The sky over Surrey was grey the morning Blake Bennett died.
Rain tapped softly on the tall windows of the study, as if mourning with the house. Outside, the gravel driveway glistened, and the Bentley that once ferried Blake to board meetings sat idle, cloaked in the mist of a quiet estate.
Murphy Bennett stood in the center of the room, his frame lost in the oversized Arsenal hoodie that had seen better years. He stared at the desk—his father's desk—lined with leather blotters, fountain pens, unopened mail, and a half-drunk bottle of Talisker 18. The room smelled faintly of cigar smoke, aged paper, and something else—his father's presence, lingering like breath in cold air.
He hadn't moved much in the last hour. The rain hadn't stopped. The world hadn't either.
Blake Bennett, the man newspapers had called "the quiet monarch of modern capital," was dead. A silent cardiac arrest. Just like that. No drama. No warnings. One moment he was laughing over a glass of wine with the British Trade Envoy, the next, he was slumped forward on the patio of their Geneva home.
Now, his face was on every financial news ticker, his death mourned in markets and mergers alike. Murphy hadn't cried. Not even during the service. Not during the eulogy that he read with dry eyes and a hoarse voice. Not when he stood at the edge of the burial site as a handful of earth landed on a coffin that contained the only person who had ever really understood him.
The lawyers called it a "succession event." The term alone made Murphy want to break something. Because this wasn't just about shares, titles, or boardrooms. This was a severing of a lifeline. But he was Blake's only son, and with the signature of a pen and the reading of a will, he now owned controlling interest in the B&M Group—a conglomerate of terrifying size:
B&M Financials—one of the top three global private finance networks.
B&M Dairy—the dominant agricultural producer across Europe and parts of Africa. B&M Technologies, which had majority stakes in Apple, Cisco, Google, and full ownership of Skynet Global Systems—a shadowy but indispensable provider of aviation communication systems used in 75% of the world's airports. And buried within that empire, protected only by a legal clause and a father's dying wish, sat his most prized possession. Arsenal Football Club.
"Mr. Bennett," a voice called softly from the hallway.
Murphy turned. His secretary, Lisette, stood by the door, holding a stack of documents. She was French-Algerian, late thirties, sharp-featured with dark hair always pulled into a tight bun. She had worked for his father for nearly ten years, but she spoke to Murphy like she'd known him his whole life—gently, but never with pity.
"You have a standing call with the estate trustees at noon."
Murphy sighed. "Push it."
"They won't be pleased."
"Neither am I."
She gave a faint nod and retreated. He didn't hate her. In fact, she was one of the few people he trusted to speak the truth. But the machine his father built was now roaring to life around him—investors demanding certainty, partners asking for clarity, internal departments already treating him like a temporary custodian.
They didn't see him as a leader. Just a boy with an obsession for football, fashion, and fast cars. They didn't know the weight Arsenal carried in his chest.
He wandered upstairs to the private archive, a long, wood-paneled room where Blake kept records of everything: acquisitions, company notes, scouting reports, and journals. At the end of the room was a vault. Inside it: the Arsenal dossier. A thick, leather-bound ledger with the club's crest embossed in gold. It had been a birthday gift from Blake the year he bought Arsenal—four billion euros, paid in cash and shares, all for a son who once cried when Thierry Henry left for Barcelona.
Most thought it was a vanity move. They said Blake bought Arsenal like he bought everything else—a transaction, not a connection.
They were wrong.
He bought it because Murphy cared. Because Arsenal had been their bridge when nothing else worked. When therapists failed. When teachers couldn't reach him. Blake bought the club because Murphy asked him to. Because Murphy said, "I want to fix it."
Unbeknownst to Murphy, others had also begun to move. Zthw Financials, a secretive and ancient wealth faction with roots in Zurich and Dubai, had identified Arsenal not as a football club—but as a strategic anchor. A gateway to global influence. Now, with Blake out of the picture, they were positioning themselves to make an offer that couldn't be refused. At least, not by someone unprepared. But Murphy wasn't unprepared. Not entirely.
His father had left him something more valuable than gold. He had left him names.
In the west wing of the estate, tucked between the security control room and the private operations center, a meeting had begun without fanfare.
Marcus Dell, the Head of Security, former MI6, bald and imposing, spoke in a low voice. "We've identified three data breaches since the announcement of succession. All in B&M Technologies. All likely Zthw probes."
Beside him sat Eloise Hartman, Murphy's legal counsel and in-house fixer—early forties, steel-eyed, silk-suited. "They won't approach directly. They'll try to exploit regulatory loopholes or force a liquidity event."
"Let them try," Marcus said. "I've tightened surveillance across our corporate and personal networks."
From the door, Lisette entered silently and placed Murphy's black coffee on the table.
"Thank you," he said, finally speaking.
She paused. "You're going to need to decide soon."
Murphy looked up. "About what?"
"Who's really part of this," she said, gesturing around. "And who isn't."
He nodded. He already knew.
Back in the study, Murphy returned to the desk. The same drawer. The same sheet of paper. The handwriting was his father's—firm and angular.
A list of roles.
Director of Football
Head of Scouting
Head of Sports Science
Data Intelligence Unit
Psychological Performance Coach
Global Youth Development Officer
Club Legal Advisor
Fan Experience Chief
Arsenal Academy Liaison
Press and Media Controller
Each role carried a small note in the margins.
"This club doesn't just need better players. It needs better people."
"Don't build for trophies. Build for identity."
"Protect the soul of the club at all costs."
Murphy folded the paper and slid it into the inner pocket of his hoodie. The Emirates was still sleeping. The team was inconsistent. The fans divided. Arsène Wenger, still at the helm, faced criticism daily.
But Murphy wasn't ready to let go. He had inherited the throne, yes—but Arsenal… Arsenal was the kingdom he would fight for.
He looked at the crest above the fireplace—a framed Arsenal jersey from 2004, signed by the entire "Invincibles" squad.
And then, he spoke—not to the room, but to the memory of his father:
"I'm going to make them fear us again."