The first thing Michael noticed when he woke up was the smell.
It was a warm, sweet, comforting aroma of baking bread and melting sugar, wafting up from the bakery directly below his new, tiny apartment. It was a world away from the sterile, air-conditioned silence of his old penthouse.
For a moment, he was disoriented, the unfamiliar ceiling and the muffled sounds of a waking city throwing him off.
Then, it all came flooding back. The argument. The Lamborghini. The blue screen. Arthur. The fifteen million pounds sitting in his bank account, buzzing like a pocketful of electricity.
A wide grin spread across his face. He wasn't the heir to an empire anymore.
He was the founder of one.
He swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold. The furniture was a mismatched collection of second-hand pieces that looked like they'd been assembled from a charity shop.
There was one window overlooking a busy street. It was small, it was basic, and it was all his.
He made breakfast in the kitchenette: two pieces of toast, slightly burnt, and a mug of instant coffee that tasted like bitter determination.
As he ate, standing and looking out the window, his phone rang.
The caller ID simply read 'A. Milton'.
"I've found it," Arthur's voice said, devoid of any preamble.
There was a low hum of excitement beneath his usual calm demeanor, the sound of a predator that has scented its prey.
Michael's heart skipped a beat. "You've found the team."
"The perfect team," Arthur corrected.
"It has everything we're looking for: undervalued, high-potential assets, and an owner who is ready to sell. I've already put out feelers. The door is open. Meet me in an hour. The Gaffer's Whistle Pub, just off the M1."
"I'll be there," Michael said, the burnt toast suddenly forgotten.
He pulled on a simple pair of jeans and a dark sweater—a stark contrast to his old designer wardrobe—and grabbed the keys to his sensible gray Audi.
The drive onto the motorway was smooth, the car's quiet engine a gentle hum compared to the roaring beast he used to command. It gave him time to think.
Which club was it? His mind cycled through the four options Arthur had presented.
Derby County? No, it couldn't be. It was too expensive, too much of a risk.
Buying Derby would be an emotional decision, a play his father would make.
He had to be smarter than that.
Bolton Wanderers? Maybe.
The inconsistent winger, Marcus Bell, was a gamble. But if Arthur had found a way to mitigate that risk, to unlock his potential… it was possible.
His gut told him it was between the other two.
Peterborough United, the savvy transfer market experts with the goal-scoring machine, Danny Cole. That was a clean, business-like choice.
Buy the club, let Cole have a fantastic season, sell him to a Premier League team for a massive profit, and reinvest. It was a sound strategy.
Or was it Barnsley FC, the talent factory?
The club with the crop of elite prospects hidden in its academy.
That felt more like a long-term project, a true empire-building play.
It was the choice with the highest ceiling if they got it right.
He pulled into the car park of The Gaffer's Whistle, a classic, old-fashioned pub with dark wood interiors and the faint smell of stale beer and history.
Arthur was in a corner booth, a leather-bound folder on the table in front of him.
He looked like he hadn't slept, but his eyes were sharp and alive with energy.
"Morning," Michael said, sliding into the seat opposite.
"So, don't keep me in suspense. Which one is it?"
Arthur pushed the folder across the table. "Our target," he said, "is Barnsley."
Michael opened the folder. Inside were detailed reports, financial statements, and player profiles.
His eyes went straight to the youth academy section, to the name he remembered: Ben Carter, the young center-back.
"Why Barnsley?" Michael asked, looking up. "Peterborough has the more obvious asset in Danny Cole. He's a guaranteed profit."
"Exactly," Arthur replied, leaning forward.
"He's an obvious asset. Which means every club in the country knows his value. His price is already baked into the club's valuation. There's profit there, yes, but it's limited. Barnsley is different. Their value is hidden. It's potential energy."
He tapped a page in the folder. "Their youth academy is a gold mine. Ben Carter is the headline act, but my sources tell me there are at least three other players in their under-18 squad with Premier League potential. The current ownership doesn't have the resources or the expertise to develop them properly. They're sitting on a winning lottery ticket and they don't even know it."
It all clicked into place. Michael saw the genius of it.
Instead of a single golden egg, they were buying the goose itself. It was the smarter play.
The long-term play. It was his kind of play.
"The owner is a man named Ken Davies," Arthur continued.
"A local businessman, lifelong fan. He saved the club from bankruptcy five years ago, but he's in over his head. He loves the club, but he knows he's not the man to take it forward. He's tired. He's ready to pass the torch to someone with the vision and the capital to succeed. I spoke to his solicitor this morning. He's expecting us."
Michael closed the folder. The time for deliberation was over.
The path was clear. He felt a thrill run through him, a jolt of pure, unadulterated purpose.
"Let's go and meet him," Michael said, a determined glint in his eye.
The drive to Oakwell Stadium was short. It wasn't a modern glass-and-steel cathedral like the Premier League grounds. It was a proper football stadium, built of red brick and steeped in over a century of history. It felt real, honest, and full of untapped potential.
They were met at the entrance by a harried-looking secretary who led them through a maze of corridors that smelled of linoleum and faint grass clippings.
The owner's office was not the grand, trophy-lined chamber of command Michael was used to.
It was a modest, slightly cluttered room with a large window overlooking the lush green pitch.
Ken Davies stood to greet them. He was a man in his late sixties, with kind eyes, a weary slump to his shoulders, and a club-crested tie that was slightly askew. He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a grandfather who had found himself in charge of a professional sports team.
"Mr. Milton," he said, shaking Arthur's hand before turning to Michael. His handshake was firm but tired. "And you must be Mr. Sterling. Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Davies," Michael said politely.
They sat down, the worn leather chairs sighing under their weight.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
They all just looked out the window at the empty stadium, the silent stands waiting for the roar of a crowd.
Mr. Davies broke the silence, his voice filled with a quiet melancholy.
"She's a grand old place, isn't she? My father brought me to my first match here when I was six. Stood right over there, in the Ponty End." He sighed, a heavy, wistful sound.
"I love this club with all my heart. But love isn't enough to pay the bills, is it?"
He turned his gaze from the pitch and looked directly at Michael, his eyes searching, hopeful, and deeply tired.
"Arthur tells me you're a serious man," he said. "He tells me you have a vision."
He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk.
"So, tell me, Mr. Sterling. You want to buy my football club?"