I could still hear my father's voice in my head, clear as day, like he never left. "You only truly know who you are when you stand at the edge and don't flinch." I hadn't flinched at the funeral, hadn't shed a tear. But in private, in silence, in the absence of his laughter, I was bleeding inside.
Everything was moving too fast. Between board meetings at B&M Financials, signing off on the new AI optimization system for Skynet Global, and the never-ending restructuring reports from B&M Dairy, I was losing grip of the one thing that actually kept me going—Arsenal.
My father had left me everything. The numbers still sounded surreal: 4 billion euros to buy Arsenal from Kroenke, quietly finalized weeks before his death. And just like that, I went from fan to owner. But I wasn't ready. Not emotionally. Not structurally. And certainly not spiritually.
"Mr. Blake," a gentle voice called. I turned to see Sylvia, my secretary, standing at the doorway to my office. Always poised, her ash-blonde bob neat as ever, her iPad already open. "You have your advisory meeting in fifteen. And Karl is waiting in the security room. Wants to brief you about a—" she hesitated, "—new development. Something about your movements being monitored."
I nodded without speaking. She didn't need more from me; Sylvia was sharp. She managed to float around chaos and keep everything together. When I looked at her, I saw what I aspired to be—controlled.
"Tell Karl I'll meet him downstairs in five."
She turned and left swiftly, heels clicking like a countdown clock. I stared out of the penthouse window. The London skyline glittered beneath clouds that always threatened rain. Arsenal's red-and-white crest gleamed on a small tabletop stand beside me. My father had kept it on his desk at B&M Headquarters for years.
Five minutes later, I was in the secure room, grey and humming with soft electricity. Karl stood waiting, arms folded. Tall, built like a vault, with eyes that never smiled.
"We found something," he said, motioning me toward a monitor. "See this?"
I watched as footage showed two black sedans parked outside one of our dairy factories in Rotterdam. Then one outside a B&M Technologies hub in Lagos. Different continents. Same license plate.
"Same players?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Almost certainly Zthw Financials," Karl muttered. "They're either casing our assets… or casing you."
I leaned back in the chair. My inheritance wasn't just money. It was a fortress. And fortresses attract sieges. I was beginning to understand why Dad always seemed more tired in his last few years.
"You think they'll try something bold?"
"They already are," Karl said, his voice firm. "And with your movements, your ownership of Arsenal, and the vacuum left after your father's death… you're the mark."
I nodded slowly. "Then we stop being reactive. I want full surveillance on all execs and heads. And pull back the expansion on Skynet Asia until we're clear of this smoke."
Karl gave a single nod. "Already on it."
He walked out, and I remained. In the cold silence of that room, I realized that being rich wasn't power. Being prepared was power. And I wasn't about to let grief become my weakness.
Later that night, I drove myself to the Emirates.
Unannounced.
No driver. No fanfare.
I wanted to feel the rawness of it all.
The stadium, even when empty, felt alive. There's something sacred about walking those underground corridors alone. Like you're not supposed to be there, and yet you are—an intruder with keys to the kingdom.
I stood near the edge of the tunnel that opened out to the pitch. The lights were off, except for a single row, casting a gentle glow over the lush grass. The place where my heroes ran, where battles were fought every week.
"Mr. Blake?" a voice called from behind.
I turned and saw Arsène Wenger himself, walking towards me. Dressed casually, but every bit the elegant figure I admired growing up. His presence was timeless. He looked surprised but not unsettled.
"I was told you might drop by," he said with a faint smile.
I extended my hand. "Please, call me Murphy."
He shook it warmly. "Then you must call me Arsène."
We walked slowly toward the center circle, both our footsteps muffled by the rich turf.
"You know," I said, "when I was thirteen, I begged my father for tickets to see us play United. We lost 2–1, but I remember thinking you were a genius for subbing in Diaby in the 70th minute."
Wenger laughed softly. "Ah yes. A game of small margins and deep regrets."
I paused, looking at him. "Arsène, I need to ask you something bold."
He nodded, encouraging.
"I want to build a new era at Arsenal. My father gave me everything. But this… this is mine. I want to create a dynasty. Not just spend on players. I want an institution. Like Ferguson did for United. Like what Pep is doing at City. But better. I need your help."
Wenger studied me. "Do you know how rare that ambition is? Many owners want glory. Few want legacy."
"I want both."
He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Then start with people. Football is about people. Not just players. Your backroom defines your future."
And that's when I knew: I needed more than talent—I needed visionaries.
The next morning, I met with Laila Kallon, the club's Director of Football Operations. Young, Sierra Leonean, Oxford-educated, and ferociously brilliant.
We met in the boardroom. A wall of screens blinked with stats and fixtures. She had already prepared a dossier.
"I've taken the liberty to outline five structural changes we could implement before Q3," she said, without any pleasantries.
I liked her already.
As we moved through the proposals—scouting upgrades, recruitment strategies, academy revamp, data science integration—I couldn't help but think: This is what my father meant when he said, 'build with purpose'.
"Laila," I said, "Do you believe we can win the league within five years?"
She looked up. "If you give me the freedom to hire who we need, and the backing to weather at least one bad season, yes. Absolutely."
"Done."
I left that meeting with a new fire in my chest. For the first time since Dad's passing, I felt in control. But just as I walked into my office, Sylvia handed me a brown envelope.
"No sender. Just dropped at reception."
Inside was a photograph of me… sitting at the Emirates last night. Taken from the stands. A red marker drawn circle around my head.
And a note:We don't believe in fairy tales, Murphy. Let go of what's not yours.
I slammed the office door shut. Panic started to settle in. Not fear—panic. There's a difference. One is instinctual. The other is strategic.
I picked up the phone.
"Get Karl. Now."
He arrived in ten minutes. Read the note, then said nothing for a full minute.
"Looks like a war is brewing," he muttered.
"No. It's already started," I said.
He looked me dead in the eyes. "Do you want to pull back from Arsenal until this cools?"
"No," I replied coldly. "Arsenal is the only thing I won't pull back from. Everything else is negotiable."
Over the next two weeks, things moved rapidly. Sylvia worked late into the nights. Karl tightened every security detail. Laila hired a new Head of Youth Development—an ex-Barça genius named Renzo Pérez. And I appointed a Director of Cultural Identity, a former Invincible, to instill Arsenal's legacy into every corner of the club.
The most unexpected hire was probably Soraya, my new Head of Internal Club Affairs. She came from Milan, with the tact of a diplomat and the instincts of a spy. Her job? To keep tabs on everyone. And I mean everyone. From first-team coaches to club chefs.
I didn't care what they called me behind my back. Dictator. Control freak. Obsessed. Whatever it was, they weren't wrong. I was obsessed—with order, with protection, with legacy.
Arsène and I met once a week, always at the stadium, always in private. We discussed player mindsets, rival strategies, and my personal struggle with grief.
One night, I asked him: "Did you ever feel alone in this job?"
He smiled sadly. "Every night. But the pitch… it reminds you that you're never truly alone. Eleven players. Thousands of fans. Millions watching."
That stuck with me.
So I started doing something new. Every evening, when I could, I'd sit at the stadium alone. In the owner's box. No phones. No staff. Just me and the seats and the memory of my father.
I'd whisper:We're building something, Dad. You'd love it.
And somehow, in those moments, the grief dulled just a bit.
But in the shadows, I knew the enemy was moving too.
Zthw wasn't idle. The surveillance logs Karl showed me grew thicker each day. Leaked contracts, strange attempts to poach our junior analysts, whispers of bribes to minor shareholders.
And then the final straw.
Sylvia walked in one morning, her face pale.
"They tried to buy out the East Stand naming rights behind your back."
I froze.
"Through a shell company. Karl traced it. Guess who owns it?"
I didn't need to ask.
Zthw was playing dirty.
But I wasn't a boy anymore.
I was my father's son.
And this was my club.
Time to play.