0016 ~ Vincent ~ I moved with rapid, focused strides down the length of the second-floor corridor, ignoring Joy as I bypassed her to reach the double doors of Logan’s bedroom.
Before I even crossed the threshold, the frantic, desperate murmurs of the medical staff filtered into the hallway.
It was a chorus of frantic pleas, the head physician begging my brother to rethink whatever reckless choice he was on the verge of making.
The moment I threw the door open, the scene laid itself out before me.
Logan was upright, his fingers white around the handle of a surgical scalpel, exactly as Joy had reported.
His complexion was deathly pale, his expression entirely hollow and unfocused.
The heavy cocktail of sedatives and prescription narcotics they had been pumping into his system made it impossible for him to truly lock his gaze onto the terrified doctor standing a few feet away.
As I stepped fully into the room, the click of my shoes drew his attention.
Logan’s head jerked toward me, and in a defensive, erratic motion, he pressed the gleaming edge of the blade directly against the column of his own neck.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Logan?” I asked, my voice flat, deliberately keeping any trace of panic out of my delivery as I moved forward with measured caution.
“I…I can’t live like this anymore, Vincent!” he cried out, his voice fracturing under the weight of his distress.
“I want to end it all.
I want it to be over!” “I understand,” I replied, maintaining a steady, clinical calm to keep him from jerking the blade.
“You are in a immense amount of pain.
That is precisely why the medical staff is here—to treat your condition so you can finally recover.” “I can’t fucking think straight without my entire head feeling like it’s exploding!” he screamed, the sudden blast of rage causing Anne, who had crept up behind me, to jump back in fright.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of color drew my attention.
Elodie had slipped into the bedroom, her face pale as she took in the standoff.
I snapped my head in her direction, instantly raising a hand to flash her a sharp, silent signal to stay exactly where she was.
Turning my focus back to my brother, I straightened my posture, adopting an unbothered stance.
He remained perched on the edge of the mattress, the steel scalpel still digging into his skin.
“Your head hurts because you keep attempting to sabotage your own recovery,” I muttered, taking a slow step toward the mattress.
“Mr.
Vincent, please—” Dr.
Wayland began, his voice trembling as he tried to intervene, but I cut him off by lifting a single finger.
I casually slid my hands into my trouser pockets, strolling toward the bed with an air of complete indifference, my towering frame casting a long shadow over his shivering form.
“You’re entirely certain you want to end it all?” I asked, peering down at him.
Logan refused to meet my eyes, his gaze darting erratically around the blanket.
“Y-yes,” he stammered, his grip tightening on the handle.
I paused, casting a slow glance around the room.
The nurses were trembling, the doctor looked close to a breakdown, and then my gaze landed on Elodie.
Her expression was a chaotic mix of horror and disbelief.
She looked from Logan to me, shaking her head as a look of deep disgust crossed her face.
I offered her a brief, mocking smirk before turning back to my brother.
I casually sat down at the very foot of his bed, crossing one leg over the other as if we were about to discuss the morning weather.
“If you truly want to end it all, Logan, then go right ahead,” I said, my tone entirely conversational.
“Do it.” “Mr.
Vincent!” a collective gasp echoed from the staff.
Only Elodie remained silent, though her eyes widened in absolute shock.
“Sir, Mr.
Logan is clearly not in a rational state of mind to make—” “You heard the man, Wayland.
Let him proceed,” I interrupted the doctor, my voice cutting through his protest like a blade.
I locked my eyes onto Logan.
“In fact, I dare you.” Logan’s expression remained blank, the heavy medication clouding his consciousness.
He blinked slowly, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to maintain awareness.
Dark, exhausted circles hung beneath his dull grey eyes.
I simply waited.
Logan shook his head with a sudden, violent jerk, clearly battling the thick fog of the chemical restraints the medical team had prescribed for his psychosis.
“Have you completely lost your mind, Vincent?” Elodie snapped, finally breaking her silence as she marched into the center of the room.
Her face was flushed with anger.
“Are you seriously going to sit there and willingly watch your own brother take his life?
For what?
For your own twisted amusement?
Is this just entertainment to you?” “What exactly do you expect me to do, Elodie?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at her.
“He is the one wielding the scalpel.
I am merely trying to offer him an exit since he is convinced his current existence is a living hell.” “You are absolutely insane,” she whispered, shaking her head in pure revulsion before turning her back on Logan.
“And I refuse to stay here and watch a murder happen.” She began backing toward the doorway, eager to escape.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, darling,” I called out, ensuring my voice carried across the room.
Once she was gone, I turned my full, undivided attention back to my brother.
“If you truly intended to end your life, Logan, you would have sliced your throat open the moment I walked through that door,” I muttered, sliding off the edge of the mattress.
I extended my open palm toward him.
“Hand it over.” Logan didn’t move, the steel remaining fixed against his skin.
“Logan,” I spoke up, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp, lethal register that caused the remaining nurses to look away in terror.
“Hand.
It.
Over.” When he still refused to comply, his fingers locking stubbornly around the metal, I lost my patience.
I lunged forward, gripping his wrist to wrench the weapon away.
A brief, chaotic struggle ensued on the mattress.
In his panicked thrashing, the sharp edge of the scalpel sliced a clean, deep gash right across the palm of my hand.
I didn’t flinch.
With a final, brutal twist of my wrist, I ripped the scalpel from his fingers and stepped away from the bed.
Crimson blood began to pool in the center of my hand, spilling over my knuckles and dripping steadily onto the pristine white sheets below, leaving a trail of dark red stains.
The room erupted into a flurry of panicked gasps.
“Mr.
Vincent!
Are you alright?” Dr.
Wayland cried out, rushing forward.
“I’m fine,” I replied flatly.
I had spent my entire life enduring physical trauma; a minor laceration from a scalpel wasn’t even enough to register on my radar.
The pain didn’t bother me in the slightest.
“Tend to him.” “Get some antiseptic and bandages immediately!
Hurry!” Wayland barked at one of the nurses, who nodded frantically before sprinting out of the room.
Logan stared blankly at the blood pooling on his sheets, then slowly drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them.
A bizarre, strained smile broke across his face, which quickly spiraled into a loud, uncanny laugh—a chilling sound that failed to reach his dead, metallic grey eyes.
“Do your job, Doctor,” I ordered, tossing the bloodied scalpel onto the bedside tray.
Wayland nodded understandingly, quickly pulling a pre-loaded syringe from his medical case.
Logan’s manic laughter grew louder, echoing off the walls until the doctor managed to plunge the needle into his shoulder, delivering a massive dose of a powerful sedative.
Within a matter of seconds, the laughter died down, his eyelids grew heavy, and he collapsed back onto the pillows, completely unconscious.
The nurse returned, and Dr.
Wayland quickly turned his attention to my hand, cleaning the wound with stinging alcohol before wrapping it in tight gauze.
“We are incredibly sorry about this complication, Mr.
Vincent,” he murmured.
“It wasn’t your doing,” I said simply, checking the neat bandage.
“Is he secure?” “All done, sir,” Wayland confirmed, stepping back.
I stood over the bed for a moment, listening to Logan’s heavy, rhythmic snoring.
Turning to Anne, I issued my final directives.
“The moment that sedative wears off and he shows any sign of movement, I want to be notified immediately.” “Yes, sir,” she replied, offering a submissive bow.
I turned back to Wayland and his assistants.
“Whatever dosage of medication you are currently administering to keep him compliant, I want you to double it.” “But Mr.
Vincent, that volume runs a severe risk of an accidental overdose, and—” “He will survive it,” I cut him off, my voice leaving no room for negotiation.
“The man lying on that bed won’t die until he decides he’s ready to.
Double the dosage.” The physician swallowed his protests and gave a reluctant nod.
“Very well, sir.
I will adjust the charts.” “Good.” Right on cue, the vibration of my phone signaled another call.
I pulled it out to see Luca’s name.
“Speak,” I answered, turning to exit the room.
“It’s just past ten o’clock, boss,” Luca reported.
“Tony Steele has arrived at the company, and his team is waiting for you.” “I am on my way down now,” I replied, ending the call.
I marched downstairs to the grand foyer, where Gareth was already waiting with my wool coat.
Anne was hovering nearby, looking anxious.
“Mr.
Vincent, breakfast has been completely prepared and laid out,” she noted hesitantly.
“But the dining hall remains entirely empty.” I adjusted my collar, a slight frown crossing my face.
“Where is Elodie?” “I observed her heading toward the estate’s private library a short while ago, sir,” Gareth answered smoothly.
“It appeared she intended to pass the time with some reading.” “I see.
Under no circumstances is she to leave the perimeter of this estate while I am away.
Do you both understand me?” I instructed, fixing them with a stern look.
“Yes, sir, we do” Gareth nodded.
“Anne, prepare a tray and have her breakfast delivered directly to the library if she refuses to sit at the table,” I added.
“Right away, sir,” she murmured, bowing slightly before retreating toward the kitchen corridors.
Gareth assisted me into my coat and threw open the massive, reinforced steel front doors of the mansion.
Outside, the morning air was crisp.
I signaled to Randall, my driver, who was already stationed beside the idling Rolls-Royce.
He quickly held the rear door open for me, and within moments, we tore down the private drive, leaving the estate behind as I turned my focus to the business waiting at the docks.