Mwajuma didn't go home.
She told Leila she had errands.
Leila hadn't questioned it.
That made it worse.
Night settled over Westlands in a shimmer of neon and traffic glare. Music leaked from lounges. Cars crawled. Nairobi breathed loud after dark.
Mwajuma walked without direction, Leila's studio key still heavy in her pocket.
And Nadia's message heavier in her mind.
My offer still stands.
She's holding you back.
Mwajuma stopped at a pedestrian rail and gripped the metal.
Holding you back.
The words scraped.
Because they weren't entirely false.
She loved Leila.
That wasn't negotiable.
But love didn't erase truth.
Mwajuma had talent. Real talent. Pattern mastery Leila herself trusted more than anyone else's hands. Yet Bloom labels carried one name.
Leila Peters.
Always Leila.
Never them.
Mwajuma exhaled hard.
This is ugly thinking.
But it returned anyway.
Because she remembered—
The internship she declined.
The atelier job in Karen she turned down.
The textile house in Mombasa that wanted her.
All because Leila had said once, years ago:
"When Bloom grows, we grow together."
Mwajuma had believed her.
Still did.
Didn't she?
Her phone buzzed again.
Nadia Kibet.
Mwajuma closed her eyes.
Then opened the message.
Nadia:
You deserve visibility.
Head seamstress. Double pay.
International exposure.
No more hiding behind someone else's name.
Mwajuma's throat tightened.
No more hiding.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
What if—
Just meeting wasn't betrayal.
Just listening wasn't betrayal.
Just considering wasn't betrayal.
Right?
Her pulse thudded.
She typed.
I'm not leaving Bloom.
Dots appeared instantly.
Nadia:
I didn't ask you to.
Yet.
Cold slid down Mwajuma's spine.
Nadia:
But talent belongs where it's seen.
Ask yourself honestly — will she ever share the spotlight?
Mwajuma stared at the words until they blurred.
Because this was the real wound.
Not money.
Not title.
Recognition.
She imagined runways.
Applause.
Design credits.
Her name spoken.
Then she imagined Leila — sleeves rolled, chalk on fingers, eyes lit with creation.
Leila, who never slept before deadlines.
Leila, who paid Mwajuma's mother's hospital deposit without telling anyone.
Leila, who said we even when the world said you.
Mwajuma's chest ached.
She typed slowly.
Bloom is mine too.
A pause.
Longer this time.
Then—
Nadia:
Is it?
The question landed like a blade.
Mwajuma's hand shook.
Because doubt — once spoken — had shape.
She locked the phone.
Breathing uneven.
Traffic roared past. Laughter somewhere. A boda horn. Nairobi alive and indifferent.
She whispered into the night:
"I'm not betraying her."
The words steadied her spine.
Because whatever her fears… whatever her ambitions…
Leila was not the enemy.
The industry was.
The hierarchy was.
The erasure was.
Not Leila.
Never Leila.
Mwajuma opened her phone again.
Typed.
Sent.
Don't contact me again.
This time Nadia didn't reply.
Mwajuma stared at the silent screen.
Relief didn't come.
Because the conflict hadn't vanished.
It had only moved inward.
She turned toward Bloom's studio lights glowing faintly down the street.
Home.
Partnership.
Dream.
Uncertainty.
All stitched together.
And Mwajuma walked back anyway.