Leila Peters
Morning arrived too quickly.
Leila pushed open the doors of Bloom Atelier just after sunrise, the streets of Westlands still washed in pale morning light. Cafés were only beginning to stir awake, delivery vans idling along the curb, the city not yet fully in motion.
But inside the studio—
Voices.
Movement.
Energy.
Leila stopped.
Six women stood near the fitting area.
Tall. Composed. Distinct. Each carrying the quiet physical awareness of trained runway models.
For a moment her mind refused to process what she was seeing.
Then Mwajuma appeared from behind a rack, already tying a measuring tape around her neck.
"You're late," she said mildly.
Leila blinked. "What—"
"The girls arrived thirty minutes ago," Mwajuma continued, as if discussing routine deliveries. "We've started preliminary sizing."
Leila's gaze moved back to the women.
Models.
Not improvised substitutes.
Not emergency hires.
Professional runway models.
Her pulse kicked.
"How?" she asked.
Mwajuma's eyes flicked toward her briefly.
"They said they were booked for Bloom Atelier."
Booked.
Leila's stomach tightened.
She stepped closer. One model smiled politely.
"We're here for your Fashion Week show," she said. "Call time confirmation came this morning."
This morning.
Leila's thoughts sharpened instantly.
Alexander.
He had said nothing.
Promised nothing explicitly.
But he had moved.
Quietly.
Decisively.
Before she could fail.
Before she could ask.
Before she could even consider needing him.
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
Notifications.
Many.
She opened them.
Mentions.
Tags.
Shares.
Bloom Atelier.
Her past sketches — posted months ago — were circulating again. Nairobi fashion pages. Style influencers. Blog features. "Designer to watch at Fashion Week." "Westlands label rising." "Quiet luxury from Nairobi."
The spike was sudden.
Engineered.
Mwajuma glanced at the screen. "Ah," she said. "Now the city looks."
Leila locked the phone, heart beating too hard.
He wasn't helping.
He was positioning.
"Start fittings," she said quietly.
Mwajuma's mouth curved faintly. "They already have."
And Bloom Atelier — which hours ago had been on the brink — surged into motion.
Steam rose. Pins flashed. Fabric moved. Voices layered in focused rhythm.
Crisis had become momentum.
Alexander Njoroge
By the time Nairobi fully woke, the architecture was already in place.
Alexander stood at the window of his Kilimani office, morning traffic thickening below, sunlight striking glass towers in clean angles.
On the screen behind him, Bloom Atelier's metrics climbed in disciplined lines.
Mentions rising.
Engagement spikes across fashion clusters.
Influencer amplification active.
Model confirmations complete.
Runway attendance interest climbing.
Stability achieved.
He did not intervene further.
Leila Peters needed to execute.
That was the point.
His phone buzzed once.
Models confirmed. Social traction active.
He dismissed the message.
No acknowledgement required.
Precision demanded invisibility.
Because this was not rescue.
It was calibration.
Alexander's gaze returned to the skyline.
Across the city in Westlands, Bloom Atelier would be moving again — sharpened, pressurised, alive.
Good.
He allowed himself the smallest breath of satisfaction.
Potential, when properly aligned, accelerated beautifully.
And Leila Peters—
he suspected—
had just realised
exactly how far his reach extended.