The curtains were open.
Late morning rain filtered through the high windows of the meeting suite at Arsenal's executive offices—white skies, grey roofs, and below, the muffled sound of life at Sobha realty building ticking along.
Josh Kroenke leaned back in his chair, fingers loosely steepled, the glow of the digital document still hovering on the oversized wall screen.
Miranda sat opposite him, tablet on her lap, stylus twirling slowly between her fingers.
And Izan—hood down, hair tied back, legs stretched out—watched it all from the side of the room, hands in his pockets.
The screen pulsed with line after line.
Bonuses.
Clauses.
Rights.
Jets.
Estates.
It read like a generational pivot disguised as a football contract.
"Four hundred and seventy million," Josh said finally, like the number was a rock he was still rolling around in his mouth.
"That's... somewhere between a football agreement and a shareholder merger."
Miranda gave a nonchalant shrug.
