Morning arrived without mercy.
Leila hadn't slept.
Sketches covered her apartment floor. Fabric swatches lay draped over chairs. Her laptop glowed with unanswered emails from agents declining availability.
Models still gone.
Time still collapsing.
And now—
A name she couldn't stop hearing in her head.
Alexander Njoroge.
She had searched him after Isabella's message.
Of course she had.
What she found was… nothing.
No interviews.
No public appearances.
No clear photos.
Just articles about deals, acquisitions, industry disruption, market dominance. Always his company. Never him.
A ghost who moved economies.
Which made Isabella's claim feel unreal.
Why would a man like that help Bloom?
Her phone buzzed.
Isabella.
Leila sat up instantly and answered. "You spoke to him."
"Yes."
The single word changed the air in the room.
Leila's pulse jumped. "And?"
A small pause.
"He said yes."
The breath left Leila's lungs in a rush she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
For a second, she couldn't speak.
Yes.
Alexander Njoroge had agreed to help Bloom.
Relief surged first.
Then pride slammed right behind it.
"I don't need rescuing," she said automatically.
Isabella sighed softly. "Leila."
"I built my brand alone," she continued, voice tightening. "I'm not handing it to some corporate strategist because Nadia decided to play games."
"He's not taking your brand," Isabella said calmly. "He's stabilising a crisis."
"I can stabilise it."
"Can you replace elite runway models in forty-eight hours without industry networks?" Isabella asked gently.
Silence.
Because that was the wound.
Leila swallowed. "No."
"Then accept help," Isabella said. "Strength isn't isolation."
Leila pressed her fingers to her temple.
She hated needing anything.
Hated being seen vulnerable.
Hated that Nadia had pushed her into a position where survival required external power.
"What does he want?" she asked finally.
Another pause.
"He wants to meet you," Isabella said.
Of course he did.
Leila's shoulders stiffened. "When?"
"Today."
Her head snapped up. "Today?"
"He moves fast," Isabella said. "If he's intervening, he wants immediate assessment."
Assessment.
Like she was a failing company.
Her jaw tightened. "Where?"
"He'll come to you," Isabella said. "Bloom Atelier. Late afternoon."
Leila froze.
Alexander Njoroge.
In her space.
Seeing her work.
Her chaos.
Her vulnerability.
"No," she said instinctively. "I'll go to him."
"He declined," Isabella replied. "He wants to see your environment. He said context matters."
That irritated her more than it should have.
He was already evaluating.
Measuring.
Positioning.
Corporate strategist instincts.
Leila inhaled slowly.
Fine.
If he wanted Bloom—
He would see Bloom.
Not a polished façade.
Not a curated pitch.
Her truth.
"Tell him four o'clock," she said.
"He already chose four," Isabella replied.
Of course he had.
Control radiated off this man without even being present.
The call ended.
Leila sat still for several seconds.
Then adrenaline surged.
She stood abruptly and looked around her apartment — disaster.
No.
Not here.
He was coming to the atelier.
Her sanctuary.
Her battlefield.
Her identity.
Her chest tightened.
Why does this feel like something more than business?
She grabbed her bag and left.
Bloom Atelier — 3:12 PM
Mwajuma looked up as Leila entered, energy sharp and contained.
"You look like you swallowed lightning," Mwajuma said.
Leila dropped her bag on the table. "We're having a visitor."
Mwajuma frowned. "Agent?"
"No."
"Investor?"
"No."
Mwajuma tilted her head. "Then who?"
Leila met her eyes.
"Alexander Njoroge."
Silence detonated.
Mwajuma blinked. "The Alexander Njoroge?"
"Yes."
"The invisible billionaire marketing king?"
"Yes."
"The man who launches brands into global markets overnight?"
"Yes."
Mwajuma stared at her. "Why is he coming here?"
Leila's voice went quiet.
"To decide if Bloom is worth saving."
The words hung heavy.
Mwajuma's expression shifted — from shock to fierce focus.
"Then he'll see exactly what Bloom is," she said.
Leila nodded once.
"Yes," she said. "He will."
3:58 PM
The atelier door remained closed.
Outside, Nairobi traffic roared faintly.
Inside, tension coiled tight.
Leila stood beside the central mannequin — her strongest look draped in fire-toned silk and bead geometry.
Mwajuma adjusted a sleeve nearby.
Neither spoke.
At exactly four o'clock—
A car stopped outside.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
Precise.
Leila's pulse began to hammer.
Footsteps approached the door.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Certain.
They stopped.
A single knock sounded.
Low.
Controlled.
The room seemed to inhale.
Leila stepped forward.
Hand on the handle.
For a fraction of a second—
Something unfamiliar flickered through her chest.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something deeper.
Change.
She opened the door.
And saw him.