I sat behind my father's grand oak desk, the same one I once spilled cocoa on as a kid, when he let me sit in his lap and pretend I was running B&M Financials. The scent of the leather and aged wood still clung to the air. But now, the chair no longer felt like a throne—it felt like a cage. Everything he built now rested on my shoulders. Every empire he touched, every deal he signed, every risk he took… now it's mine. Whether I was ready or not.
A faint knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. It opened slightly, just enough for Florence to peek in. "Murphy, the Zurich file and the SkyNet client reports are in your tray. Also, the FA representative confirmed for Thursday."
I nodded. "Thanks, Florence."
She didn't linger—Florence never did unless she sensed something was wrong. Today, her eyes held that worried pause, that glance just a second too long before she pulled the door closed. She knew I hadn't slept.
It had been three months since the funeral, yet I still woke up reaching for his voice. At night, I relived the moment he collapsed in the observatory, the half-written speech in his hand about youth empowerment and African futures. He was preparing for Davos. He never made it.
I often asked myself—how do you mourn a giant? How do you carry a legacy when you're still searching for your own feet?
My eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where a worn Arsenal jersey hung framed. Thierry Henry's number. Dad got it signed for me the day we watched Arsenal beat Real Madrid in '06. I remember him saying, "No matter how far you go, never lose your boyhood joy. This team, Murphy—it's yours. It's us."
And that's why, despite the chaos—despite Skynet meetings, dairy logistics, and merger deadlines—I could only think of Arsenal. Not as a business, but as home. And now, I had to fight for that home.
A soft buzz pulled me from my thoughts. Dominic, head of security, stepped in unannounced, as usual.
"Sir," he said, voice low, always cautious. "We intercepted another attempt to trace your schedule through your calendar proxy. This one was routed through Buenos Aires, using a repackaged trading bot."
I leaned back, rubbing my temples. "That's the third this week."
"Fourth, actually. But I didn't want to bother you during the Zurich pitch." His eyes didn't blink. "It's clear someone wants to know where you are—at all times."
I swallowed hard. "Is it internal?"
"Too early to tell. But Florence's inbox was probed too."
That hit hard. Not Florence.
"I want a full sweep. Phones. Laptops. Even my football analytics terminal. And double Florence's firewall."
He nodded and left as silently as he came.
I exhaled and stood, walking to the window that overlooked the city. Lagos shimmered in the evening light, its pulse as relentless as my thoughts. Somewhere below, the world believed Murphy Blake had it all together—the billionaire son, the heir, the next big thing.
If only they knew I'd trade all of this for one last Sunday ride with my dad to the Emirates, drinking chocolate milk and listening to Wenger interviews.
My thoughts returned to Arsenal. With Kroenke's transfer complete and the club now under B&M's full ownership, I was no longer a fan—I was the custodian of a dream. And that dream was sick. The club needed life again. Urgency. Ambition. Identity.
And Arsène. He was still there. My old man had told me to always listen to Wenger. That the man wasn't just a manager—he was a sage.
I scheduled a direct call.
Later that evening, when the office had emptied and the city lights mirrored stars across the water, I sat on my penthouse balcony staring at my match reports. It was quiet, save for the low hum of Dominic's surveillance drone above.
Florence joined me with tea, uninvited. That was her way of saying she cared.
"You're thinking about them again," she said.
"Always," I replied.
She sat beside me. "It's okay to miss him. But you can't freeze. You've got companies clawing for your crown. They don't care if you're grieving. They see a crack in your armor and want in."
I looked at her. "You ever wonder if I was built for this?"
She smiled faintly. "Your father didn't raise you to wonder. He raised you to lead. But even leaders need a team."
I nodded. I thought of Kemi, my PA and one of the few people I trusted without question. She'd covered for me when I missed board calls, rerouted flights when I couldn't face Europe, and once booked an entire cinema just so I could watch Invincible in peace.
Then there was Emeka, the analytics lead I pulled from Accra. The kid was a savant—barely 29 and already had a neural model that could predict fullback fatigue with 88% accuracy. I'd given him a lab beneath B&M Towers to run simulations and build the perfect Arsenal engine.
I wasn't alone. That mattered.
The call with Arsène came through just past midnight. I stood up as the screen flickered.
"Murphy," he greeted, calm and collected as always.
"Coach," I smiled. "It's an honor."
"You look like him," he said, peering through the camera. "But your eyes… they're hungry."
I nodded. "I need your help, Arsène. I want to rebuild Arsenal. Not just win. Resurrect. We've lost what we were. And I want it back."
He leaned in, eyes thoughtful.
"You understand this is not about buying players. It's about culture. Arsenal is poetry, Murphy. You can't force poetry."
"Then we'll cultivate it," I said. "But I need the right minds around the table."
He smiled. "Then let's start with people who love the club more than their careers."
And that was it. That night, I didn't sleep. I sketched roles, names, structures. Director of Football. Head of Youth Development. Data Intelligence Lead. Emotional Wellness Officer. We weren't building a team—we were building a family.
It wasn't about revenge. It wasn't about profit.
It was about love. My love for Dad. For football. For everything Arsenal once was.
And maybe—just maybe—everything it could be again.