Leila Peters
The studio felt different after the call.
Leila stood in the centre of Bloom Atelier, phone still warm in her hand, the quiet hum of sewing machines surrounding her like a familiar pulse. Fabric lay draped across cutting tables. Pins caught the light. Steam lifted softly from an iron somewhere behind her.
Everything was the same.
Nothing was the same.
After Fashion Week.
His words lingered — precise, controlled, inevitable.
He had not persuaded.
He had not pressured.
He had simply positioned the future and stepped back from it.
Leila exhaled slowly and placed the phone on the nearest table, pressing her palms against the wood as if to anchor herself.
"Leila?"
Mwajuma's voice came gently from her left.
She turned.
Mwajuma stood beside a dress form, indigo silk cascading over her arm, needle threaded and waiting. Concern rested openly in her expression — not formal, not cautious, simply present.
Leila managed a small smile. "Yes?"
"You spoke to him?"
Of course Mwajuma would know.
Mwajuma noticed everything.
Leila nodded once. "He wants to wait until after Fashion Week."
Mwajuma's brows lifted slightly. "Ah."
No surprise. No speculation. Just absorption.
"He says he wants to see execution under pressure," Leila added, hearing again the calm authority in Alex's voice.
Mwajuma considered that for a moment, then gave a slow, approving nod.
"Good," she said.
Leila blinked. "Good?"
"Yes." Mwajuma adjusted the silk across the mannequin's shoulder with precise fingers. "Men who rush agreements often rush disappointment."
Despite herself, Leila huffed a quiet breath of laughter.
Trust Mwajuma to reduce Alexander Njoroge to a proverb.
Her gaze drifted across Bloom Atelier — the racks of nearly finished garments, the sketched boards pinned to the wall, the colour stories arranged in disciplined gradients.
Two days.
Two days until runway.
Two days until judgment.
Two days until everything she had worked toward for years stepped into light.
And now — layered over all of it — the awareness that the most powerful visibility architect in Nairobi was watching.
Not investing.
Watching.
Evaluating.
Mwajuma's needle moved again, sliding through silk with quiet certainty. "You're thinking too loudly," she said.
Leila crossed her arms. "Is that a thing?"
"With you? Yes."
Leila watched her a moment, then asked softly, "What if he's right?"
Mwajuma paused and looked at her fully.
"You're not afraid he's wrong," she said. "You're afraid he's right."
The truth landed clean.
Leila swallowed.
"He said if he builds my visibility, the brand moves through channels no one else accesses," she admitted quietly.
Mwajuma nodded once. "Also true."
"And if I don't sign," Leila continued, "I remain… limited."
Mwajuma threaded the needle again before answering.
"Limited isn't failure," she said. "It's simply smaller."
Leila looked away.
Smaller.
She had fought so hard to build something authentic, something hers, something not manufactured by investors or dictated by trends.
And yet…
She wanted growth.
Reach.
Impact.
Recognition beyond private clients and quiet reputation.
She wanted scale.
Mwajuma's voice softened. "The question isn't whether he can build you larger," she said. "It's whether you remain yourself when he does."
Leila's throat tightened.
That was the fear.
Not failure.
Transformation.
A sudden voice cut across the studio.
"Leila!"
She turned.
One of the assistants hurried toward her, face pale, tablet clutched tightly.
"Three more cancellations," she said breathlessly. "Runway models. Confirmed."
The air shifted instantly.
Leila went still. "Which ones?"
The assistant turned the screen.
Names.
Faces.
Gone.
A hollow space opened beneath Leila's ribs.
"Nadia?" she asked quietly.
The assistant hesitated. "They've signed with her show."
Of course.
Leila closed her eyes briefly.
Mwajuma set the needle down with deliberate calm.
"How many remain?" she asked.
"Six," the assistant whispered.
Six.
They needed twelve.
Leila opened her eyes.
Fear was there — sharp — but something else rose with it.
Clarity.
Two days.
No time for shock. No time for anger.
Only decisions.
She straightened slowly.
"Call the agency," she said. "Every available model within range."
"They said availability is near zero," the assistant replied.
"Then widen range," Leila said. "New faces. Theatre performers. Dancers. Anyone who can carry structure."
Mwajuma watched her, quiet approval in her eyes.
"And fittings?" the assistant asked.
"We work overnight if needed," Leila said. "Bloom Atelier doesn't cancel."
The words landed with steel.
The assistant nodded and hurried away.
Silence returned — tight, charged.
Mwajuma picked up the silk again.
"You see?" she said softly. "Pressure clarifies."
Leila let out a slow breath.
Somewhere in the city, Nadia was celebrating.
Somewhere in Kilimani, Alexander Njoroge was waiting.
Two days.
Leila reached for the indigo silk beside Mwajuma, fingers steady despite the storm beneath her skin.
"Adjust the shoulder line," she said quietly. "We're changing silhouettes."
Mwajuma smiled faintly.
"Yes," she said. "We are."
And as night settled over Nairobi,
Bloom Atelier did not slow.
It sharpened.