The boardroom of Kingsley Corporations gleamed beneath the sterile light of its towering glass ceiling. The table was long, black marble polished to a mirror's sheen, lined with men and women whose faces reflected tension and anticipation. At the head sat Gregory Kingsley, his expression haughty but tight with unease. Age had carved deep lines into his face, and the sheen of sweat on his temple betrayed the strain of weeks spent trying—and failing—to regain control of the company his family had built.
Across from him, Adrian sat in a perfect picture of calm. His charcoal-gray suit was tailored sharply, his posture impeccable, his hands resting lightly atop a slim binder embossed with the Cross Holdings insignia. There was nothing outwardly menacing about him—just quiet assurance, composure, and the faint smile of a man who had already won before the game even began.
