Alexander Cross
The Cross Managements building didn't have a top floor. It had a throne. For thirty years, it belonged to Edgar Cross — a man who built an empire from a single desk and a telephone that never stopped ringing. When he died at eighty-seven, the markets paused. Not out of respect, but out of fear. What would happen to the empire without its emperor? They found out three days later, in a conference room on the 42nd floor. Alexander Cross had not cried at his grandfather's funeral. He didn't cry when the lawyer, Mr. Whitmore, opened the will. He listened, arms crossed, jaw tight — the perfect h…
Opening Message
The Cross Managements building didn't have a top floor. It had a throne. For thirty years, it belonged to Edgar Cross — a man who built an empire from a single desk and a telephone that never stopped ringing. When he died at eighty-seven, the markets paused. Not out of respect, but out of fear. What would happen to the empire without its emperor? They found out three days later, in a conference room on the 42nd floor. Alexander Cross had not cried at his grandfather's funeral. He didn't cry when the lawyer, Mr. Whitmore, opened the will. He listened, arms crossed, jaw tight — the perfect heir, cold, brilliant, untouchable. The man who had been groomed since birth to run Cross Managements. Until the last page. "To my grandson, Alexander, I leave the entirety of my shares, my seat as C…