Chapter 4: Threads of Desperation
Leila Peters rarely called anyone when she was breaking.
She endured.
She fought.
She rebuilt.
But tonight, sitting on the floor of her apartment with sketches scattered around her like fallen feathers, she reached for the one person who had known her before ambition hardened her edges.
Isabella Paul.
The call rang twice.
"Leila?" Isabella's voice came warm and immediate. "Hey. You never call at night. Are you okay?"
Leila exhaled, the sound trembling despite her effort to steady it.
"I'm fine."
Isabella laughed softly. "You sound like someone who is absolutely not fine."
Silence stretched.
Leila stared at the ceiling.
Two days to Fashion Week.
Nine dresses unfinished.
Six models gone.
And Nadia Kibet circling like a vulture.
"I think…" Leila began, then stopped. The admission felt heavier than any fabric she'd ever lifted. "I think I might lose everything I've built."
The words landed between them.
Isabella didn't rush to fill the quiet. She never had. That was why Leila trusted her — Isabella let truth breathe.
"What happened?" Isabella asked gently.
And Leila told her.
Not everything.
Not the pride wounds.
Not the fear of inadequacy clawing her ribs.
But enough.
Models leaving.
Pressure mounting.
Time collapsing.
By the end, her voice had gone thin.
"I don't know how to fix this," she admitted.
It felt like failure just to say it.
On the other end, Isabella hummed softly — the sound of someone thinking, not pitying.
"Okay," she said after a moment. "So this is a logistics crisis, not a talent crisis."
Leila blinked. "It feels like both."
"It's not," Isabella said firmly. "You're still Leila Peters. Nairobi still talks about your work like it's myth." A pause. Then: "You don't need belief. You need infrastructure."
Leila frowned faintly. "Infrastructure?"
"Resources. Networks. Reach. Influence," Isabella said. "You've always refused those because you wanted Bloom to grow pure."
Leila swallowed.
It was true.
She'd built everything alone.
No investors.
No sponsors.
No power alliances.
Just craft and stubbornness.
"And now," Isabella continued gently, "you're facing someone who plays at a different level."
Nadia.
Leila's jaw tightened.
"So what do I do?" she asked quietly.
Isabella hesitated.
It was subtle.
But Leila knew her — hesitation meant significance.
"I might know someone," Isabella said at last.
Leila sat up slightly. "Someone?"
"Someone who helps brands scale fast," Isabella said. "Visibility. Talent access. Global positioning. Crisis recovery."
Leila's pulse shifted.
Hope — fragile and dangerous — flickered.
"Why haven't you mentioned them before?" Leila asked.
"Because," Isabella said, voice turning thoughtful, "you weren't ready."
The words settled heavy.
"And now?" Leila asked.
A small smile threaded through Isabella's tone.
"Now you're desperate enough to accept help."
Leila let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh.
"Probably true."
Another pause.
Then Isabella said, softly but decisively:
"I'll make a call."
Elsewhere — Nadia
Mwajuma's refusal still burned.
Nadia stood in her glass-walled studio overlooking the city, jaw tight, nails pressed into her palm hard enough to leave crescents.
She had expected negotiation.
Fear.
Temptation.
Everyone bent eventually.
Everyone.
But Mwajuma had looked her in the eye and said:
I don't betray family.
The memory scraped.
"Sentimental weakness," Nadia murmured to the empty room.
Yet beneath the irritation lurked something sharper.
Threat.
Because loyalty like that didn't exist in her world.
And that made it dangerous.
Her gaze drifted to the garment rack holding her Fashion Week collection — flawless, expensive, globally palatable.
And suddenly…
Predictable.
Safe.
Leila Peters, with her raw cultural fire and stubborn authenticity, had become a problem that couldn't be bought.
So she would be dismantled instead.
Mwajuma first.
Now the models.
Next—
Nadia's phone buzzed on the table.
She glanced down.
Then slowly picked it up.
For a moment, she stared at the screen, expression smoothing into calculation.
If loyalty couldn't be purchased…
Circumstances could be engineered.
Nadia lifted the phone to her ear.
And made a call.
Back in Leila's Apartment
Leila ended the call with Isabella and sat very still.
Someone who could help.
Someone powerful enough to stabilise Bloom in forty-eight hours.
The idea felt unreal.
Hope was dangerous.
But so was doing nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
A new message from Isabella.
Leila opened it.
And froze.
Because attached was a name.
And even in Nairobi's elite circles…
That name carried weight.
Alexander Njoroge.