Leila did not touch her phone all morning.
Not after the surge.
Not after the models arrived.
Not after Bloom Atelier filled with the charged rhythm of work restored.
She moved through fittings with precise focus — pinning hems, adjusting shoulder lines, recalculating silhouettes against new bodies — but underneath the motion, something had shifted.
Not relief.
Relief was simple.
This was not.
Mwajuma watched her in quiet intervals, saying nothing, letting the studio's momentum settle naturally into Leila's hands again.
It should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt like exposure.
Because she knew.
Every model in the room.
Every mention online.
Every sudden return of attention.
None of it was coincidence.
He had seen instability — and corrected it.
Silently.
Without leverage.
Without reminder.
Without appearing.
Leila tightened a seam between her fingers, then released it, breath catching faintly in her chest.
He hadn't waited for permission.
But he also hadn't claimed credit.
That distinction unsettled her more than power ever could.
"Leila."
Mwajuma's voice was gentle.
She turned.
Mwajuma held out a tablet.
"Look," she said.
Leila hesitated — then took it.
A fashion blog feature filled the screen:
Bloom Atelier — Westlands Designer Reshaping Kenyan Silhouette.
Below it, images of her work. Commentary on structure, restraint, material language. Audience speculation about Fashion Week.
Her name repeated.
Her brand reframed.
Positioned.
Leila swallowed.
This wasn't random buzz.
It was narrative.
Placed deliberately into the city's attention stream.
She handed the tablet back slowly.
"He did this," she said.
Mwajuma nodded once. "Yes."
No surprise.
No judgment.
Just recognition.
Leila looked across the atelier — now alive again with purpose. Models stepping carefully from platforms. Assistants moving in fast arcs. Fabric flashing under light.
Hours ago this space had been collapsing.
Now it was inevitable.
Her chest tightened.
"I didn't ask," she said quietly.
Mwajuma's gaze rested on her. "No."
"And he didn't say," Leila added.
"No."
Silence settled between them.
Then Mwajuma spoke softly:
"He stabilised you."
The words landed deeper than expected.
Leila looked down at her hands.
Pins pressed faint marks into her skin.
"I don't know what to do with that," she admitted.
Mwajuma's expression warmed — not amusement, not wisdom — simply care.
"You continue," she said. "You show."
Leila shook her head faintly. "It changes things."
"Yes," Mwajuma said. "It does."
Leila lifted her gaze.
"What if this is how it begins?" she asked quietly. "Dependence."
Mwajuma studied her for a long moment.
Then she stepped closer.
"Leila," she said gently, "dependence asks. Control demands. He did neither."
The truth moved through her slowly.
He had not rescued.
He had not bound.
He had aligned.
And then stepped back.
Leila exhaled.
Something inside her — something tightly guarded for years — shifted position.
Not surrender.
Not trust.
But recognition.
Alexander Njoroge did not simply hold power.
He exercised restraint with it.
And that was far more dangerous.
Across the room, one of the new models stepped down from the fitting platform, the indigo silhouette settling perfectly along her frame.
The line.
The movement.
The balance.
Exactly as Leila had imagined.
She stepped forward instinctively, adjusting the fall of fabric with precise fingers, attention returning fully to form, proportion, structure.
Work.
That was still hers.
Always hers.
But now—
she knew.
If she stepped onto a larger stage,
there was a man in this city
who could build it beneath her feet
without ever touching her wings.
The thought lingered long after she pushed it away.
And for the first time since meeting him,
Leila Peters realised
she was no longer only resisting Alexander Njoroge.
She was beginning
to understand him.