Abramovich wasn't sitting behind his desk, that symbol of authority. Instead, he stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to the door, his silhouette lean yet radiating a silent, intuitive power against London's gray overcast sky.
Beyond the glass, Stamford Bridge's imposing structure loomed under dark clouds—the most visible emblem of his empire.
Ellion's footsteps instinctively softened as he entered, stopping in the room's center.
This wasn't an ordinary office. It was Chelsea Football Club's true nerve center—a fortress built from capital, willpower, and near-absolute control.
Abramovich turned slowly. His movements weren't hurried, yet carried unquestionable authority.
Ellion had seen this face countless times—in news reports, team meetings. But never this close, never in such an intimate, pressure-filled environment.
Time had etched wrinkles across those face, but the eyes remained bottomless, habitually scrutinizing, accustomed to rendering judgment on everything.
Ellion recalled the legends surrounding this Russian oligarch: brutal struggles in Siberian oil fields, shadowy dealings deep within the Kremlin, a yacht empire guarded by private military forces...
Those distant stories crystallized into tangible reality under that penetrating gaze.
At Chelsea, his will was law.
The parade of world-class managers—Mourinho, Ancelotti, Di Matteo had arrived amid fanfare, only to depart via cold termination notices. Abramovich's preferences could instantly determine a top-tier manager's fate at Stamford Bridge.
No explanations. No justifications. Only results mattered.
"Roman's displeased"
These two words were sufficient to send chills down any Blues employee's spine.
Record-breaking signings like Shevchenko and Torres, failing to meet expectations, were quickly labeled flops—either frozen out or sold off. Stars who no longer fit his vision or served his needs, regardless of pedigree, were ruthlessly discarded.
Players were chess pieces to him, valued for immediate tactical utility and strategic alignment with his objectives. He'd spend hundreds of millions on desired targets without hesitation, yet showed heart-stopping coldness toward club legends past their prime.
Chelsea's ascension embodied Abramovich's personal will and financial might in its purest form.
Every blade of grass at Stamford Bridge bore his indelible mark.
Here, no "tradition" superseded his authority.
"Sit."
Abramovich offered a faint smile—one that invited no warmth, no familiarity.
Ellion settled into the chair, immediately noticing the massive television screen in the corner broadcasting live Europa League coverage.
Bastia hosting Inter Milan.
Ellion's assessment formed instantly: This has nothing to do with youth academy updates. This is about Julien.
His stomach tightened with uneasiness.
Recently, numerous Chelsea figures had pushed for re-signing Julien. Some media speculation had even originated from Ellion himself—carefully placed whispers that journalists had amplified into seemingly credible reports.
So he felt anxious.
Who knows how Abramovich might react?
Knock, knock.
"Enter."
Following Ellion, Granovskaia and Gourlay stepped inside, greeting Ellion briefly before taking positions nearby.
On the television, cameras lingered in the tunnel, focusing longest on Julien.
The English commentator's voice filled the room: "...a phenomenon of a player. They defeated Tottenham in London, ultimately eliminating Spurs from the competition. In the first leg, they stunned San Siro, beating Inter Milan 3-1 with De Rocca scoring a hat-trick. Before this match, Bastia rotated heavily in their weekend fixture—De Rocca is fully rested. Tonight, he remains Bastia's sharpest edge..."
Abramovich said nothing.
Gourlay and Granovskaia quietly discussed business matters—Ellion caught fragments about Torres' potential transfer.
On screen, both teams emerged from the tunnel. The commentator's voice was nearly drowned by the thunderous roar from Bastia's supporters.
The camera panned across the stands.
A stunning sea of blue. Countless banners were visible, most too distant to read clearly, but one name appeared repeatedly: JULIEN.
As the opening ceremony progressed, the Bastia ultras unveiled an enormous tifo in their section.
Ellion felt genuine awe.
The display showed Julien's celebrating silhouette against a background of subtly rendered trophy outlines. Above his figure: a crown. Below, massive Corsican text declared:
A TIMPESTA PORTA U SO NOME A STORIA HÈ DI U NOSTRU RÈ!
The storm carries his name; history belongs to our king!
The camera held on the tifo for nearly twenty seconds.
Abramovich, silent until now, spoke suddenly. His tone was utterly flat, as if inquiring about trivial matters.
"Alan, what's your assessment of Julien?"
Ellion had anticipated this question, debating inside whether to interpret Abramovich's intentions or speak his truth.
He'd wavered. But now, in this moment, certainty replaced hesitation. Without pause, Ellion responded directly.
"Roman, my opinion hasn't changed since I first brought him to Chelsea. I saw unparalleled talent then."
His voice grew firmer. "Now, he's a genuine match-winner. Over these two seasons at Bastia, he's completed the transformation from 'talented player' to 'decisive game-changer.'
He doesn't just possess devastating pace to tear apart defenses—he's demonstrated elite decision-making under pressure, exceptional passing vision, and clinical finishing. France gave him the number 10 shirt. Deschamps and Zidane publicly endorsed him. That's the highest validation of his ability as a modern attacking core.
In the transfer market, this caliber of player, still below his career peak is absolutely scarce resource."
These words had circulated through Ellion's mind countless times. Now they flowed effortlessly.
Abramovich's expression remained unchanged, gaze fixed on the television, fingers tapping the desk regularly.
Gourlay and Granovskaia stopped their conversation, likewise watching the screen.
Granovskaia had risen from Abramovich's personal assistant in Russia to become one of Chelsea's key decision-makers.
Outside and inside Chelsea, she'd earned the nickname "The iron lady".
Her most prominent deal had been the 2011 acquisition of Fernando Torres from Liverpool—a transfer that generated enormous hype despite ultimately disappointing results.
Yet the fearsome Granovskaia who accepted no disagreement with agents became docile as a lamb before Abramovich.
Ellion's assessment drew no visible reaction from Abramovich. He simply glanced at Ellion briefly, gesturing for him to continue.
Without hesitation, Ellion pressed forward.
"His value extends far beyond the pitch. Julien's story has become an extremely powerful marketing asset. He's a traffic magnet with enormous commercial potential.
Signing him means signing more than a world-class player—it means acquiring a super-IP capable of dramatically elevating the club's global influence, commercial sponsorship appeal, and brand narrative depth."
Still, Abramovich showed nothing.
Granovskaia interjected gently, her tone was soft—reflecting her demeanor in Abramovich's presence, far from the ruthless negotiator known across football. "So, you've been feeding information to the media, hoping we'd re-sign him?"
Ellion didn't deflect. He met the question head-on with calm transparency.
"The speculation in recent media reports—I did express continued interest in Julien's talent and satisfaction with his development. This showed my genuine internal sentiment.
If my actions caused unnecessary speculation or complications, I take full responsibility. But my motivation has always been based on long-term assessment of the club's interests. A player like Julien—an elite asset with massive potential deserves new consideration."
Ellion looked directly at Abramovich as he spoke.
Abramovich's fingers continued their tapping. He offered no response, simply waved his hand dismissively.
Gourlay remained still, clearly needed for something else.
Granovskaia's subtle eye movement signaled Ellion to follow her out.
As they exited the office, Ellion felt the oppressive weight lift instantly.
Facing Abramovich is suffocating.
Granovskaia said nothing more, simply shrugged. "Roman doesn't appreciate being managed like that. Anyway, you still have your Belgium trip. Watch tonight's match first before leaving."
Then she was gone—efficient, decisive.
Granovskaia managed every aspect of Abramovich's life with meticulous precision. Even gifts Abramovich gave were selected and purchased by her personally.
Ellion stood alone in the corridor, exhaling slowly.
He genuinely couldn't read Abramovich's position. If there were no interest in Julien, why summon him at all? Why watch Julien's match?
But if there was interest, why show absolutely no indication? Why not even suggest new contact?
The truth was complicated.
Previously, Ellion had doubted whether Julien could break into Chelsea's first team. Now, Julien could absolutely claim a starting role.
But the obstacle remained: history.
If Julien had merely fought with Russian teammates, perhaps it could be overlooked. But Julien had also directly insulted Abramovich during that infamous incident.
Did a man worth over €100 billion care about saving face?
Yet on the other hand, Julien likely wouldn't apologize. Now, Chelsea needed Julien—not the other way around.
Complicated. So damn complicated.
For the first time, Ellion realized a single transfer could become this convoluted. He'd planned to manipulate media narratives, creating momentum.
But after Granovskaia's subtle warning, Ellion decided to step back completely.
Julien no longer needed his help. He wasn't that child requiring assistance anymore.
A smile appeared on Ellion's face. Years ago, he'd recognized Julien's talent. Through all the twists and turns, he was finally witnessing that talent's full realization.
Ellion suddenly slapped his forehead, and began racing back toward his office.
The Bastia match had already started!
He couldn't waste another second.
When Ellion burst into his office, fumbling to open the livestream on his computer, he checked the scoreline first.
Relief flooded through him.
"Good. I haven't missed any goals."
The clock showed 18 minutes passed. The score remained 0-0.
If it stayed this way, Inter Milan would be eliminated.
On the pitch, Inter repeatedly launched attacks, only to see them break down against Bastia's organized defense. They regrouped, increased intensity, and pressed forward again.
They had no other option.
Stramaccioni watched the proceedings with furrowed brow, genuinely perplexed. How can a Ligue 1 defense be this impenetrable?
Inter could dismantle Italian sides with ease. Yet against Bastia, every attacking path seemed impossibly narrow, every breakthrough attempt suffocated before it could develop.
Hadzibegic stood not far away, his expression equally tense.
Inter's attacking commitment tonight was unmistakable—desperate, relentless pressure that tested Bastia's resolve with every wave.
Hope the defensive line holds.
More importantly, Hadzibegic kept his focus trained on the attacking third. He understood the fundamental equation: Bastia's fate would be decided by their offensive output. Only by threatening Inter's goal could they relieve the mounting pressure on their own defense.
Twenty minutes had passed. Bastia had generated just three counter-attacking opportunities.
None had materialized into genuine danger.
But that was the beauty and the cruelty of counter-attacking football. You only needed one to prove lethal. One perfectly executed break could decide everything.
The deadlock persisted, both teams were locked in tactical stalemate.
The Italian broadcast commentator couldn't hide his concern for Inter.
"Bastia's defensive structure has been tested against Tottenham and Paris Saint-Germain. Even Ibrahimović struggled to gain advantage against their young center-back Van Dijk.
Neither Cassano nor Palacio can hope to physically overpower them—they need to change approach. Movement. Clever positioning to disrupt Bastia's defensive organization rather than attempting direct confrontation.
If Inter are hoping to exploit Bastia's fatigue window later in the match, I fear that's unrealistic. Bastia rested their entire first team last weekend, while Inter—fielding basically full strength still lost to Bologna. The physical reserves simply aren't comparable.
Moreover, Inter must remain vigilant about Bastia's counter-attacks. If Bastia score again, it would be absolutely devastating for the Nerazzurri.
De Rocca hasn't touched the ball much, but after that San Siro hat-trick, he cannot be ignored. Not even for a second."
On the pitch, Julien had been shadowed relentlessly by Kovačić—marking him whether in possession or making runs, never allowing to separate.
This defensive commitment naturally impacted Inter's attacking fluidity. Kovačić was crucial to their midfield buildup, and his assignment to neutralize Julien created structural imbalances.
This was Julien's gravitational pull—the space he occupied in opponents' minds.
But in that lay the eternal truth of football: attackers act, defenders react. The initiative always belonged to those going forward.
24th minute.
After twenty-plus minutes of relative anonymity, Julien suddenly exploded into life.
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