Nadia Kibet did not throw things.
She broke people.
Quietly. Precisely. Permanently.
Which was why the tablet in her hand remained intact — even as the article on its screen burned like acid.
Bloom Atelier — Designer to Watch at Nairobi Fashion Week.
Nadia read the headline again.
And again.
Her jaw tightened.
This was wrong.
Forty-eight hours ago, Leila Peters had been collapsing.
Models gone. Production strained. Reputation fragile. Momentum shattered exactly as intended.
Nadia had orchestrated it cleanly.
No trace.
No confrontation.
No visible aggression.
Just pressure applied in the right places until structures failed.
It was how she operated.
But now—
The images beneath the headline showed Bloom Atelier fittings in progress. Models. Garments. Movement. Preparation.
Full runway capacity.
Restored.
Impossible.
Nadia lowered the tablet slowly, gaze sharpening toward the far wall of her own studio where her collection stood in immaculate formation — bold, expensive, commanding.
Dominant.
Unquestioned.
Until now.
Her assistant hovered nearby, tense. "We confirmed yesterday, Nadia. Bloom lost at least six confirmed models."
Nadia's eyes flicked to her. "And today?"
The assistant swallowed. "They have twelve."
Silence.
Cold.
"How?" Nadia asked softly.
"We don't know."
Nadia turned back to the screen.
Mentions rising.
Engagement climbing.
Fashion commentators reframing Leila as resilient rather than failing.
Narrative shift.
Engineered.
Her pulse slowed — not calming, but concentrating.
This was not recovery.
This was intervention.
Someone with reach had entered.
Someone who could restore logistics overnight and redirect attention across Nairobi's fashion media within hours.
Very few people in this city could do that.
Nadia's fingers stilled against the tablet edge.
And then she understood.
Alexander Njoroge.
The name moved through her mind like a blade sliding free.
Of course.
The invisible architect.
The man whose company made brands unavoidable.
The man who rarely involved himself in fashion at all.
And yet—
Bloom Atelier now moved exactly along his influence patterns.
Models sourced through elite booking channels.
Digital buzz seeded across tiered visibility clusters.
Editorial attention activated before runway.
Not random.
Structured.
Nadia's mouth curved slowly.
So.
Leila Peters had found protection.
No—
not protection.
Patronage.
Which meant leverage.
Which meant weakness.
Because Nadia understood something most people did not:
When powerful men invested attention,
they expected return.
Always.
Her gaze lifted toward her own collection again — flawless, dominant, expensive — and for the first time in years, irritation threaded through her certainty.
Leila should have fallen.
She had prepared every variable.
But Alexander Njoroge was not a variable.
He was force.
Nadia turned to her assistant.
"Confirm something for me," she said calmly.
"Yes?"
"Has he attended Fashion Week before?"
The assistant blinked. "No. Never publicly."
Nadia smiled.
Sharp.
Satisfied.
"Good," she said softly. "Then this year will be his first."
Understanding dawned slowly on the assistant's face. "You think he'll attend Bloom's show?"
"Oh, he will," Nadia said.
Because men who moved architecture did not remain absent from its unveiling.
And if Alexander Njoroge entered the Fashion Week arena—
Nadia's eyes cooled.
—then so would she.
Directly.
Deliberately.
Publicly.
Leila Peters had survived sabotage.
Impressive.
But now Nadia no longer needed to erase her.
She only needed to stand beside her
in the same light
and let comparison finish the work.
Nadia set the tablet down with surgical calm.
"Prepare the emerald finale look," she said. "We're moving it to closing."
"Yes, Nadia."
"And arrange front-row invitations," she added. "Strategic seating."
The assistant hesitated. "For…?"
Nadia's smile returned — slow, predatory.
"For Alexander Njoroge."
Because if Leila's rise belonged to him,
then Nadia intended
to take the stage
in front of the man
who had chosen her rival.