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***
As both the owner and head coach of Leeds United, Arthur never made promises lightly. Every commitment came with a plan, backed by research, logic, and a clear long-term goal.
So when he sat face-to-face with Fabio Cannavaro, it wasn't just a gamble or a charm offensive. Arthur had already done his homework.
Even before flying to Italy, Arthur had carefully reviewed Cannavaro's profile using his system. The data was crystal clear. Cannavaro, despite being 33, still had two to three strong seasons left in him. There was no room left for growth—his development curve had plateaued—but that didn't matter. He was operating at a world-class level, and more importantly, he wasn't showing any signs of decline just yet.
And the price? Practically a steal.
Juventus, Cannavaro's club, was neck-deep in the fallout of the Calciopoli scandal. The club faced a near-certain relegation to Serie B, and with that came financial restructuring, player exits, and widespread uncertainty. It was the perfect storm for Arthur to swoop in.
Cannavaro's wages weren't astronomical, and his market value had dropped due to the off-field drama. A three-year contract, including wages and transfer fees, would barely cross €10 million in total.
For Arthur, it was simple math. €10 million for a defender who could marshal the backline in the Champions League, raise the level of training for Kompany, Piqué, and Silva, and bring a winning mentality to the dressing room? That wasn't just a signing—it was an investment in stability and growth.
Still, Arthur wasn't naive. He knew Cannavaro had his reservations.
So when he saw the flicker of hesitation on the defender's face, he moved quickly, sharpening his tone without sounding pushy.
"One more thing, Fabio," Arthur said, sitting forward slightly with a calm but assertive voice. "I don't know what your long-term plans are after retirement, but I do have something in mind. If you ever feel that your body can't handle the top level anymore, and you decide to step away from playing... I'd love to have you on the Leeds United coaching team. You'd be right next to me and Simeone."
That line hit home.
Cannavaro blinked, clearly caught off guard—but in a good way. Coaching was something he'd quietly considered for years. He'd played under some of the best managers in the world, and the thought of continuing in football beyond retirement had always lingered in the back of his mind. But this offer? It wasn't just theoretical. It was a plan. A path. Arthur was offering him a future—not just a contract.
A smile tugged at the corners of Cannavaro's mouth, hesitant at first but then growing as he nodded slowly. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a soft laugh.
"Well... then I only have one last thing to consider," Cannavaro said thoughtfully. "Please give me a moment. I need to discuss it with my wife. As you know, the English weather isn't exactly... Mediterranean. It's cold, it's damp, and I worry about how she and the kids will settle."
Just as Arthur opened his mouth to reply, a soft but firm voice interrupted from across the room.
"Fabio, don't worry about us."
Everyone turned.
Standing at the entrance to the living room, carrying a plate of sliced fruit, was Daniela—Cannavaro's wife. She walked over with a gentle smile, placing the plate down on the coffee table before locking eyes with her husband.
"The children and I have been thinking about it too," she continued warmly. "We've always wanted to try living in England. We'll support you—whatever you decide."
Her timing was perfect.
Cannavaro looked at her for a moment, silent but clearly moved. The room was quiet for a few seconds as her words sank in. And that was it—the final piece Arthur had been waiting for.
With a small, almost bashful smile, Cannavaro turned back to Arthur. This time, there was no hesitation in his expression.
"Alright," he said, offering his hand. "Let's do it."
Arthur didn't need to hear anything else. He shook Cannavaro's hand firmly, the deal sealed.
With both Cannavaro and Ibrahimovic secured, Arthur's mission in Italy was complete. He returned to Leeds that week, satisfied and ready for what came next.
***
Unfortunately, the peaceful days didn't last long for Arthur.
He had barely spent two quiet days at home when his phone buzzed with a call from his old friend, Julian Anderson.
Julian—billionaire, playboy, and full-time party enthusiast—had just returned from his post-summer jet-set tour. And now, bored out of his mind and unable to find anyone in his usual circle to keep up with his chaotic energy, he locked onto Arthur like a heat-seeking missile.
One lunch later, Arthur found himself dragged into Julian's whirlwind plans. Under the relentless persuasion—and, frankly, emotional blackmail—of his flamboyant friend, Arthur pushed aside all his responsibilities at Leeds United and handed club matters over to Allen for the week.
Just like that, the annual European "sightseeing" trip was on.
First stop? Spain.
And not just any part of Spain. They were in Madrid, more specifically at Teatro Kapital—the infamous seven-floor nightclub, known across Europe as the crown jewel of Madrid's nightlife scene.
Arthur sat in a booth tucked into a shadowy corner, one elbow on the table, fingers gently massaging his aching temples. He squinted toward the dance floor with barely concealed disapproval.
There, in the middle of the flashing lights and thumping Latin beats, was Julian—shirt half-unbuttoned, arms flailing with carefree rhythm—completely in his element. He wasn't just dancing; he was performing, as if the entire club was his private stage.
Arthur leaned back and sighed.
Earlier that evening, they had dinner with none other than Florentino Pérez, president of Real Madrid. Julian, a rabid Madrid fanboy, had been visibly starstruck throughout the meal. It didn't help that Florentino had been in a good mood, cracking jokes and sharing stories from the Galáctico era.
Julian, drunk on football history—and a generous helping of red wine—had practically glowed. He'd downed half a bottle by himself while grinning from ear to ear, asking Florentino for behind-the-scenes stories about Zidane, Ronaldo, and Beckham like an overeager schoolboy.
Even Arthur, who rarely drank more than a sip on social occasions, had been drawn into the atmosphere. Between Julian's relentless toasts and Florentino's hospitality, he'd ended up with more alcohol in his system than he was used to.
After dinner, Arthur had every intention of calling it a night. His head was spinning, his feet were sore, and the last thing he wanted was more noise.
But Julian had other ideas.
"Mate, we're in Madrid! You can't go to bed before midnight! You need to feel the rhythm, the passion, the chaos!" Julian had pleaded dramatically, arms wide like he was introducing Arthur to a sacred cultural rite.
Before Arthur could escape, Julian had grabbed him by the shoulder, hailed a cab, and dragged him straight to Teatro Kapital.
And now, here he was—nearly thirty years old, nursing a mild headache in a Spanish nightclub, watching his best friend lose himself to reggaeton.
It was, strangely enough, Arthur's first time in a nightclub. Ever.
In both this life and the last.
Back when he worked a regular corporate job, colleagues used to invite him out after hours. But the thought of walking into a dark, strobe-lit room with earsplitting bass and people packed like sardines always made him grimace. He used to joke that one good bass drop would probably knock his soul clean out of his body.
After taking over Leeds, he was busy running the club from going bankrupt, so he never had any time.
And yet—here he was. The deep boom of the speakers rattled his ribs. The smell of citrus vodka and perfume hung heavy in the air. And the lighting changed every two seconds, switching from neon blue to crimson to gold like a rotating fever dream.
"Bro! Come on! What are you doing sitting there like it's a funeral?" Julian's unmistakable voice suddenly rang out.
Arthur opened one eye and turned his head.
Julian stood grinning in front of him, face red from dancing and drink. On either side of him were two women—tall, gorgeous, and stunning, their sleek hair bouncing with every movement.
Julian leaned over, half-shouting in Arthur's ear over the music. "These lovely ladies were asking who the 'mysterious brooding guy in the booth' was. I told them you're a football genius, rich, humble, and tragically single!"
Arthur gave him a flat look. "You left out 'headache' and 'wants to leave.'"
Julian laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "Come on, live a little! You're in Madrid, my friend! This place is a temple of freedom!"
The woman on the left was tall—noticeably taller than most in the room—with a mane of deep auburn hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Her black satin slip dress clung to her figure like liquid, emphasizing every curve with unapologetic confidence. She leaned casually into Julian, practically draped over him, her generous frame pressing against his side in a way that made her 36F assets more than obvious. Her lips were inches from Julian's ear as she whispered something, a playful smirk dancing across her face.
Arthur sat upright in the booth, observing them with a half-lidded expression. The flashing lights of the club played tricks with the shadows, but his gaze drifted naturally toward the second woman.
She was shorter than the redhead, but even more striking in her own way. Where the tall one was all sultry glamour, this one had a quiet, magnetic charm. Her face was fresh, effortlessly beautiful—delicate yet expressive, with playful green eyes that seemed to glow in the strobing lights. She wore a simple outfit: a fitted white T-shirt tucked into high-waisted denim shorts, with the faintest hint of glitter around her collarbones. No dramatic makeup, no statement jewelry—just a natural confidence that made her stand out even more.
What caught Arthur off guard was how directly she was looking at him.
Not shyly. Not coyly.
Just… interested.
Unapologetically.
He blinked, slightly surprised. "Well, damn," he muttered under his breath, trying to act nonchalant.
He watched Julian still grinning like an idiot, too busy flirting with the redhead to notice anything else. Arthur let out a slow exhale and shook his head. "Typical Julian," he muttered, amused. "Drags me in here just to set himself up with someone—and throws in a wingwoman for me like it's a two-for-one deal."
Before Arthur could think of a polite excuse to escape, the green-eyed girl moved.
She casually walked around the low glass coffee table in front of the booth and slid into the seat next to him, moving with an effortless grace that contrasted the chaos of the room. She didn't hesitate. Didn't ask if the seat was taken.
She just sat—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Hey there," she said, her voice soft but clear enough to cut through the music. Her English carried a slight accent—exotic, smooth, almost musical. "Your friend tells me you're visiting from England? He said you're some sort of football genius. Is this your first time in Madrid?"
Arthur turned toward her, pleasantly surprised by how direct she was. There was no awkwardness in her approach. Just warm confidence.
He chuckled and picked up his glass, raising it slightly. "That guy? He's technically traveling from the Middle East. As for me—well, I'm half British, half 'can't-be-bothered.' And 'football genius' might be overselling it." He smiled and clinked glasses with her. "But yeah… this is my first time in Madrid."
She grinned and raised her glass. "Welcome, then. Madrid says hi."
Arthur clinked his glass with hers, and they both drank. Her boldness wasn't aggressive—it was playful, confident, and completely unbothered by social rules that would've made the moment awkward anywhere else.
She leaned in slightly, the smile never leaving her face. She gave a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and downed the rest of her drink in one go. "No wonder," she said with a mischievous smile. "You don't have the same energy as your friend. Something about you feels... different. Like I've seen you before."
Arthur raised an eyebrow and winked. "Really? Maybe in your dream?" He couldn't help as his playboy instincts from the past owner of this body took over.
"Maybe." She gave a wink, then suddenly stood up with a laugh, swaying slightly from the drink. "But why are you sitting here like an old man? You're in the middle of a nightclub in Spain!"
And with that, she reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Come on," she said with a grin. "Let's go have fun."
Arthur opened his mouth to protest but felt her hand close gently but firmly around his wrist. And for some reason, he didn't resist.
Before he knew it, he was being led through the thick of the crowd, lights flashing in their eyes, the beat thumping like a pulse in their chests.
Out on the dance floor, everything blurred.
The noise. The movement. The people.
Arthur had never been much of a dancer. But with her in front of him, laughing, twirling, running her fingers through her hair—it became less about dancing and more about being in the moment. She didn't do anything overly flashy or forced—just let the music guide her. Arthur couldn't look away.
Her hips swayed in rhythm. Her eyes flicked back to meet his every so often. Each glance felt like a dare.
There was something... magnetic about her.
And the strangest thing? Arthur was sure he'd seen her before too. Somewhere.
As the current song began to fade into the next, he leaned forward and brought his lips close to her ear. "You're gorgeous, you know that?" he said, voice low, sincere. "And I don't even know your name yet."
She turned to face him, her expression unreadable for a brief second—and then she smiled. Wide. Confident. Eyes sparkling.
"My name?" she repeated, leaning in, lips brushing his ear now.
"You can call me... Shakira."
Arthur's eyes widened slightly.
Wait a minute.
Now it all made sense.