Adrian's furious defense
Adrian Cross had always possessed a commanding presence—the kind that bent rooms to his will before he ever spoke. For decades, his voice had been described as calm, measured, devastatingly precise. Investors trusted it. Boards obeyed it. Governments negotiated around it. That voice had built empires from glass and steel, reshaped markets, collapsed competitors without ever raising its volume. When Adrian Cross spoke, the world usually leaned forward, eager to learn which direction power would tilt next.
But the man who entered the press room that morning was not the strategist history remembered.
He was more dangerous than that.
He was angry.
Not the explosive, reckless anger that frays at the edges and betrays weakness—but the kind that has been compressed,
