"Mmmhm..." Arthur groaned softly as he blinked against the morning sunlight slipping through the parted hotel curtains. The golden rays cast a warm glow across the room, but all of his attention was fixed on the woman curled up on top of him—Shakira.
Her blonde hair spilled across his chest, her leg tangled with his, one arm snugly wrapped around his torso like a sleepy octopus refusing to let go.
She was still asleep, her breathing steady, lips parted slightly. Arthur smiled, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. The last two days had gone by in a whirlwind—blissful chaos wrapped in kisses, laughter, and passion.
What had started as a spark had exploded into a full-blown wildfire the moment they'd returned to his hotel room after the concert. Shakira had shown him exactly why people say Latin women are pure passion—every kiss, every touch, every look, was charged with electricity. They had barely come up for air between their hours-long makeout sessions and, well, everything else. If the walls could talk, the hotel would probably need to rebrand itself.
It wasn't just passion—it was hunger, magnetism, like something had snapped between them and there was no holding back.
They'd barely kept their hands off each other since. Room service went untouched. Bedsheets got washed and rewashed. Even the poor hotel cleaner gave up knocking after the first day.
But it wasn't just physical. Somewhere between the laughter and the pillow fights, the teasing and deep conversations, something real had started to grow.
Arthur looked at the home screen on his phone resting on the nightstand. There it was again—the wallpaper she'd made him set: a picture of the two of them with messy bed hair, hugging each other while making funny faces. He chuckled to himself.
They were ridiculous—and it felt right.
When they weren't tangled up under the covers, they'd talked seriously. About the future, about how they'd make this work.
Shakira, lying in bed with her head on his shoulder, had admitted that she couldn't always be around. Her tours, her brand deals, her commitments—there was always somewhere she had to be. She had a jet-setting lifestyle that didn't wait for anyone
"My life's everywhere carino," she had said softly, legs tucked under her. "One week I'm here, the next I'm in Brazil, then Tokyo. It's pure chaos. "
Arthur, calm as ever, just nodded. "I get it. I'm busy running a football club. I don't even know what sleep is anymore. But if we both want this… we'll find time."
Arthur smiled after a pause ,"I'm not asking you to change your life for me," he had said softly, brushing her hair from her face. "Just save a little space in it for me."
That had touched her. Not because it was sweet—but because it was mature. Real. He wasn't asking her to change. Just to let him in.
She had leaned against his chest and whispered, "I want to settle down. Maybe in a few years. I don't want to be working forever.
I'm already twenty-eight, and I've been chasing stages since I was thirteen. One day, I want to have simple family life."
Arthur had smiled. "In a few years, I plan to find someone to take over the daily operations. Then I'll just sit back and enjoy life… preferably with someone like you."
Her heart had done a somersault.
But now, their little escape was coming to an end. Shakira had a concert in Barcelona. Arthur had meetings in Germany. Time had caught up with them.
So they decided to spend their last full day together outside. They drove out of the city and found a quiet stretch of beach near the coast—just the two of them, no cameras, no fans.
The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting a soft amber hue across the sea. The waves lapped gently at the shore as Shakira clung to his arm, barefoot in a loose dress, smiling every few steps as if she couldn't help it.
Arthur stole a glance at her and smirked. "You've kissed me six times in the last ten minutes darling."
She grinned, not even denying it. "What? I'm allowed to. You're my man now."
He chuckled. "I like the sound of that."
They kept walking, fingers intertwined, talking about silly things—favourite movies, worst first dates, guilty pleasures. Then the topic drifted to kids.
"How many do you want?" Shakira asked, kicking a shell with her foot.
Arthur pretended to think deeply. "At least eleven."
Shakira stopped. "Eleven?! What are you trying to do—start a football team from scratch?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. I want to manage a proper family lineup. I own a club, Imagine what it's like if all my players are my kids. Won't even need to pay extra."
She looked horrified in a mock way. "I would die if I had to give birth that many times."
"Alright, you do six. I'll find someone else for the other five," he said casually.
She turned and gave him a playful shove. "Don't you dare. I don't care if can't keep your hands off me,—you keep your hands off any other woman."
Arthur raised both hands in surrender, grinning. "Yes, my queen. Only you."
Satisfied, she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a long, soft kiss. The kind that lingered even after it ended.
They sat on the sand for hours, watching the waves roll in, holding hands in silence or laughing over shared memories. As the sky turned shades of orange and pink, there was a stillness between them—peaceful, but heavy. Both of them knew the moment was finite.
Back at the hotel, the mood turned quieter. They packed together—Arthur folding her clothes neatly while Shakira made fun of how organized he was. She tucked in her photos with written notes behind in his jacket pockets while he was looking outside. "Just in case you forget me," she said.
"Impossible," he replied.
When everything was packed, and her car was waiting downstairs, she turned to him at the door, suitcase beside her.
"You'll call?" she asked softly.
Arthur stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug. "I'll call. Text. Spam you if needed."
She laughed into his chest. "Good. I'll miss this… I'll miss you."
He pulled back just enough to kiss her. "This isn't the end. Just a pause."
She nodded, eyes glossy but smiling. "I believe you."
A few minutes later, Arthur met Julian in the lobby, suitcase rolling behind him.
Julian gave him a side-eye. "You look like a man who just said goodbye to the best weekend of his life."
Arthur gave a small smile, not denying it. "Yeah. But also like someone who's just getting started."
Julian glanced at Arthur, raising an eyebrow.
"You good?" he asked.
Arthur glanced back toward the elevator where Shakira had just disappeared, then turned forward with a soft smile.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I really am."
****
After parting ways with Shakira, Arthur boarded a flight to Munich with Julian, his mind still lingering on the final kiss they shared at the hotel door. But there wasn't much time to dwell on it—business awaited, and this time, it was something crucial. The World Cup was about to kick off in a few days, and they had serious matters to finalize before then.
Julian's father, Marcus Anderson, was scheduled to arrive in two days. Until then, Arthur and Julian had some time to relax. They roamed around Munich—grabbing beers at a traditional Bavarian beer garden, checking out Marienplatz, and even getting into a heated debate over which bratwurst stand was the best. It was a welcome break before returning to business mode.
Their main goal for this trip, however, was to secure the final cooperation agreement with Mr. Anderson. Leeds United's stadium expansion plans were already in motion—Allen had submitted the necessary applications weeks ago. All that remained was for Anderson's investment fund to approve and release the capital. Once that happened, construction on the new Elland Road could begin without delay.
The day before the World Cup's opening match, Mr. Anderson finally landed in Munich. Julian immediately rushed off to the airport to pick him up. Meanwhile, Arthur stayed behind to finalize dinner arrangements. He wanted to leave a good impression—something respectful and welcoming without being overly flashy.
He reached out to Philipp Lahm, who now worked with Bayern's front office. Arthur figured there was no one better to recommend a proper local spot. Lahm pointed him toward a rustic Bavarian restaurant just outside the tourist-heavy city center—a place frequented by locals for its authenticity and warm atmosphere.
"We're not going to one of those overhyped places with white tablecloths and gold menus," Arthur told Julian over the phone. "And definitely not taking him to some chain steakhouse."
Julian snorted. "Just don't take him anywhere that tries to pass off dog meat as beef."
Arthur laughed. "Mate, it's Germany, not a horror movie."
That evening, Arthur arrived early to the restaurant, taking a seat in the private room they'd reserved. The setting was cozy—wood-paneled walls, candlelit tables, and soft German folk music playing in the background. As he sat back, he scrolled lazily through his old slider phone, the screen lagging painfully behind every button press.
"This bloody thing takes longer to load a webpage than it took Julian to pass math," he muttered. Then added with a grin, "If I make enough money in the next couple years, I'm sending Allen to Silicon Valley to invest in Apple or whatever company makes real phones."
Just as he was groaning at the spinning load icon on the screen, the door creaked open.
Arthur looked up to see Julian stepping in, followed closely by his father. He stood up immediately, straightening his jacket.
Mr. Marcus Anderson was not at all what Arthur had pictured. For someone known to command billion-dollar portfolios, he looked… remarkably down to earth. Slim, dressed in a well-fitted grey suit, his blonde hair swept neatly to one side, and a composed demeanor. His eyes were sharp, but his smile was warm.
Arthur offered his hand with a welcoming smile. "Mr. Anderson, welcome to Munich! It's a pleasure to meet you."
Mr. Anderson's handshake was firm but not overpowering. "Arthur. So you're the young man causing waves in the football world. You're even younger than I imagined. Impressive."
Arthur chuckled politely. "Well, thank you, sir. I'm trying to make it count while I still have energy."
Anderson laughed. "Smart. Much better than this rascal here who only knows how to spend my money."
Julian groaned. "Oh come on, Dad. I'm the one who brought you two together. Give me some credit."
Mr. Anderson glanced sideways at his son with mock irritation. "Yes, yes. Credit to the middleman who contributes absolutely nothing."
That drew a laugh from all three of them and instantly broke the ice. The mood in the room relaxed as they sat down and ordered a round of local beer and traditional Bavarian dishes—roast pork knuckle, potato dumplings, and sauerkraut. The rich aromas filled the air, setting a comfortable tone for the evening.
Their conversation drifted between football, business, and even the World Cup hype. Mr. Anderson was insightful, asking Arthur about Leeds' long-term plans and what vision he had beyond stadium expansion. Arthur spoke honestly—about investing in youth, building infrastructure, and turning the club into a sustainable Premier League force.
Mr. Anderson nodded thoughtfully. "I like that. Not just ambition, but structure. A rare combination in football these days."
Julian leaned back, swirling his beer. "Told you he's not just another flashy owner. Arthur plays the long game."
The meal had gone smoothly—plates scraped clean, wine glasses half-drained, and laughter comfortably flowing through the private room. But despite the casual mood, neither Arthur nor Mr. Anderson brought up the main reason for this meeting: the equity partnership in Leeds United.
Instead, conversation naturally drifted through football, business, and culture. Mr. Anderson, who had dabbled in smaller football investments before, was clearly interested in Arthur's insight into club operations. In turn, Arthur listened intently as Anderson expressed his frustrations with the bloated bureaucracy and stagnation he'd observed in British football.
"I've dealt with business in a dozen countries," Marcus said, shaking his head with a wry smile, "but nothing matches the red tape and old-boys' clubs of the Premier League. Everyone talks about innovation, but most of them still operate like it's 1985."
Arthur grinned. "Tell me about it. I tried introducing a data analytics team into Leeds, and one of the old scouts said we were turning football into an Excel sheet."
They shared a laugh, the kind that came from mutual understanding. Julian, playing the dutiful son-slash-waiter, moved around them quietly—topping off their wine, bringing over water, and eventually handing each of them a cigarette as they shifted from the dining table to the sofa across the room.
"Arthur," Marcus said, flicking his lighter and lighting his cigarette, "I'm guessing I'm about the same age as your father. You and Julian seem close, so let's ditch the formalities."
Arthur gave a nod, already feeling the warmth of familiarity settle in. "Sure, Uncle Marcus. That sounds good to me. Julian was the first real friend I made when I got to England."
Julian beamed from behind them. "See, Dad? I'm not totally useless."
Marcus chuckled. "The jury's still out."
He waved his hand, signaling it was time to get serious. "Alright, Arthur, tell Uncle your full plan. Lay it all out."
Arthur didn't waste time. He leaned forward, speaking clearly and confidently. He explained the club's financial structure, the stadium expansion already in motion, and the long-term vision—turning Leeds United into a self-sufficient, modern football powerhouse. What caught Marcus's attention most, however, was Arthur's proposal to tap into the Middle Eastern market.
"No English club's really committed to going out there for pre-season," Arthur said. "But the opportunity's huge. Oil-rich investors are hungry for international visibility, and football is the fastest-growing tool for soft power. If Leeds can break into that market, it's not just great PR—it's future-proofing the brand."
Marcus leaned back, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I've got some connections out there, you know. Mostly oil and construction. But football's starting to get on their radar."
He nodded slowly. "It's a smart move, Arthur. Not many people your age think globally."
They continued talking for nearly ten minutes more—Marcus probing for details, Arthur answering with clarity. From sponsorship models to fanbase development, everything was laid out. Finally, Arthur paused and looked toward Marcus, who sat silently, brows furrowed, deep in thought.
Then, Marcus straightened up, exhaled smoke, and turned to Arthur with a sharp, decisive tone. "Alright. I'll invest. But in Julian's name. It's my money, but he needs to learn the ropes. Sink or swim."
Arthur gave a slow, respectful nod. "Understood. What kind of figure are you considering?"
Marcus smiled. "That depends. What's your price?"
Arthur didn't flinch. "Fifty million euros. For fifteen percent of the club."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Twenty."
Arthur chuckled, already expecting a counter. "Too much. Sixteen percent. That's my ceiling."
Marcus tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, thinking. "Arthur, come on. Leeds doesn't have a European pedigree right now. No Champions League or League win, no consistent top-six finishes. The valuation's high. Eighteen percent. Let's meet in the middle. "
Arthur leaned back, mulling it over. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it wasn't a deal-breaker either. Finally, he extended his hand.
"Alright. Eighteen percent. But I'll push to make the Dubai trip happen next summer. And I'll make sure Leeds gives your name plenty of positive press along the way."
Marcus took his hand and shook it firmly. "Deal."
Julian, standing nearby, clapped dramatically. "Look at you two—bonding like old war generals making peace."
Arthur laughed. "It's business, Jules. But the fun kind."
The deal was done. And with that handshake, Arthur took another massive step toward transforming Leeds United—not just into a Premier League force, but into a global football brand.