Richard is on fire!
Since the weekend match had been played in the evening and the Christmas rush was about to begin, Richard had already been notified that Robertson and his staff had granted the team a day off following the December fixture congestion.
As usual, he woke up early and got ready to head to Maine Road. But the mont he opened his front door, he was t with a blinding barrage of cara flashes.
Click! Click! Click!
Paparazzi. A whole wall of them. Shouting, shoving, fighting for position like predators in a feeding frenzy.
"Mr. Maddox! Did you host a sex party at the Chorlton Hotel last week?!"
"Were any Manchester City players involved in the party?"
"Besides flirting with Stephanie, who else are you seeing?"
"What ti did you get ho last night?"
"What is your relationship with Stephanie exactly?!"
Richard stood frozen for half a second. His eyes narrowed, stung by the cara flashes. The air buzzed with questions, half of them scandalous, most of them completely fabricated.
’Perfect.’
The British paparazzi are relentless, especially when it cos to breaking news. They can turn soone into the center of attention in no ti, using the most vicious words, provocations, and shaless tactics to make their subject lose composure—even sanity—in the process. That’s how they capture the most sensational photos.
Facing the malicious questions, would Richard lose his temper and act irrationally?
If he exploded in anger—regardless of whether the news was true—his reputation would be imdiately tarnished. A single outburst, or worse, if he threw a punch, would only escalate the chaos.
Richard took a few steps outside, confronted by a swarm of microphones and caras. He paused in surprise for a second. Then, with a disarming smile, he slowly stepped back inside. As he retreated, he pointed to the threshold of City’s dormitory—silently warning them: cross this line, and it’s trespassing.
With a calm grin, he gently closed the door.
The building Richard currently occupied in the Manchester City dormitory complex was unique in its positioning. Unlike the other team housing blocks, which were tucked behind fences or landscaped courtyards, his building faced the street directly—both at the front and the back.
It was the only structure in the entire dormitory layout that had imdiate access to public roads. From his front steps, one could hear the distant hum of traffic or the occasional honk from a delivery truck. Out back, another street ran parallel, just beyond a row of slim trees and a narrow loading alley.
It was both a convenience and a curse.
Convenient, because it allowed Richard to co and go without weaving through the maze of internal security gates or cutting across training grounds. But also a curse—especially now. With the paparazzi lurking on both ends of the street, his dorm had beco the easiest target for intrusion, surveillance, and unwanted attention.
The paparazzi sighed in frustration and retreated to their cars, though their high-powered lenses remained trained on the door, waiting.
Inside, Richard sat on his couch, deep in thought. His computer couldn’t keep up with the speed of tabloid news. But he already had a rough idea of what had happened. It was probably the gold digger striking back—after he had cleverly manipulated her.
He picked up his phone, intending to retaliate—but before he could dial, a call ca in.
CLICK.
"Hello?"
"Richard, where are you?"
It was Adam Lewis, the lawyer representing Maddox Capital.
"? I’m at the City dormitory."
"Stay there. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t talk to anyone outside. Unplug your landline—I’m on my way."
"Alright."
Richard ended the call and waited. The ho phone started ringing non-stop—reporters trying to get a statent. Instead of unplugging it, he simply picked it up and slamd it back down, leaving it off the hook to block further calls.
Eventually, Lewis arrived, dressed sharply in a suit with two n in their 30s—likely from his legal team.
As Richard opened the back door, the reporters sward again. Aside from a few photos, they got nothing substantial.
However, just as he was about to close the door, soone shouted at the reporters angrily: "You bunch of flies! How can we train if you’re blocking the gates?!"
Startled, Richard peeked outside and saw Scott Parker holding a football, standing outside with Wayne Bridge, Owen Hargreaves, and Gareth Barry—all looking furious.
The reporters hesitated. So tried to snap photos, but Richard quickly called out, "ADAM!"
Lewis acted instantly. One of his assistants stepped out and barked at the dia, "They’re minors. If you publish even a single photo, expect a court summons!"
The second assistant nodded before rushing toward the boys, intent on pulling them inside before slamming the door shut.
Richard’s expression darkened. He called Torrent and asked if the U-17s could train indoors for the day—at least until the press cleared out. Fortunately, they’d had a youth league match the day before, so today’s session was light.
With that resolved, Richard sat back down. Lewis pulled several tabloid papers from his briefcase and handed them over.
They were full of scandalous headlines.
One in The Sun stood out: one side showed Richard calmly sipping orange juice in the VIP box at Stamford Bridge. The other showed a blurry photo of the "gold digger" in plain clothes.
’Billionaire Richard Maddox Caught in Steamy Scandal with Mystery Model at Chorlton Hotel!’
Richard couldn’t help but laugh at the headline. He flipped to the next page, curious.
The story quoted the woman directly.
"Everyone knows I admire Richard. I wanted to be friends with him, so when he reached out, I was surprised. I thought sothing romantic might happen—it would’ve been wonderful.But when I walked into the suite he booked at the Chorlton Hotel, the handso image I had of him shattered. He was disgusting. There were half-naked n everywhere, clearly ready to have a good ti. I’m not that kind of girl. I left imdiately. Nothing happened. But I don’t know what they did afterward. I turned them down—but they were clearly ready for soone. Right now, Richard Maddox just makes feel sick."
Luckily, his parents were away on vacation. The news hadn’t reached them.
Lewis let him finish the stack of articles before calmly crossing his arms.
"Alright. What actually happened? Tell everything—from the beginning."
Now speaking not as a friend, but as a lawyer, Adam Lewis was serious.
Richard told the truth. When he finished, Lewis stared at him in disbelief and sighed.
"Richard, what are you doing? You could’ve ignored her, played along—anything. There was no need to escalate."
"What do you an?"
"I an, my friend, you’re a billionaire now. You have money, influence—and zero bodyguards, again? Don’t tell you ditched them."
"..."
"Exactly," Lewis muttered, shaking his head. "Look at you. Girls will throw themselves at you. So will be amazing. But what do you do? Shut them all out—and now you get involved in sothing like this."
Richard sighed, then stood up and walked over to his drawer. He retrieved a docunt and handed it to Lewis.
"To be honest, the whole thing was improvised. I had to make a decision on the spot."
Lewis, confused, opened the docunt. His eyes scanned the pages—then widened in realization.
"Wait... you’re targeting the hotel?"
Richard shrugged. "What else could I do? They practically served it to on a silver platter. So I’m serving them back."
He pointed at the map in the folder. The Chorlton Hotel sat across the River Irwell, directly facing Manchester city centre.
"What really caught my interest is... it’s right across from East Manchester. The hotel sits perfectly opposite a stretch of land I already own."
Lewis blinked, then finally laughed, beginning to understand the other party’s mindset.
"Tell —what do you have in mind."
"Well, there’s sothing off about this," Richard began. "This isn’t just so random scandal. It all happened too fast, too coordinated. The letter was planted. And why target , of all people? Why not the players—who are far more prone to scandals like this? Then the paparazzi showed up before anything even happened? Nah."
Lewis folded his arms. "Do you have soone in mind?"
"Probably The Sun, or it could be the hotel... or even the dia working together."
Lewis was taken aback. "You think it’s connected to the hotel?"
Richard shrugged. "It could be. I heard the Chorlton Hotel only opened last year, and only their staff knew what room I was in. There’s a chance they’re the ones behind this."
"But why would they want to discredit you?"
"It could be that," Richard replied, "or maybe they just want the publicity—riding the wave of a scandal with my na attached."
He took a breath, then gave his instruction clearly. "Alright. Help handle this quietly."
Then Richard stood up, told Lewis about the recording he had, and looked around before sighing. "I think I’ll be working from this room for the ti being."
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Just as he was about to continue speaking, a knock on the door startled him. It was unusual—if there was anything urgent or worth reporting, it would typically be handled through the office. No one ever ca to seek him out in his room at the dormitory.
He figured it must be Lewis’s assistant returning after checking on Parker and the boys.
"Co in," he said.
Unexpectedly, it wasn’t the assistant—it was John Robertson, the current caretaker manager of Manchester City.
"Sir, I need to talk to you about sothing."
Hearing the unusually formal greeting, Richard frowned.
Sothing was about to happen.
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