Football Dynasty

The summer break in football was nearing its end.

Soon, the roar of stadiums and the rhythm of matchdays would return. But before that, after wrapping up a whirlwind of transfer activity in record time, Richard allowed himself a brief pause.

He flew to London—not for business, but for something far more personal.

Harry's wedding...Or more precisely, his brother's wedding!

His closest sibling, was tying the knot with his longtime fiancée, Sarah Lowe.

The ceremony was set to be held at a charming estate just outside the city, with a mix of family, close friends, and a few familiar faces from football in attendance.

Richard smiled, proud of his brother on this monumental day. Then, with quiet steps, he made his way toward the newlyweds.

Harry, dressed in a finely tailored tuxedo, stood proudly beside Sarah, who radiated elegance in a sleek ivory gown that shimmered under the chandeliers of the grand hall.

"I've seen you chase your dreams and take on the world with that stubborn head of yours," Richard began. "But today... I see you at your very best."

Harry laughed, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder. "Don't get sentimental on me now."

Richard turned to Sarah and gently took her hand. "And Sarah," he said, meeting her eyes, "you've brought a light into his life we never knew he needed. You're strong, brilliant, and kind. Welcome to the family—though I suspect you've been part of it long before today."

Sarah smiled, clearly touched by the sincerity in his voice.

Raising his glass, Richard glanced between the two of them. "To Harry and Sarah. May this be the beginning of something even greater than what either of you could've imagined alone. Love fiercely, forgive quickly, and never forget the reason you chose each other."

The nearby guests echoed the toast with soft cheers and applause.

As they drank, Richard leaned in to Harry with a knowing smirk and added, "And if you ever mess this up, just remember—she's got all of us behind her."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Duly noted."

The opulence of the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel stood as a quiet witness to a momentous occasion. Its neo-Gothic arches and lavish interiors—recently restored to a glory reminiscent of Victorian grandeur—were now filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft murmur of string instruments.

Guests included high society figures, celebrities, politicians, football executives, and fashion icons—each one dressed to the nines in tuxedos and couture. The guest list had been handpicked, not just for prestige, but also because the Maddox Group had become one of the conglomerates of the United Kingdom.

In one corner, journalists and paparazzi from lifestyle magazines quietly mingled, taking notes and subtle photographs for what would soon be a glossy wedding feature in Tatler and Hello!.

At the center of it all were Harry and Sarah, dancing slowly beneath a swirl of rose petals gently falling from above. She looked radiant in her satin gown, her smile bright enough to outshine even the room's chandeliers. Harry, never the sentimental type, looked genuinely overwhelmed—his eyes misty as they shared whispered words only they could hear.

As the night deepened, speeches were made, tears were shed, laughter echoed, and the band began to play a jazz rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon." It was a wedding steeped in legacy, spectacle, and sentiment—a perfectly orchestrated event where every detail mattered, and every guest played their role in the larger theater of Maddox prestige.

Richard sat at one of the VIP tables, half-sipping his orange juice, half-lost in thought.

In front of him, Ric Turner of MCFC Bluemoon, Fay Loan of Maddox Auto, Alan Mulally of River Group, and Stuart Olm of Maddox Construction and Property Management were engaged in a serious discussion... and Carl Morran of Blaazing squad. As the head of Blazing Squad and someone personally invited by Richard, it was clear how much Richard valued the young lad.

Unexpectedly, the one thing they discussed wasn't their personal lives or their own companies—but Manchester City!

Having finished his meal, Richard dabbed his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair, visibly irritated. He had truly grown tired of their conversation. Why is it, he wondered, that football fans always act like they know everything—more than the people actually living it from the inside?

"No, you've got it all wrong—completely wrong. In the Premier League, coaches don't earn nearly as much as the players. Sure, there might be a few exceptions, like Ferguson, but I'd be surprised if even he makes more than Cantona."

He gestured toward his glass, his tone calm but firm. "Take O'Neill, for example. As head coach, sure—he helps the club save on costs. But let's be clear: Manchester City is still operating at a loss. I'm carrying a debt of fifty-five million pounds, and every single day, contractors are breathing down my neck because we still have a stadium contract to fulfill."

He paused, lowering his voice slightly. "And I expect the first-phase stadium investment to exceed sixty million pounds. So don't be fooled by City's so-called rise or small glories. Behind the scenes, I'm buried under more than a hundred million pounds of debt."

Everyone at the table was visibly taken aback—especially Ric Turner and Carl Morran. They couldn't fully wrap their heads around what a hundred million pounds of debt actually meant.

Turner hesitated before asking, "I heard your assets exceed a billion pounds. Even if debt collectors are on your back, shouldn't that be manageable?"

As the only one at the table besides Morran who wasn't part of the Maddox Group, Turner's curiosity was understandable—his perspective came from the outside.

Richard's handsome face broke into a wry smile as he shook his head. "Let's assume, for a moment, the rumors are true. Even so, that wealth isn't just sitting in cash. By the time things hit a critical point—if Maddox Group has to step in and cover the debt—it'll hurt badly. Once the vultures realize we're desperate to liquidate, an asset worth a hundred million today might fetch just ninety—or even less—when sold under pressure."

Turner furrowed his brow. "So what will you do? The club is one of your only major asset, right? How do you plan to raise a hundred million pounds? Are you thinking of taking City public? A lot of clubs are doing that—and they seem to be making decent money."

Richard exhaled slowly and shook his head. "No. The football bubble's overinflated. Publicly traded football clubs are, in reality, worthless stock. It's just a clever trick to funnel fans' hard-earned money into the hands of shareholders. Honestly, it's worse than the member-based model used in Spain, where fans pay dues purely out of love for the game. Once you go public, the motive shifts—it stops being about football."

He paused, then added with quiet satisfaction, "City is already turning a profit. This season alone, we've secured a number of sponsorship deals. That's the real way forward."

Turner and Morran exchanged glances, having initially thought Manchester City was a wealthy club—but they now realized it was burdened with debt.

Carl Morran, as the first of Manchester City's "frontline" fans, suddenly spoke up with quiet determination."When I make money, I'll invest in the club."

Richard was caught off guard and laughed heartily, "But I won't accept it; City is mine alone."

They were still deep in conversation when a stranger approached their table. He was elegantly dressed, polite, and wore a warm, disarming smile. Though he looked to be over fifty, with a full head of white hair, there was a striking vitality in his presence—sharp, youthful, and unmistakably refined.

"Excuse me for interrupting. Are you Mr. Maddox?" the man asked.

Richard noticed the three across from him—Alan Mulally, Fay Loan, and Stuart Olm—suddenly widen their eyes in surprise as they stared at the newcomer.

Curious, Richard turned to get a better look at the man. Judging by his appearance alone, this was clearly not someone ordinary—though Richard still couldn't place the face.

"Yes, I'm Richard," he replied politely. "But… pardon me, sir, I'm not sure if you've mistaken me for someone else."

He figured the man was perhaps looking for his brother, Harry.

The stranger offered a handshake and smiled warmly."George Armani. I don't believe I've made a mistake. May I take a seat? I hope I'm not intruding."

Richard was momentarily stunned. He still didn't fully recognize the man—but judging by the expressions on the others' faces and the name he'd just heard, he quickly realized who he was dealing with.

This was no ordinary guest. Even though they came from different industries, there was no mistaking the presence of a titan.

George Armani.

The legendary designer whose name defined the fashion world throughout the 1980s—an icon who ushered in what many called The Armani Era.

The current St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel, as Richard knew well, often hosted distinguished gentlemen and international dignitaries. So it was no surprise when he found himself seated next to Giorgio Armani, the renowned Italian designer.

After a firm but polite handshake, Armani took the seat beside him.

"Are you here for the ferry tour?" Richard asked casually.

He maintained a composed demeanor—after all, celebrities in London were nothing new to him. If he wished, he could easily accompany his brothers to exclusive events every night, seamlessly blending into the intersecting worlds of entertainment.

"No," Armani replied with a faint smile. "I'm here preparing for the autumn fashion show. I just stepped out for a meal with a few models today."

Following Armani's gaze, Richard noticed a nearby table filled with striking young women. A few of them shot playful, flirtatious glances in their direction. Whether they were trying to please their boss—or catch Richard's eye—he couldn't be sure.

He returned his attention to Armani and gave a knowing nod. "I see. By the way, If I may be so bold, Mr. Armani—what brings you to me? Are you perhaps considering them for modeling?"

Just then, behind Armani, three glamorous women—Victoria, Hallie, and Emma—leaned in toward one another, whispering and subtly nodding in Richard's direction. Richard gave them a polite nod in return before turning back to the designer.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Armani" he said with a half-smile, "If that's the case… I'm afraid you may have approached the wrong man."

Because he was clearly looking for someone in charge of them, it definitely wasn't him—it had to be Harry, the real protagonist of today.

Armani smiled. "I couldn't afford them—even their appearance fees could cover an entire football team's annual budget. No, Mr. Richard, I'm here to speak with you."

He leaned in slightly, his tone earnest yet smooth. "Every time I open a newspaper in London, your name appears. Some people are born to model, and I believe you're one of them. When you stand by the pitch, head held high, you carry an air of quiet confidence and elegance. It's rare, especially in someone so young. There's a charisma about you—an unspoken presence that draws attention. Men want to be like you, believing it might make them more attractive to women."

From the Maddox Group, Manchester City, and the recent case against the gold digger, his name had indeed begun to appear frequently in magazines.

Everyone at the table was caught off guard once again.

What was this—was Armani seriously trying to hire Richard as a model?

What a joke!