Marcus over him."

"Loser. Total loser."

Vincent's father's face twisted with fury. His eyes blazed with the kind of anger he'd never shown Vincent when Vincent actually accomplished something.

"Vincent!" his father thundered. "What is the meaning of this? Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my guests?"

Vincent opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Brenda, his father's wife, sneered from her seat. Her voice was sharp and cruel. "Can't you do one simple job properly? Do you know how much those glasses cost? More than you can afford in a lifetime, that's for certain."

The guests laughed. Quietly. Behind their hands.

Vincent felt his face burn.

Marcus rose from his chair, walking over with that infuriating smirk. He clapped a hand on Vincent's shoulder really hard, like he was trying to push him down.

"Leave him, Father," Marcus said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "He still thinks he matters. This is just his way of trying to gain attention. Isn't that right, Vincent?"

Vincent looked at Marcus. At his stepbrother who had everything. His father's approval. The promotion. The legacy. His wife.

"Trying to gain attention," Vincent repeated. His voice was low. Broken. "That's what you think this is?"

"What else could it be?" Marcus shrugged. "You can't stand that I'm the one being recognized. So you make a scene. Classic Vincent. Always desperate for someone to look at him."

Vincent looked at his father. The man who'd never once defended him. The man who'd watched him be humiliated his entire life.

"Father," Vincent said, his voice cracking. "Please. I didn't mean—"

"Enough." His father waved his hand dismissively. "Marcus is right. You're just trying to make this about you. Always making everything about you."

Vincent felt the last piece of his heart shatter.

"About me?" His voice was rising now. He couldn't stop it. "All I've ever done is try to be seen. Try to matter. Try to make you proud. And all you've ever done is hand everything I've worked for to him—"

"Vincent." Brenda's voice was ice. "Don't embarrass yourself further. Just clean up this mess and leave. You've done enough damage."

Vincent looked at her. At the woman who'd replaced his mother. At the woman who'd given his father the son he'd always wanted.

Then he looked at the shattered glass on the floor.

He didn't say another word. He turned and walked away.

Vincent fled through the crowd.

He didn't see their faces. Didn't hear their whispers. He just walked faster and faster until he was through the grand doors and stumbling down the front steps of the estate.

The night air hit him like a slap. Cold. Biting.

He kept walking.

His old sedan was parked among the luxury cars. He climbed inside and sat there, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his chest heaving.

The tears came before he could stop them.

Vincent Blackwood, thirty years old doctor broke down in his car like a child. Sobs tore through him, ugly and raw. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and cried.

A man doesn't cry.

Who said so? What man? The ones who'd never been broken? The ones who'd never been told they were worthless by everyone who was supposed to love them?

He cried until his throat was raw and his eyes burned.

Then he sat up and looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

His face was blotchy. His eyes were red. His best suit was covered in whiskey stains.

He didn't matter. No one cared enough. If he walked away right now, would anyone even notice?

His job at his father's hospital was the only thing keeping him alive. The only thing giving him purpose. But even that was a lie. His father only kept him around to hand over his research to Marcus. He was a tool. A resource. Nothing more.

Everyone thought he was nothing. And Vincent was beginning to believe them.

He started the engine. He didn't know where he was going. He just drove.

The city lights blurred past. The streets grew quieter. The buildings gave way to trees, to darkness, to the quiet outskirts where the dead rested.

Vincent parked outside the cemetery gates.

He walked through the iron entrance, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path. The headstones loomed in the darkness like silent witnesses.

He found his mother's grave at the edge of the hill, beneath an old tree. The stone was simple. Worn by time. Her name, her dates, and the words Vincent had chosen himself:

"She believed in me when no one else did."

Vincent sank to his knees in the grass.

"Mom," he whispered. His voice broke. "Mom, I don't know what to do."

The tears came again. Silent this time. Streams running down his cheeks, dripping onto the cold stone.

"I tried. I really tried. I worked so hard. I believed in them. I believed in him. I thought if I just kept going, kept hoping, kept believing—" He choked on a sob. "—they'd finally see me."

He pressed his forehead against the headstone. It was cold. Hard. Like the thing growing in his chest.

"But they don't see me. They never have. And now—" His voice cracked. "Now I don't even know who I am anymore. Everyone says I'm nothing. Everyone says I'm worthless. What if they're right? What if I really am nothing?"

Vincent stayed there, kneeling at his mother's grave, crying. "Mom," he whispered one last time. "I'm so tired. I don't know if I can keep going."

He didn't hear the footsteps. Didn't see the figures approaching.

He only felt the hand on his shoulder. Vincent looked up.

Five men stood around him. Tall. Dressed in black suits that cost more than his entire apartment. Their faces were hard, unreadable.

The man at the front who was older, with silver-streaked hair and cold gray eyes looked down at Vincent.

"Vincent Blackwood," he said, his voice low and respectful. "We've been searching for you."

Vincent stared at him. "Who are you?"

"We work for the De Luca family." The man paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. "Your grandfather, the Old Master has been looking for you for years. He sent us to find you."

Vincent blinked. "De Luca? I don't know that name."

The man's eyes flickered with something Vincent couldn't identify. "Your mother never told you?"

"My mother..." Vincent's voice trailed off. He looked at the headstone. "My mother died when I was young. She was just a fragile woman who—"

"She was anything but fragile." The man's voice was firm. "She was the hidden daughter of the De Luca family. A medical empire worth billions. And she was your mother."

Vincent's heart stopped.

"I don't understand," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "What are you saying?"

The man knelt down, bringing himself to Vincent's level.

"I'm saying," he said slowly, "that you are not nothing, Vincent Blackwood. You are the sole heir to the De Luca fortune. And we are here to take you home."

Vincent stared at him. At the five men in black suits, confusion on his face. Then at his mother's headstone. De Luca?