The Ultimate Doctor V’s Revenge

10. Meng Clothing

Vincent arrived at VG Enterprises just before nine in the morning.

VG Enterprises was his uncle’s company headquarters.

He took care of the business here when he had time but his main focus was the hospital and he would have been there by now if he didn't have important business to take care of here.

When he got in, all the staff paused what they were doing and stood at his beck and call.

“Good morning, Young Master.” They greeted urgently.

“Welcome, sir.”

“Everything is ready.”

Vincent stepped onto the polished marble floor, his shoes echoing faintly. The smell of clean air, coffee, and restrained urgency filled the space. Employees moved quickly but carefully, like people walking on thin ice—efficient, alert, and eager not to make mistakes.

He felt it immediately.

Control.

Not the fragile kind he had pretended to have in school by keeping his head down, but real control—the kind that made people adjust their lives the moment you entered a room.

His personal assistant, Jian, appeared at his side almost instantly.

“Good morning, sir. Your schedule has been cleared. The board members are aware you may call for them at any time.”

Vincent nodded once. “Cancel everything else.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked toward the private elevator reserved for the highest level of authority. As the doors slid shut, cutting off the rest of the world, Vincent leaned back slightly and exhaled.

This was it.

Not anger. Not shouting. Not fists.

This was how destruction really happened.

Quietly.

Xian Meng’s face floated into his mind. The sneer. The arrogance. The way he had kicked him like trash and laughed while doing it.

Vincent’s lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.

“Jian,” he said to his PA without turning. “I want everything on the Meng family’s clothing company. Public records, private dealings, debts, partnerships. I want what they hide from shareholders. I want what they hide from their own board.”

Jian’s fingers paused for only a fraction of a second before resuming their rapid movement. “Understood. We’ll need to involve the internal intelligence unit.”

“Do it,” Vincent said. “Quietly.”

He hesitated, then added carefully, “Sir… may I ask the urgency?”

Vincent finally turned, his gaze calm but sharp enough to cut.

“They hurt me,” he said simply.

He remembered all that Xian did to him throughout college. The insults, the beating. And after yesterday, Vincent decided it was time to teach Xian Meng and his family a lesson.

Jian swallowed. “Then we won’t miss anything.”

Within hours, the building shifted into a different rhythm.

This wasn’t the usual corporate busyness of meetings and emails. This was surgical. Analysts locked themselves into glass rooms, pouring over numbers. Lawyers reviewed contracts clause by clause. Hackers—people who officially did not exist—were brought in through back channels, faces unseen, names unrecorded.

Vincent sat at his desk as reports came in one after another.

The Meng clothing company looked strong on the outside. Big factories. Popular brands. Flashy advertising. But inside?

Rot.

Too many loans. Short-term borrowing to cover long-term losses. Deals made on shaky promises. Money moved around just enough to keep the illusion alive.

“They’re surviving on confidence,” one analyst explained carefully, standing across from Vincent. “Investors believe they’re strong, so banks keep lending. Suppliers keep supplying. But if that confidence breaks…”

“They will fall,” Vincent finished.

“Yes, sir. Very fast.”

Vincent’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

“So what do they need right now?” he asked.

Jian stepped forward. “Capital. Fresh money. Their next quarter is dangerous. If no one buys new shares or injects funds, they won’t be able to pay suppliers or service their debts.”

“And if someone does?” Vincent asked.

“Then that person owns them,” he replied.

Silence stretched.

Vincent looked at the screen displaying Meng Company’s stock performance. Numbers rising and falling like a heartbeat.

“How much to take control?” he asked.

“Seventy-five percent would be decisive,” Jian said. “At that point, even the founder loses real power.”

Vincent nodded once. “Buy it.”

His eyes widened slightly despite her composure. “All at once?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “That will cause ripples. People will notice.”

“I want them to.”

The purchase was executed through layers of shell companies and financial vehicles—simple terms, Vincent used money from companies he owned to buy pieces of Meng Company bit by bit, quietly, legally. To the outside world, it looked like normal trading.

Until it didn’t.

By the next morning, rumors started.

A large buyer. An unknown investor. Shares disappearing from the open market.

Banks grew nervous. Partners started asking questions.

Vincent didn’t stop there.

He sat back in his chair, phone in hand, scrolling through contacts that carried more weight than entire corporations. Men who owed his uncle favors. Women who had built empires with him. People who didn’t need explanations.

“I need you to stop doing business with Meng Clothing,” Vincent said calmly, again and again. “Yes. Effective immediately.”

Some asked why.

Most didn’t.

Within forty-eight hours, suppliers pulled out. Credit lines froze. Orders were delayed “pending review.”

Meng Company’s stock plummeted.

Red numbers flooded the screens.

Loss.

Panic.

Vincent watched it all like a doctor observing a patient whose illness he understood perfectly.

“Sir,” Jian said, entering his office. “A business reporter from Jinghua Financial wants confirmation. They’ve discovered you’re the major shareholder.”

Vincent smiled faintly. “Confirm it.”

The article was released before noon.

VG Enterprises’ heir acquires majority stake in Meng Clothing.

Xian Meng read it on his phone, Vincent imagined. Maybe his hands shook. Maybe he laughed at first, thinking it was a joke.

Then reality would sink in.

By evening, Vincent had a small black box delivered to Xian Meng’s residence.

Inside was a single document.

The shareholder certificate.

And a card. Written on the card was a question: Do you like my gift?

Vincent leaned back in his chair as the sun dipped below the skyline.

This wasn’t the end of his revenge on the people who treated him like trash back then in college.

It was only the beginning.