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By the time he reached the bedroom, the exhaustion finally caught up to him. Leah pulled the curtains slightly, letting in just enough light for the room to glow softly. He lay down, muscles sinking into the mattress, mind drifting between memory and dream.
The next morning came slow, the kind of soft London dawn that seeped through the curtains like a whisper rather than an announcement. The sky outside was pale and washed with streaks of silver, the kind of early light that carried a hush even over Richmond's quiet streets.
Francesco stirred awake to the faint sound of the kettle in the kitchen and the murmur of a television broadcast filtering through from downstairs. For a moment, he didn't move. His body felt heavy, pleasantly so — the deep, bone-deep fatigue that comes not just from exhaustion, but from having finally done something that had drained every drop of energy out of him.
When he finally pushed himself upright, the scent of coffee and toast reached him, warm and familiar. Leah's voice carried faintly from below — a light, cheerful hum that matched the faint rhythm of the morning news.
He smiled to himself, ran a hand through his hair, and made his way down the stairs barefoot.
The living room was awash in that soft golden light again. Leah was curled up on the couch, her knees tucked under her, holding a mug with both hands. The television flickered with the familiar faces of the morning anchors on BBC Breakfast, though their tone this morning wasn't the usual mix of polite chatter and local headlines — it was something else entirely. Excited. Reverent, even.
"…and if you're just joining us," the anchor said, his voice smooth and brimming with enthusiasm, "the country's golden boy, Arsenal's Francesco Lee, is waking up this morning not just as a European champion — but as a national icon. After leading Arsenal to a historic treble this season and now guiding England to their first major trophy in over half a century, experts around the world are already calling him the frontrunner for this year's Ballon d'Or. Some are even saying he's broken the Messi-Ronaldo hegemony at last."
Leah looked over her shoulder as Francesco came in, the soft smile already curling at her lips. "Morning, captain," she said playfully, gesturing toward the screen. "You're officially the most talked-about man in England… again."
Francesco chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he sank into the sofa beside her. "Yeah, I can hear it already. They've got that tone — the one that makes you think I'm about to be knighted or something."
Leah grinned and handed him a mug of coffee. "Give it a few months. Sir Francesco Lee has a nice ring to it."
He laughed, shaking his head. "No way. I'm too young for that."
"Tell that to them," she said, nodding toward the screen.
The segment had shifted to a highlight reel — slow-motion shots of Francesco's goals for Arsenal and England flashing one after another: the curling strike against Tottenham, the header against Barcelona, the goal that sealed England's Euro win at Stade de France. Each clip was set to a swelling orchestral score, the kind reserved for coronations or movie trailers.
The footage cut to pundits sitting in the studio, and one of them — an older man with silver hair and that familiar air of football gravitas — leaned forward, his tone reverent.
"Look, we've been spoiled for years watching Messi and Ronaldo push each other beyond human limits," he said. "But what Francesco's done this season — a treble with Arsenal, a Euro with England, record-breaking goals, leadership, consistency — it's not just numbers anymore. It's narrative. He's become the face of a new era. And when you factor in his age — what is he, Seventeen? Eighteen? — it's frightening. This isn't a one-off. This is the start of a dynasty."
Leah turned to glance at Francesco, who was watching the TV with a faint, disbelieving smile. His jaw worked as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words.
"They really mean it, huh?" he murmured. "Ballon d'Or talk… I used to joke about it in training."
Leah reached out and rested her hand on his thigh. "You didn't just earn it, Frankie. You defined this season. They're not just saying it because you're English — they're saying it because no one else has done what you've done."
He stared at the screen a little longer, where now they were showing fans gathered outside the Emirates, waving flags and singing chants. His name echoed from the crowd like a heartbeat, layered with the words Ballon d'Or and captain.
Francesco smiled softly, the kind that carried both pride and disbelief. "It's just… mad," he said. "All of it. I still feel like the kid who used to stand outside the training ground hoping to get a glimpse of the first team."
Leah laughed quietly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "That kid's leading his country now. I think you've done alright."
Before Francesco could reply, his phone began to buzz across the coffee table. The screen lit up with the familiar name — Jorge Mendes.
Francesco reached for it and answered, putting the phone to his ear. "Hey, Jorge. Morning. What's up?"
"What's up?" Jorge's voice came through, animated and booming with excitement. "What's up is the entire football world losing its mind over you, that's what! Have you seen the news? Ballon d'Or, treble hero, England's savior — it's like they're preparing your coronation already!"
Francesco laughed, glancing at Leah. "Yeah, I've seen it. Leah's got the TV on — they're practically building me a statue."
"Maybe they should!" Jorge said, clearly grinning on the other end. "Listen, I won't take too much of your time. I know you've got your Palace prep tomorrow, but here's what's happening: I'm coming over to your place this afternoon. Armani is sending a full team to your mansion — tailors, designers, the works. They'll handle your suit for the event with the Queen. You're representing the country, the FA, and let's be honest, the entire brand of English football. You need to look like it."
Francesco blinked. "Armani's sending a team?"
"That's right," Jorge said briskly. "Straight from Milan. They're flying in around noon, should be with you by two. They'll have fabric samples, design sketches, everything customized. We'll make sure you look like royalty without outshining the actual royalty."
Leah raised her eyebrows, mouthing Armani? at him with wide eyes.
Francesco chuckled. "Alright, that's… wow. That's a lot, Jorge. You really don't mess around."
"Of course not," Jorge said, his tone turning half-serious. "This is bigger than any red carpet, Francesco. Every camera in the world will be on you tomorrow. The Palace audience isn't just ceremony — it's global symbolism. You represent the modern England: youth, diversity, humility, excellence. You don't show up in just any suit for that."
Leah whispered jokingly beside him, "Tell him to make sure mine matches."
Francesco grinned and said into the phone, "Jorge, Leah says to make sure they bring something for her too."
Jorge laughed heartily. "Already arranged! Armani's team is bringing a few gowns as well — the creative director personally approved them after I told him who they were for. Elegant, refined, modern — she'll look stunning."
Leah covered her mouth with a laugh, both flattered and a little overwhelmed. "Did he just say gowns plural?" she whispered to Francesco.
He nodded, amused. "Apparently so."
Jorge continued, "They'll also bring some accessories, shoes, the full ensemble. We'll do fittings for both of you. I'll make sure the FA sends a car for the morning tomorrow — I don't want you worrying about logistics, only about representing England the way only you can."
Francesco leaned back on the couch, smiling. "You really think of everything, don't you?"
"That's my job," Jorge said proudly. "And you, my friend, are making my job very easy these days. Now listen — enjoy your morning, have breakfast, let the news hype do its thing. The world's going to talk whether you like it or not. Just stay grounded, stay humble, and rest before we start the prep later."
"Got it," Francesco said with a soft laugh. "See you this afternoon, then."
"Perfect. And tell Leah," Jorge added, his tone warming again, "that Armani's creative team insisted she try on each dress. Apparently, they said — and I quote — 'If she's standing beside the Ballon d'Or winner, she deserves to shine too.'"
Leah's eyes widened as Francesco laughed. "You're going to make her blush, Jorge."
"That's what I do." Jorge replied with a grin in his voice.
The laughter between them lingered for a few seconds after Jorge's words — a light, genuine kind of laughter that filled the living room like sunshine. Leah leaned her head against Francesco's shoulder, still smiling as she murmured, "I can't believe this is our life right now."
Francesco exhaled softly, glancing down at her hand resting on his. "Yeah," he said quietly, a small smile playing on his lips. "Neither can I."
On the other end of the line, Jorge was still chuckling, the sound like a burst of Mediterranean warmth. "Alright, alright, I've had my laugh. Now tell me, what's next on your schedule, capitan? I assume Roy's got something lined up before the Palace visit?"
Francesco nodded instinctively, even though Jorge couldn't see him. "Yeah, actually — I was going to tell you. After this, I need to head to St. George's Park. They're doing the prep meeting, travel briefing, suit fittings, and the FA's formal briefing — just like Roy mentioned yesterday. It's a full day, pretty much."
"Ah," Jorge said thoughtfully, his voice taking on that calculating tone again — the one Francesco knew meant he was already three steps ahead. "That's the administrative day, yes? All the logistical things before the event."
"Exactly," Francesco said, sipping his coffee. "I'll be there most of the afternoon unless it runs long."
"Not anymore," Jorge replied smoothly. "Leave that to me. I'll call the FA right after we hang up. I'll tell them we're handling the suits — no need for them to fuss with whatever they've arranged. Armani's coming straight from Milan; they'll outclass whatever the FA could pull together last minute anyway."
Francesco smiled, shaking his head a little. "You're serious?"
"Completely," Jorge said firmly. "I'll also ask them to forward the prep meeting notes, travel briefing, and the Palace event protocols directly to me. I'll go through them, filter what's necessary, and send you only what you need to focus on. You don't need to be wasting time today reading itineraries and dress codes. You've earned the right to breathe."
Leah smiled faintly at that, mouthing quietly to Francesco, he's like your second manager.
Francesco grinned. "You'd make a good team manager, Jorge."
Jorge laughed heartily. "I practically am! Between you, Cristiano, and my other boys, I'm already running half the footballing world. But you, Francesco — you're my masterpiece. So let me handle the details."
Francesco leaned back, letting the thought settle. There was something comforting about Jorge's certainty — the way he took the chaos of fame and turned it into order. "Alright," he said finally, "I'll trust you on that. Just make sure Roy and the FA don't think I'm slacking off."
Jorge chuckled. "They won't. I'll call them personally — very politely, of course — and explain that my client is in full compliance with the FA's schedule, but that Armani will be taking over wardrobe duties. I'll also remind them that Francesco Lee is not just an athlete anymore; he's a global ambassador for English football."
Leah laughed softly. "He's really giving you the VIP treatment."
Francesco smiled, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "You sure you're not going to start charging me by the word, Jorge?"
"Ha!" Jorge barked out a laugh. "Don't tempt me. I'd make a fortune off speeches like this. But seriously, Francesco — I'll make sure everything's smooth. You just need to be ready for two things tomorrow: the FA's final pre-Palace briefing and your meeting with Her Majesty. Everything else? I'll take care of."
"Appreciate it," Francesco said quietly, genuinely. "You always do."
"That's what I'm here for, mi campeón," Jorge replied warmly. Then his tone softened, almost fatherly. "You know, I remember when I first saw you play in that youth tournament — Arsenal U18s against Manchester United. You were just a skinny kid with too much hair and too much confidence. I told your father, 'Give me five years and this boy will stand with kings.' And now look at you, not even five years."
Francesco smiled, a little embarrassed but touched nonetheless. "You really did say that, didn't you?"
"I did," Jorge said proudly. "And tomorrow, when you're standing in Buckingham Palace, shaking hands with the Queen — remember that it's not luck. It's hard work, humility, and destiny colliding."
There was a moment of silence after that. Leah glanced at him, her eyes soft with affection. Francesco could feel his throat tighten slightly — not with pride, exactly, but with gratitude.
"Thanks, Jorge," he said quietly. "That means a lot."
"Good," Jorge said briskly, his tone lightening again. "Now go enjoy your morning, have another cup of coffee, and keep your phone on. Armani's logistics manager will message you in about an hour with the arrival time. I'll be at your house by two sharp. Leah, make sure he doesn't hide upstairs in his hoodie when the team arrives."
Leah grinned and leaned closer to the phone. "Don't worry, I'll keep him civilized."
"Excellent," Jorge said, clearly smiling. "I'll see you both later. And Francesco — one last thing: when the FA releases the Palace schedule, forward it to me directly too, just in case they forget to loop me in."
"Will do," Francesco said. "Thanks again, Jorge. See you this afternoon."
The call ended with a cheerful click, and Francesco let out a long exhale, setting the phone down on the table.
Leah smirked, nudging him gently. "He really doesn't stop, does he?"
Francesco laughed under his breath. "Nope. But that's why he's the best."
Leah leaned back into the couch, taking another sip of her coffee. The TV was still running in the background — now showing aerial shots of central London with the caption "England's Heroes to Visit Buckingham Palace Tomorrow" scrolling across the bottom.
"So," she said with a teasing smile, "St. George's Park today, huh?"
Francesco nodded. "Yeah. Though it sounds like Jorge might handle most of the chaos before I even get there."
Leah chuckled. "I can see him now — marching into the FA offices in a suit, making them rewrite the schedule."
Francesco laughed, picturing it. "Wouldn't surprise me. The man's unstoppable when he's in work mode."
They sat there for a while longer, watching the news roll through endless clips of interviews, fan reactions, and even a few celebrity tweets celebrating England's triumph. Francesco's name was everywhere — splashed across every headline, dissected in every pundit's sentence. It was surreal.
Yet, in the midst of all that noise, the house felt strangely peaceful. The soft hum of the kettle, the golden light on Leah's face, the distant chatter of TV — it was a cocoon of calm against the world's excitement.
After a while, Francesco set his mug down and rose from the couch, stretching. "I should probably get ready for the drive," he said softly. "Even if Jorge handles half of it, I still have to show up."
Leah smiled, setting her cup aside. "I'll pack some things for later, in case it runs long. Maybe we can grab dinner when you're done."
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sounds perfect."
Upstairs, as he changed into casual training clothes — black joggers, a fitted white tee, and a lightweight jacket — he found himself staring briefly at the England badge stitched into the sleeve of his jacket. It wasn't new; he'd worn it countless times before. But somehow, it felt different today. He was going to St. George's Park not just as one of the lads anymore — but as the captain.
And tomorrow, that title would be made official in the most extraordinary way imaginable.
When he came back downstairs, Leah was standing by the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone. "Jorge already messaged," she said, smiling. "Armani's logistics manager says they'll be here by two. They've got everything ready — fabric, measurements, even your shoe sizes."
Francesco raised an eyebrow. "He gave them my shoe size?"
Leah grinned. "Apparently. The man really does know everything."
They both laughed, the kind of easy, comfortable laughter that came naturally between them. Francesco grabbed his car keys from the counter and glanced toward the door.
"Alright," he said with a breath, "time to face the next round of chaos."
Leah walked over, resting her hands briefly on his chest. "You'll be fine. You always are."
He smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. "See you in a few hours."
As he stepped outside, the morning air was crisp, carrying that faint scent of rain that never quite left the London suburbs. His BMW X5 gleamed faintly in the driveway, and for a brief moment, he just stood there, letting the stillness of the moment sink in.
Inside, his phone buzzed once more — a message from Jorge:
"FA confirmed. I've taken care of everything. You just focus on showing up — Armani and I will handle the rest. Proud of you, capitan."
Francesco smiled faintly, pocketed his phone, and started the engine.
The road to St. George's Park stretched ahead, winding through the calm English countryside — a quiet prelude to the whirlwind of prestige, politics, and preparation that awaited him.
The drive north from Richmond had always been one of Francesco's favorite routes — a stretch of open road that gave him time to breathe, to think, and to let his mind clear before the next storm. The BMW's engine purred beneath him as he rolled through the quiet countryside, fields unfolding in shades of late-summer green beneath a sky of pale silver. He drove with one hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other tapping idly against his knee to the rhythm of the radio.
The adrenaline of the last few days — the final, the celebration, the endless interviews — had begun to settle now, leaving something gentler in its wake. Gratitude, mostly. A kind of peaceful disbelief that he'd lived through what every boy in England dreamed about and had somehow come out of it with medals, memories, and the captain's armband waiting for him at the end.
By the time he turned through the main gates of St. George's Park, the familiar sight of the FA banners fluttering in the wind brought a small smile to his lips. The sprawling complex sat in a calm patch of countryside, the training pitches glinting in the morning light and the glass-fronted main building standing tall like a cathedral of football. He slowed the car as he approached the front entrance, where two FA staffers in navy suits were already waiting — clearly expecting him.
The guard at the gate lifted a hand in greeting. "Morning, Mr. Lee," he said with a grin. "Congratulations again. What a night that was."
"Morning," Francesco replied, smiling as he lowered his window. "Appreciate it."
The barrier lifted, and he eased forward, the tires crunching over the gravel before the car came to a stop near the front steps. The automatic doors slid open, and the FA officials waiting outside stepped forward — one middle-aged man with a clipboard tucked under his arm and another younger staffer with a tablet.
"Mr. Lee!" the older one said, extending his hand warmly. "Good to see you again, son. Congratulations — and might I say, well done on the tournament. A phenomenal performance."
"Thank you," Francesco said, shaking his hand with a polite smile. "It's been… a whirlwind."
"I can imagine," the man said with a laugh. "I'm Richard Turner, by the way — operations liaison. And this is Emma from our coordination team."
Emma gave a bright, professional smile. "Lovely to meet you again, Francesco. Welcome back to St. George's."
"Good to see you both," he said warmly.
They led him through the glass atrium into the main hall, where the familiar smell of turf, polish, and freshly brewed coffee filled the air. A few younger staff members glanced up from their desks as he passed, some offering shy smiles, others breaking into quiet applause that made him chuckle under his breath.
Richard walked beside him, flipping open his clipboard. "Now, before you ask — yes, we've received confirmation from your agent, Mr. Mendes. The prep meeting notes and travel briefings have been forwarded directly to him, as per his request."
Francesco grinned slightly. "Of course they have. That man doesn't miss a thing."
Richard chuckled. "No, he certainly doesn't. Very efficient chap, I'll give him that. Means we don't have to bury you in paperwork today. He's already signed off on the logistics and suit arrangements — though the FA still has the Palace protocol package for you to review. It's mostly ceremonial — timings, order of introductions, that sort of thing."
"Got it," Francesco said. "And Roy?"
"Ah, yes," Richard said, nodding. "Mr. Hodgson would like to see you for a quick final talk before tomorrow. Just a few words, I think — you know Roy, always wants things done properly."
Francesco smiled knowingly. "Of course."
They passed through a quiet corridor lined with framed photographs — images of England teams past and present, legends captured in the heat of battle or in victory's glow. As they reached the door to the manager's office, Emma stepped forward and knocked gently.
"Come in," came the familiar, slightly gravelly voice from inside.
Francesco entered to find Roy Hodgson standing near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes turned toward the training pitches outside. The sunlight caught his silver hair, giving him that timeless look of quiet dignity that Francesco had come to respect deeply.
When Roy turned, his expression softened instantly. "Ah, Francesco," he said with a faint smile. "There you are. I was wondering when I'd get to see you without a microphone in your face."
Francesco laughed lightly. "They've been relentless the last few days."
"I can imagine," Roy said, walking forward to clasp his shoulder in a fatherly way. "Sit down, son. Let's not make this too formal."
Francesco sat across from him at the small round table by the window, where two mugs of tea already waited. Roy poured a little milk into his own before continuing, his tone calm but sincere.
"I won't take much of your time," he began. "I know you've got Armani arriving later and Jorge keeping the world in order for you, as he does. But I wanted to see you before tomorrow — before Buckingham Palace."
Francesco nodded quietly, giving his full attention.
Roy studied him for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, almost proud. "You've done more than anyone could have asked, Francesco. You didn't just score goals; you led men. You made them believe again. That's something rare — something special. Tomorrow, when you walk into that hall and shake hands with Her Majesty, remember that you're not just representing yourself. You're the face of this generation of English football."
Francesco felt his chest tighten slightly, not out of nerves but out of the weight of meaning behind those words. "I will, boss. I promise."
Roy smiled faintly, nodding. "Good. Because this is just the beginning for you. The armband — it's not just a piece of cloth, you know. It's a legacy. You've already proved you can carry it, but now… now it's about keeping the team together through what comes next. The media, the expectations, the tournaments to come. England hasn't had a leader like you in a long time. And I mean that sincerely."
Francesco swallowed, humbled. "Thank you, Roy. That means a lot — really."
Roy leaned back, sipping his tea. "Enjoy tomorrow. Smile. Shake hands. Let them see the man behind the footballer. You'll find the Palace crowd isn't all that different from a dressing room — they respect honesty, confidence, and a touch of humility. Which, thankfully, you've got in abundance."
Francesco chuckled softly. "I'll try not to embarrass the team."
"You won't," Roy said warmly. "I've no doubt you'll handle it beautifully. Now go on — I hear Mendes is turning your house into a fashion studio this afternoon. You'd better not keep Armani waiting."
Francesco laughed, rising from his seat. "No chance. He might have me fitted for a whole new wardrobe if I do."
They shook hands firmly, and Francesco turned to go.
The drive back to Richmond felt shorter somehow. Maybe it was the clarity that came from that talk — the calm before another kind of storm. The late-afternoon sun was slanting low across the horizon when he finally turned into his driveway.
The mansion stood gleaming in the amber light, its wide lawn and trimmed hedges perfectly still, save for the faint flutter of flags still left over from the neighborhood's celebrations. As he pulled in, he spotted a sleek black Mercedes van parked by the gate, the unmistakable Armani logo discreetly printed on its side.
Leah was already at the door, waving. "You're just in time," she called as he stepped out of the car. "They've been setting up for the past ten minutes. Jorge's inside — looks like he's orchestrating a military operation."
Francesco laughed. "Sounds about right."
As he entered, the front hall had been transformed — garment racks lined with tailored suits, pristine white shirts, and silk ties in subtle shades of navy and ivory. A pair of tailors moved efficiently, measuring fabrics and setting up fitting stations. Jorge Mendes stood at the center of it all, phone in one hand, tablet in the other, directing everyone like a general on a battlefield.
"Ah, there he is!" Jorge said, spotting Francesco immediately. "Our man of the hour! Perfect timing — we're right on schedule."
Francesco grinned, shaking his head. "You weren't kidding when you said Armani was coming straight from Milan."
"Of course not," Jorge replied smoothly, turning to gesture toward the two tailors. "Francesco, this is Marco and Gianni, Armani's senior stylists. They flew in this morning. Gentlemen, meet your new canvas."
Marco, a refined man in his forties with silver-rimmed glasses, stepped forward with a polite bow. "It's an honor, Mr. Lee," he said in a soft Italian accent. "We've brought the finest fabric in the collection — hand-stitched silk-linen blend, perfect for a royal audience."
Francesco smiled, shaking his hand. "The honor's mine. Let's hope I do the suit justice."
"Oh, you will," Marco said with a confident smile. "You already have the frame of a gentleman and the poise of a champion. The suit will simply complete the picture."
Leah, watching from the doorway, laughed. "He's going to start blushing soon."
Francesco shot her a playful look before turning back to the tailors.
Then for the next three hours, the house was alive with quiet, elegant chaos — the kind of controlled frenzy that only Jorge Mendes could somehow make look like an art form.
Measuring tapes whispered against fabric. Scissors snipped in soft, rhythmic intervals. The occasional murmur of Italian between Marco and Gianni drifted through the air, mixing with the subtle sound of pages flipping as Jorge reviewed lookbooks, fabric charts, and travel itineraries all at once. The aroma of espresso filled the space — a necessity, not a luxury, judging by the steady rotation of cups brought in by Leah from the kitchen.
Francesco stood patiently through it all, arms slightly raised as Marco circled him with the concentration of a sculptor shaping marble. The tailor's tape flicked from shoulder to wrist, chest to waist, every number recorded in neat handwriting on a small leather notebook.
"Turn, please," Marco said softly.
Francesco did as he was told, catching his own reflection in the tall mirror by the wall. The jacket hung open, pinned in a dozen places, a constellation of white thread marking where adjustments would be made. The fabric shimmered faintly in the late light — deep midnight blue, the color of twilight before the stars appeared.
Leah watched from the chaise near the window, her chin resting in her hand, eyes bright with quiet admiration. "That's the one," she said simply.
Gianni looked up from the swatches he'd been holding. "You think so?"
"Absolutely," she said. "It's bold but still timeless. When he walks into the Palace, they'll see a man who's earned his moment — not someone trying to impress them."
Jorge smiled approvingly at that, jotting something on his tablet. "You hear that, Francesco? Even Leah's developing an agent's eye. I should put her on payroll."
Leah chuckled. "Oh, please. You'd have me negotiating with your sponsors in a week."
"You'd probably do better than most," Jorge replied with mock seriousness, then gestured for the tailors to continue.
For Francesco, the hours blurred together — an odd mix of stillness and activity. Each fitting was a small revelation. The jacket took shape first, its structured shoulders balanced perfectly against the athletic lines of his frame. Then the trousers, tailored with enough room to move but slim enough to maintain elegance. The shirt came next: fine cotton, bright white, with subtle texture that caught the light without glare.
Every detail mattered. The tie knot was tested at least six times — half-Windsor, then full, then back to half again — until Jorge nodded with the gravity of a man signing a treaty.
"This one," he said finally. "It frames the jaw properly. You'll thank me when the photos hit the press."
Francesco glanced toward the mirror and gave a faint laugh. "I feel like I'm being armed for a royal battle."
"That's exactly what this is," Jorge said. "Presentation is armor. You're not just Francesco Lee the footballer tomorrow — you're representing England, Arsenal, and half the brands lining up to partner with you this season."
"Half?" Francesco teased. "I thought it was the whole world by now."
Jorge grinned. "Give it time. Armani today, maybe Omega or Aston Martin next month. They all want a piece of the golden boy."
Leah rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Don't inflate his head before he's even left the house."
Francesco shot her a smirk. "Too late."
She threw a balled-up piece of fabric at him — which he dodged easily, laughing. The tension of the last few days, all the travel and interviews and obligations, seemed to melt away in those small moments. It wasn't just fittings; it was family, in its own eccentric, global way.
As the evening sun began to dim, Marco gestured toward the mirror. "All right," he said, stepping back. "Let's see how the full look sits."
Francesco turned toward the glass — and for a brief moment, even he fell silent.
The reflection staring back was striking. The midnight-blue jacket hugged his frame perfectly, the crisp white shirt bright against his tan skin, the tie knotted with effortless precision. The trousers fell just right, the fabric moving with him rather than against him. The shoes, polished to a mirror shine, grounded the look — understated, elegant, deliberate.
Jorge folded his arms, surveying the finished product like a man inspecting a rare painting. "Perfect," he said finally. "Under the Palace chandeliers, that color will look divine. Not loud, not timid. Just… right."
Leah rose from her seat, circling him once like a critic in an art gallery. Then she smiled — that warm, proud kind of smile that always softened him. "You look incredible," she said.
Francesco met her gaze in the mirror. "You sure? You're not just saying that because Armani's watching?"
"I'm saying that because it's true," she said softly. "You look like yourself — just… elevated."
Marco and Gianni exchanged pleased glances. "And now, signore," Marco said, "it's Leah's turn."
Leah blinked. "My turn?"
Gianni smiled. "Of course! You didn't think we'd leave the future Mrs. Lee in jeans and a jumper, did you? Mr. Mendes insisted we bring options."
Leah turned sharply to Jorge, mock-scowling. "You did what?"
Jorge lifted both hands innocently. "It's protocol! The Palace doesn't just invite the players — they expect their guests to be properly presented. And besides…" He gave a little shrug. "It would be a crime to have you walk beside him without a dress that matches his suit. The photographs would never forgive us."
Francesco chuckled as Leah sighed in defeat, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "You're impossible, Jorge."
"I'm thorough," he corrected smoothly. "Now, Marco, if you please."
Two garment bags were unzipped, revealing dresses of breathtaking craftsmanship. The first was a silken shade of soft ivory, the kind that caught warmth in its folds like candlelight. The second was a deep sapphire blue, subtle but radiant under the soft lighting — a perfect complement to Francesco's midnight suit.
Leah's eyes lingered on the second one. "That's beautiful," she murmured.
Gianni smiled knowingly. "It was designed to be. The cut is classic, the tone refined — it mirrors his suit without matching it exactly. A pair, not a reflection."
It took another half hour before Leah emerged from the dressing room, and when she did, the room fell quiet.
The sapphire fabric flowed with effortless grace, the neckline elegant without being showy, the fit tailored just enough to emphasize her figure. Her hair had been swept lightly to one side by one of Armani's stylists, and her makeup, subtle but glowing, highlighted her eyes.
Francesco blinked — actually blinked — before managing to say, "Wow."
Leah gave a sheepish laugh. "You think it's too much?"
"Too much?" he said, shaking his head slowly. "No. It's perfect."
Even Jorge, who rarely paused for sentiment, nodded approvingly. "Now that is balance. You two look like a magazine cover."
Leah flushed faintly, brushing invisible dust off her dress. "If you start pitching this to Vogue, Jorge, I swear—"
He raised a brow. "Already sent an inquiry."
"Jorge!"
"Relax," he said with a wink. "Just testing the waters."
They all laughed then — the kind of laughter that carried warmth through the entire room, dissolving any trace of tension left from the preparations.
By the time the fittings ended and the team began packing up, dusk had settled outside. The last streaks of sunlight faded behind the trees lining the Richmond property, leaving a calm amber glow through the tall windows. Marco and Gianni carefully folded the suits and dresses into garment bags, each item tagged and sealed with the care of priceless art.
As they finished, Jorge clapped his hands together once. "All right, my friends — perfection achieved. The car to Buckingham Palace will arrive tomorrow at ten sharp. I'll handle all press coordination and photo rights. Francesco, you'll have a brief audience before the main reception; I'll forward the details tonight."
Francesco nodded. "Got it."
"And remember," Jorge added, glancing meaningfully at both of them, "the Palace event isn't just ceremonial. It's symbolic. There will be sponsors, ambassadors, even a few royal advisors in attendance. Everyone will be watching — not just for how you look, but how you carry yourselves."
Leah smiled faintly. "No pressure then."
"None whatsoever," Jorge said with a grin. "Now, go get some rest. I'll handle the rest from here."
After the Armani team left, the house grew quiet again — the kind of silence that follows a whirlwind. Francesco and Leah lingered in the hallway, still half-dressed from the fittings, surrounded by the faint scent of fabric, perfume, and espresso.
Leah leaned lightly against his chest, her voice soft. "You ready for tomorrow?"
Francesco looked down at her, then past her to the window, where the city lights of Richmond glimmered faintly in the distance. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "I think so. Feels different this time — calmer. Like it's not just about football anymore."
Leah nodded against him. "It's about who you've become."
He smiled faintly. "Something like that."
Then, as if remembering something, he pulled his phone from his pocket. "Actually… I owe Jorge a call before he sleeps. He mentioned something about sponsors earlier — said he wanted to go over one last thing."
Leah looked up at him, amused. "You really think he's going to sleep?"
Francesco laughed. "Fair point."
He stepped into his study, closing the door behind him. The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock and the hum of the city outside. He dialed Jorge's number, and it rang only once before the familiar, brisk voice answered.
"Francesco! I was just about to send you a briefing."
"Beat you to it," Francesco said, smiling as he sank into his chair. "Everything settled for tomorrow?"
"Everything," Jorge confirmed. "Though the Palace media team just adjusted the schedule slightly. The Royal Family's announcement will go live an hour before the reception — they're coordinating with Sky and BBC for coverage. It's all going to be… very polished."
Francesco nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Polished, right. So the whole world gets to see me try not to trip on marble floors."
Jorge laughed. "Please. You've played live in front of ten of thousands at Stade de France, you'll be fine. Besides, I've already seen the photos at the fitting. Armani is thrilled. They said your look might headline their autumn campaign — we're talking a potential long-term partnership, plus cross-promotion with Omega and Aston Martin."
Francesco blinked. "You're serious?"
"Always," Jorge said. "You've reached that point, Francesco. This isn't just about goals and trophies anymore. You're a global brand now — England's hero, Arsenal's icon, the face of ambition and humility rolled into one. It's what every manager dreams of."
Francesco chuckled softly. "And you, my friend, are already planning five steps ahead."
"That's my job," Jorge replied smoothly. "But don't think this is all business. I'm proud of you, truly. The way you handled the final, the interviews, the way you carried yourself — it's rare. You remind people why football matters."
Francesco's voice softened. "Thanks, Jorge. That means more than you think."
There was a brief pause on the line — a quiet understanding between them that didn't need more words. Then Jorge's voice returned, brisk again but tinged with warmth. "Now go rest, captain. Tomorrow, you're not just shaking hands with royalty — you're walking into history. And for God's sake, don't spill anything on that suit."
Francesco laughed. "No promises."
When the call ended, he set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, staring for a moment at the framed photos on the wall — moments frozen from his journey: his debut, his first goal, the team lifting the cup.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9