The Miracle Doctor Returns: Divorce To Hidden Identity

Chapter 6

The next morning, Linda wasted no time dragging me into what she called “a crash course.” Her words, not mine.

She’d transformed a boardroom into a private academy. A whiteboard on one side, stacks of textbooks and case studies on the other, and a projector humming quietly. Three tutors waited inside—one in finance, one in medicine, and one in etiquette, of all things.

“Chairman or not,” Linda said as I slumped into the leather chair, “you can’t afford to act like a stranger in your own world. You must speak, move, and think as if you never lost your memory.”

I muttered, “Easier said than done.”

The finance tutor started first. Equations sprawled across the screen: compound interest, international bonds, foreign exchange flows. My temples throbbed just looking at them. But then something strange happened. As he explained the formulas, my mind moved faster than my doubts. Numbers linked themselves in clean, sharp lines, and within minutes I was calculating results before he finished writing the equations.

The man gawked. “Chairman, you… you still have it.”

Still have it? I wasn’t sure what “it” was, but apparently it lived in me whether I remembered it or not.

The medicine tutor took over next, presenting me with complex case studies: rare blood disorders, viral mutations, neurological trauma. The words washed over me, foreign yet familiar, like echoes from a forgotten dream. My hands itched as if they longed for surgical tools. When he described a case of resistant pneumonia, my mouth moved before I could stop it.

“Change the antibiotic sequence. Add clindamycin before erythromycin. Otherwise, the bacterial load will rebound.”

The tutor froze, his pen hovering midair. “Chairman… that’s exactly the unpublished trial you ran three years ago. How could you…”

I blinked. My chest tightened. I hadn’t meant to say it. It was instinct, pure reflex. Somewhere inside me, the doctor I once was still breathing.

Then came etiquette. This one I found absurd. A stiff-backed woman with porcelain posture drilled me on how to walk into a banquet hall, how to address diplomats, and how to signal confidence with silence. I rolled my eyes more than once, but Linda’s glare kept me from mouthing off. By the end, I realized her point: survival wasn’t only about knowledge or power—it was about perception.

By the time evening fell, my head pounded with fragments of memory I didn’t own. But Linda wasn’t finished.

She summoned me to the executive council the next day. Twelve senior executives sat around a long glass table, their eyes sharp, their whispers sharper. They bowed politely when I entered, but I caught the smirks they traded behind their hands.

One of them, a man with graying temples and a smug smile, leaned forward. “Chairman, forgive our bluntness. You were gone for months. Rumors spread. Some of us question whether you are still… capable of leading Skydome.”

Another executive added, “We’ve weathered hostile takeovers and political scrutiny in your absence. Continuity demands strength. Can we be certain you still embody it?”

Their words dripped with hidden knives.

I sat silently, hands folded on the table. My heart hammered, but outwardly I kept still. Linda, on the other hand, was a blade unsheathed.

“Careful with your tongues,” she said coldly. “You forget whose shadow this company exists under. Without him, none of you would sit in those chairs.”

Her voice silenced half the room. But the smug one chuckled. “With respect, Manager Linda, words alone don’t run an empire. Proof does.”

I almost let Linda keep fighting for me, but then—like a flare in the dark—something surfaced. A detail. A thread of memory too sharp to be coincidence.

I looked directly at the smug executive. “Proof, you say? Then explain this—why did you authorize an offshore account in Zurich last winter under the subsidiary’s name, knowing full well the board rejected that maneuver two years ago?”

His face was drained of color.

Murmurs rippled across the table.

“That account was… confidential,” he stammered. “No outsider could have known—”

“Exactly,” I cut in. My voice was steady, colder than I expected. “And only the real Chairman would know who signed off on it, and why.”

The room fell into stunned silence. The executives who had doubted me shifted uneasily, their earlier arrogance evaporating. Some even lowered their gazes.

Linda’s lips curved into the faintest smile. She didn’t need to defend me anymore.

After the meeting, she guided me through a restricted wing of the building. Security scanned us three times before allowing us entry. The air inside was different—chilled, sterile, humming faintly with electricity. Rows of sealed glass chambers lined the walls, each containing vials of liquids, powders, or tablets glowing faintly under specialized lights.

“These,” Linda said softly, her tone reverent, “are your life’s work. Medicines so rare, so advanced, that governments bid billions for even a sample. Experimental treatments—cures for conditions others still call incurable.”

I stepped closer to one chamber. A vial the size of my thumb held a golden solution that seemed to pulse with light. My skin prickled just staring at it.

“You developed this?” I asked quietly.

She nodded. “It stabilizes degenerative cells. Still unapproved, but the military tried to buy the patent outright.”

A strange pride swelled in me—pride that wasn’t mine, but belonged to the man I used to be.

But Linda’s expression darkened. “These treasures are why you were targeted. Rival families already circle Skydome like vultures. Carl’s backers are among them. They want what you built, and they won’t stop until you’re gone—or they own it.”

The air felt heavier. For every treasure here, there was a dagger aimed at my chest.

I pressed my palm against the glass, staring at the glowing vial. The man who had created these wonders was still buried inside me. And whether I remembered him or not, his enemies were real.

Linda’s voice echoed like a warning bell: “Your comeback won’t be quiet. It will draw fire from every direction. You must be ready.”

I exhaled slowly, the weight of

her words pressing down like armor. I wasn’t sure if I could reclaim the life of the man I once was. But if these enemies thought I would be easy prey, they were about to discover otherwise.

Because memory or not, I was still Charlie. And Charlie didn’t bow.