The skirt was perfect.
Which was exactly the problem.
Leila Peters stood motionless in the centre of her Westlands studio, eyes locked on the mannequin in front of her. Crimson silk wrapped the form in clean, elegant lines. The drape was balanced. The stitching flawless. The silhouette sellable.
Safe.
Her jaw tightened.
Behind her, Mwajuma adjusted the hem with steady hands. "If you stare any harder, you'll burn a hole through it."
Leila didn't smile.
"It's wrong," she said.
Mwajuma looked up. "Wrong how?"
"It behaves."
A beat of silence settled between them — the kind that always came before Leila did something irreversible.
The studio hummed softly around them. Steam from the press drifted through shafts of afternoon light. Racks of garments lined the walls — ochre, indigo, bronze — each piece waiting for Nairobi Fashion Week in three days.
Three days.
Three days to prove she belonged on that runway.
Leila stepped closer to the mannequin. Her fingers slid along the waist seam, feeling the precision. The restraint. The carefulness.
The fear.
Her chest tightened.
If this collection failed, Bloom would remain what it was now — a small Westlands boutique people described as "promising."
Promising meant unseen.
Promising meant replaceable.
Promising meant forgettable.
"No," she whispered.
Before Mwajuma could react, Leila reached for the shears on the cutting table.
"Leila—"
The blades sliced through silk.
A clean, brutal sound split the room.
Mwajuma froze. "You just finished that."
"It wasn't alive."
"You've worked on it for two weeks."
Leila cut again.
Fabric loosened. Structure collapsed. The perfect skirt sagged open like something finally exhaling.
Relief surged through her.
"Now it can breathe," she said.
Mwajuma stared at the ruined garment. "Most designers would cry."
"I'm not most designers."
"No," Mwajuma said quietly. "You're terrifying."
Leila didn't deny it.
She pulled the loosened panel free and draped it back across the mannequin — this time at an angle. Off-centre. Dangerous. The line now cut from shoulder to hip like motion caught mid-turn.
Her pulse quickened.
"Yes," she breathed. "There."
This was hers.
Bold. Unapologetic. Impossible to ignore.
Behind her, Mwajuma's phone vibrated on the cutting table.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
Leila kept adjusting the drape. "Check it," she said absently. "It might be home."
The vibration stopped.
Didn't resume.
Something in the silence shifted.
Leila glanced back.
Mwajuma was staring at the screen, utterly still.
Not casual stillness. Not distraction.
Impact.
"Everything okay?" Leila asked.
Mwajuma blinked and locked the phone too fast. "Yes."
Leila turned fully now. "Who was it?"
"A supplier."
Too quick.
Too flat.
Leila held her gaze. Years of partnership lived between them — late nights, shared meals, rent struggles, the first Bloom label sewn by hand. Mwajuma didn't lie well.
"Which one?" Leila asked.
A fraction of hesitation.
"…Beadwork."
Leila watched her another second.
Then nodded once and turned back to the mannequin.
Trust wasn't something she questioned lightly.
But unease threaded through her chest anyway.
She reached for chalk and began marking the new seam line — sharper, riskier, unmistakably hers.
Behind her, Mwajuma slowly turned the phone face down on the table.
The message still burned in her mind.
Nadia Kibet:
My offer still stands.
She's holding you back.
Mwajuma swallowed.
Across the room, Leila cut into the silk again — fearless, certain, alive.
She never saw the fracture forming beside her.