The city did not sleep.
Nairobi pulsed under a wash of gold streetlights and restless anticipation, the air alive with engines, music, and possibility. Everywhere Leila turned, she saw banners, billboards, screens—Fashion Week had taken over the capital, and tomorrow the world would be watching.
But tonight… tonight was silence before the storm.
Bloom Atelier glowed in the darkened Westlands street like a promise. Inside, fabric shimmered beneath soft overhead lights, mannequins standing in quiet rows like witnesses. Mwajuma moved between them with needle and thread, her hands steady even as the hours stretched thin.
Leila stood before the central rack, fingers brushing over the final gown.
Midnight blue silk. Hand-beaded neckline. Structured waist that flowed into liquid softness.
Her signature.
Her heart.
"Still doubting?" Mwajuma's voice came gently from behind her.
Leila exhaled. "Not the dresses." A pause. "Myself."
Mwajuma snorted softly. "You? The woman who stitched her future out of scraps?" She stepped closer, adjusting a bead with quick precision. "You're allowed fear, Leila. Not surrender."
Leila swallowed. Tomorrow would decide everything—reputation, survival, Bloom's place in Nairobi fashion. Nadia had tried to break her, tried to hollow her from the inside out. And still the fear lingered like a bruise beneath the skin.
"What if it's not enough?" Leila whispered.
Mwajuma met her eyes in the mirror. "Then we make them see anyway."
A quiet settled between them. Not empty. Full.
Friendship forged in years and thread and tears.
Leila nodded once.
"Yes," she said. "We do."
Across the city, glass reflected skyline and starlight.
Alexander Njoroge stood alone in his Kilimani office, Nairobi spread beneath him in glittering constellations. Screens glowed across the wall—metrics, mentions, projections. Bloom Atelier's name pulsed steadily upward in digital graphs.
Organic engagement rising.
Influencer interest confirmed.
Press attendance doubled.
He watched the numbers the way generals watched battle maps.
Precise. Controlled. Inevitable.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He didn't need to answer to know who it was.
Alexander lifted the device slowly. "You're persistent."
Nadia Kibet's voice slipped through, smooth and edged. "I'm practical. I like knowing where I stand."
"You stand exactly where you placed yourself."
A soft laugh. "You've been busy. Bloom Atelier everywhere overnight. Models returning. Media invitations." A beat. "You move fast for a man who claims patience."
Alexander's gaze didn't leave the city. "I move when I decide something matters."
"And she matters?"
Silence stretched—not uncertainty, but refusal.
Nadia's tone cooled. "You should be careful, Alexander. Designers break under pressure. Fashion week has destroyed stronger brands than hers."
"And you would know," he said evenly.
The line sharpened.
"You're backing the wrong woman."
"No," he said. "I rarely do."
Another pause. He could almost hear her recalculating, rearranging pieces on a board she no longer controlled.
"Enjoy tomorrow," Nadia said at last. "Wins can be… temporary."
Alexander ended the call.
He set the phone down with quiet finality.
Below him, Nairobi moved without knowing wars were being chosen in offices and ateliers alike.
He turned back to the Bloom analytics panel.
Steady ascent.
Exactly as planned.
Yet his attention drifted—not to numbers, but to memory.
Westlands showroom. Midnight blue silk. A woman who refused to bow even while drowning.
What I build, I can also destroy.
He had meant it as truth.
Now it felt like warning—to himself.
Back in Bloom Atelier, the final dress was placed in its garment bag.
Mwajuma zipped it with reverence. "There," she said softly. "Your crown."
Leila laughed under her breath. "Let's survive the battlefield first."
Mwajuma switched off the main lights, leaving only the display glow. The atelier transformed instantly—no longer workshop, but dreamscape.
They stood in the doorway together.
"Tomorrow," Mwajuma said.
"Tomorrow," Leila echoed.
But as Leila locked the door, her phone lit in her hand.
Alexander Njoroge
Her pulse stumbled.
She answered.
"Leila."
Just her name. Low. Certain. Too close for someone across the city.
"Yes?"
A pause—not hesitation, but weight.
"Everything is in place," he said. "Models. Press. Amplification. You walk into Fashion Week with momentum."
She leaned against the glass, breath fogging faintly. "You did all this overnight."
"I told you I would."
Silence settled—thick with everything unspoken since his visit. Since his eyes had traced her atelier like it already belonged to his vision.
"Why?" she asked quietly.
Because she still didn't understand.
Because she needed to.
Because tomorrow might change everything between them.
On the other end, Nairobi hummed beneath him.
Alexander's voice dropped a fraction. "Win tomorrow, Leila."
Her chest tightened. "And then?"
Another pause.
Decision forming.
"Then," he said, "we begin."
The line went dead.
Leila stood in the darkened street, city lights trembling in her eyes.
Behind her, Bloom slept.
Ahead, Fashion Week waited.
And somewhere in Kilimani, a man who built empires had just chosen to build her future into his.
Tomorrow, Nairobi would see Bloom.
And Nadia would strike.