The Chairman’s Ultimatum Disgraced Surgeon’s Second Life

Adrian didn’t even spare a single glance at the cityscape as his private jet descended.

He was staring at the platinum band on his left hand. The ring was a custom piece Lilian had designed. It was heavy and ostentatious, just the perfect symbol of the Monroe family’s status.

For three years, even while living in self-imposed exile, he hadn’t taken it off. It served as an important reminder of the life they had convinced him he deserved.

He turned it slowly under the cabin light. He remembered sliding it onto Lilian’s finger, with the stupid  belief that he was stepping into a destiny built on love and achievement.

He was Adrian Cole, the youngest surgeon to chair a division at the Metropolitan Medical Group, otherwise known as MMG.

He was the golden boy. She was his golden ticket.

Now, it was just lead.

As the plane settled and the steps got lowered onto the asphalt of the private terminal, Adrian pulled the ring off.

It felt relievingly light.

He walked past the uniformed flight attendant and, without hesitation, dropped the ring into a discarded coffee cup by the exit.

The faint clink was the final sound of Adrian Cole, the husband of the undeserving wife.

A moment later, he stepped out into the familiar air of the city that had once celebrated him, and then brutally discarded him.

He was wearing an impeccably tailored, dark grey suit, a fabric so expensive it worth enough to feed half a thousand people comfortably.

His face was leaner now, sharper, lacking the soft, hopeful edges of the man Lilian had married. His eyes that was once vibrant with the exhausting passion of a dedicated surgeon, were now a ice cold blue—the eyes of an investor, an owner, a predator.

Three years ago, Adrian had been in court, sitting alone. He still remembered the smell of the room—dusty paper and cheap cologne.

The accusations kept raining on him endlessly.

He was charged with gross medical negligence, sabotage, and the wrongful death of a high-profile patient. The Monroes, Lilian’s family, had leveraged their media power to ensure every paper called him a reckless butcher.

But the real wound wasn't the press.

It was never the press.

The real wound was Lilian. He could still see her on the witness stand, tears perfectly placed, delivering the killing blow.

“Adrian always had an overinflated ego,” she’d choked out, dabbing her eyes. “He pushed boundaries. He demanded control. I told him he needed to slow down, but he always thought he was the smartest man in the room. He convinced me that the evidence of equipment failure was real, but I now realize he was manipulating the facts to cover his own error.”

Lies.

All of it was a pack of believable, well-rehearsed lies.

She knew the equipment was faulty. She knew her father had cut corners on maintenance.

But when the scandal threatened the Monroe name, Lilian threw her husband to the wolves without blinking.

He was jailed briefly, then acquitted on technicalities, but the damage was irreversible. His license was revoked. His career was ash. His finances were a horrible mess.

A sleek black Maybach pulled up. A tall, impeccably dressed man in his late forties, Eric, stepped out.

Eric had been Adrian’s first contact three years ago, a sharp-tongued legal strategist who specialized in hostile takeovers.

“Chairman Cole,” Eric greeted him in a low and respectful tone as he proceeded to opening the rear door.

Adrian slid into the plush leather seat. “Eric. Everything is in place?”

“Perfectly,” Eric confirmed, getting in beside him. “The board meeting is scheduled for four o’clock this afternoon. We just sent the announcement to the wire services. It’s going to break precisely when you walk through the door.”

Adrian merely nodded. “And the Monroes? Are they suspecting anything yet?”

Eric let out a dry, cynical chuckle. “They’re panicking over a massive debt restructure, Adrian. Their attention is fixed on the balance sheet, not the ownership ledger. They think they’re fighting off a faceless corporate vulture, which, technically, they are. They have no idea the vulture has a face they once spit on.”

The car pulled onto the freeway. Adrian leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.

The three years had been spent meticulously rebuilding, not a surgical career, but a financial empire.

He had taken his substantial savings, leveraged his high-level contacts who still believed in his intellect, and started ColeTech.

They focused on medical hardware, diagnostics, and now, finally, crazy medical group acquisition.

“How is the Metropolitan Medical Group holding up?” Adrian asked in a clinical voice.

“Rattling apart,” Eric supplied. “Poor management, aging infrastructure, and a reputation they never recovered after… well, after your trial. They’re ripe for the picking. We purchased the majority stake last week. It was surprisingly cheap.”

Adrian watched the city rush by, the high-rise towers standing like cold, sentinels. His jaw tightened as they passed a massive, gleaming glass structure that housed the hospital complex.

It was there—the operating room where he had stood over the dying patient, the courtroom where he had been betrayed, the corridors where he had once been a god.

“Pull over for a moment, Eric.”

The driver slowed and stopped in the bus lane just across the street from the hospital entrance.

Adrian stared at the main building, his eyes narrowed. It was home to the Monroes, his ex-wife, and every single person who had stood by and watched his world burn.

He wasn't just here to own the property; he was here to own the consequences.

“The fact that they thought they destroyed me,” Adrian murmured, his reflection visible in the car window. “They thought they sent me back to the obscurity I came from.”

“They made a costly error, Chairman,” Eric agreed.

Just then, the giant digital screens plastered across the hospital’s facade, typically showing promotional loops for new wings and services, flashed a stark message in bold red lettering: METROPOLITAN MEDICAL GROUP: CEO ANNOUNCEMENT TODAY. URGENT BOARD MEETING CALLED.

A slow, utterly devoid-of-humor smirk touched Adrian’s lips. He finally looked away from the building, tapping the glass.

“Driver, let’s go,” Adrian instructed, leaning forward, the coldness in his voice sharper than any scalpel. “It’s time. It's high time the haunting began.”