The Mysterious Doctor

Divorce papers

Vincent walked through the front door of his small apartment, exhaustion weighing on every bone. Fourteen hours at the hospital. Another stack of research handed over to Marcus. Another promise from his father that never came.

But today was different.

Today, Amelia's car was parked outside.

Vincent's heart lifted. She was home. Finally. After weeks of staying at her mother's house, after countless nights of cold sheets and empty house without her, she was here.

He kicked off his shoes and called out, "Amelia? I didn't expect you to be—"

He stopped.

She was sitting on the worn-out sofa, still in her work clothes, her purse beside her. But she wasn't reading. Wasn't on her phone. She was staring at him with an expression he couldn't read.

"Vincent." Her voice was flat. "We need to talk."

Something cold settled in his stomach. He forced a smile. "I was hoping you'd say that. I know things have been distant lately, but maybe we can work—"

She stood up and thrust a stack of papers into his chest.

Vincent looked down. Divorce Petition.

His vision blurred. He blinked, trying to make sense of the words on the page. Dissolution of marriage. Irreconcilable differences. Division of assets.

"Amelia," he said slowly. "What is this?"

She crossed her arms, her jaw tight. "It's exactly what it looks like. I want a divorce, Vincent. I've wanted one for a long time."

Vincent stared at her. The woman he'd married three years ago. The woman he'd promised to love forever. The woman who'd promised to love him back.

"Why?" His voice cracked. "We loved each other. We built a life together. I don't understand—"

"Loved?" Amelia laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Vincent, I married you because I thought you were going to be someone. When I met you, you were the legitimate son. The heir. The one everyone assumed would take over your father's empire."

Vincent felt the words hit him like a physical blow.

"I was that," he said weakly.

"Were you?" Amelia's eyes were cold. "Because as far as I can see, Marcus is the one getting everything. Your father's approval. The promotions. The status. And you? You're still running tests in the basement, handing over your research like a loyal little dog, expecting a treat that never comes."

Vincent opened his mouth, but no words came.

"I'm tired, Vincent." She said it like she was admitting to a headache. Annoyed. Put out. "I'm tired of being married to a man who has nothing. Tired of my parents asking why I'm still with you. Tired of pretending I'm happy when I'm embarrassed to even say your name."

His chest was burning. The fracture from the brunch was spreading, cracking deeper.

"You said you loved me," he whispered. "On our wedding day. You said—"

"I said a lot of things." She shrugged. "People change. I changed. And I realized I can't expect you to fit into my status. You're never going to be anything, Vincent. You're never going to be Marcus."

Marcus. Vincent looked at her. She'd mentioned Marcus three times in one conversation. His stepbrother. The golden child. The man who took everything from him.

"What does Marcus have to do with this?" he asked slowly.

Amelia smiled. It was cruel. She reached up and pulled down the collar of her blouse. A hickey. Fresh. Bruised purple against her pale skin.

Vincent's blood turned to ice.

"Where do you think I go when I don't come home?" She tilted her head, watching his face crumble. "Where do you think I've been going for the past six months?"

His mind raced. Six months. Six months of cold sheets. Six months of excuses. "Mother needs me." "I'm tired." "Don't wait up."

Six months of lies.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, you wouldn't. You wouldn't do that to me. Not with him. Not with—"

"Marcus," she confirmed, her voice sharp. "Yes, Vincent. Marcus. Your precious stepbrother. The man who actually has a future. The man who makes me feel alive. The man I'm going to marry as soon as you sign these papers."

Vincent felt something inside him splinter. But beneath the splintering, something else was growing. Something cold. Something that was beginning to freeze the cracks shut.

"You've been sleeping with him," he said. His voice was strange. Quiet. Distant. "For six months."

"Six glorious months." Amelia smiled. "He's better than you, Vincent. In every way. In bed. In conversation. In life. He doesn't grovel for approval. He doesn't wait for promises. He takes what he wants."

"And what you want is him."

"I want a life, Vincent. A real life. Not this—" she gestured at the small apartment, the worn furniture, the cracked walls, "—this pathetic existence you've given me."

Vincent looked at the divorce papers in his hands. His fingers were trembling.

She walked toward the door. Vincent didn't stop her."Vincent." She paused at the threshold, not looking back. "Sign the papers. Don't make me come back here again."

She left. The door clicked shut.

Vincent stood in the middle of his apartment, divorce papers in his hands, a hole in his chest.

Marcus. Even Marcus takes the woman he loves.

He sank onto the sofa. The same worn-out sofa Amelia had been sitting on when she'd destroyed him. He stared at the papers, but he didn't see them. He saw Amelia's face. Marcus's smirk. His father's dismissive eyes.

Everyone who was supposed to love him. Everyone who was supposed to believe in him.

And now this. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just sat there, frozen, waiting for something to happen.

His phone buzzed. Vincent looked at it, numb.

"New message from: Father."

He opened it.

~"Vincent. Come to the estate tonight. 8 PM. I have an announcement to make. Important. Don't be late."~

Vincent stared at the message.

An announcement.

His heart that was broken dared to hope. Maybe his father was finally going to acknowledge him. Maybe the promotion was finally coming. Maybe after all these years of silence and dismissal, Vincent was finally going to matter.

He read the message three times. Four times.

Don't be late.

Vincent stood up. He set the divorce papers on the coffee table, carefully, like they were something fragile. Then he walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.

Dark circles under his eyes. He was beginning to look like a ghost.

Tonight, he told himself. Tonight, everything changes.

He showered. He shaved. He put on his best suit, the frayed one, the only one that still fit. He straightened his tie. He forced himself to smile.

It looked like a grimace. It doesn't matter, he thought. Tonight, my father will finally see me.

""" """

The Blackwood estate was alive with light and laughter when Vincent arrived.

Cars lined the driveway. Mercedes. BMWs. Porsches. Vincent's old sedan looked like a joke parked among them. He walked toward the entrance, his heart pounding.

This is it. This is my moment. He stepped through the front door.

The grand hall was filled with men in tailored suits, women in designer gowns, glasses clinking, laughter echoing. Vincent scanned the room. He saw his father at the center, surrounded by important men, shaking hands, smiling.

Vincent took a step forward.

A hand grabbed his arm.

"Finally." A gruff voice. One of the event staff. "You're late. Put this on."

The man shoved a waiter's vest into Vincent's hands. White linen. Cheap fabric. The uniform of a servant.

Vincent stared at it. "What?"

"Your father said you'd be helping tonight." The man pointed toward the kitchen. "Get changed. You're serving drinks. And hurry up. We're short-staffed."

Vincent's blood went cold.

He looked across the room. His father was laughing with a group of businessmen. Marcus stood beside him, charming, confident, accepting handshakes. Amelia was there too, on Marcus's arm, wearing a gown that cost more than he owned.

His father's eyes met Vincent's.

For a moment, Vincent saw it. The dismissal. The cold, quiet acknowledgment that Vincent was nothing. A servant. A shadow. Not a son.

His father looked away. Vincent stood in the doorway of his father's estate, holding a servant's vest, watching his stepbrother take his place.

Around him, guests whispered behind their hands.

"That's the other son. The lowly one."

"Pity. He never amounted to anything, did he?"

"Worthless. Utterly worthless. It's a wonder his father even lets him in the house."

The whispers washed over him. They should have hurt. They should have broken him.

But Vincent felt nothing.

he cold thing in his chest had spread. Frozen everything solid. The fracture was gone, replaced by something harder, something sharp, something that would never crack again.

He looked at his father. At Marcus. At Amelia.

At everyone who had ever dismissed him, discarded him, destroyed him.

And something else was growing in his heart.