Alexander Njoroge
The scent of dye and pressed fabric still lingered in his mind.
Alexander stood at the glass wall of his Kilimani office, Nairobi's late afternoon light spilling across steel and stone. Below, traffic threaded through the district in restless lines — ambition in motion.
But his thoughts were not on the city.
They were on a workshop.
Boom Atelier had been smaller than he expected.
Not unimpressive.
Honest.
Cutting tables worn smooth with years of use. Pattern paper stacked in disciplined layers. Half-finished garments breathing quietly on dress forms. No spectacle. No branding theatre. No curated illusion.
Only work.
And at its centre, Leila Peters.
He could still see her exactly as she had stood — measuring tape looped around her neck, chalk dust at her fingertips, eyes steady and assessing as she listened to him without a trace of awe.
She had not performed.
Not for his name.
Not for his influence.
Not for the scale he represented.
She had evaluated him.
The way a designer evaluated fabric — structure first, promise later.
Alexander exhaled slowly.
Interesting.
He turned from the glass and moved back toward his desk, Boom Atelier's file still open across the screen. Organic growth. Limited output. Loyal clientele. No formal marketing pipeline.
And yet demand spiked after every appearance.
Unamplified signal.
Rare.
If his company attached to her label, the change would be immediate.
Runway documentation. Editorial seeding. Influencer placement. Brand narrative architecture. Regional retail positioning. Cross-industry exposure through entertainment channels.
Leila Peters would not simply grow.
She would accelerate.
But scale required alignment.
And Leila Peters did not bend easily.
That was precisely why she was worth building.
His phone vibrated once against the desk.
Isabella.
He answered.
"Well?" she asked immediately.
"She didn't say yes," he said.
A soft laugh. "That's practically enthusiasm for Leila."
"She's cautious," he said.
"She's been burned," Isabella corrected quietly.
Alexander's gaze lifted slightly.
That interested him.
"I'll call her," he said.
"Be gentle," Isabella warned.
He ended the call without replying.
Gentle was not his method.
Precision was.
He tapped the console once.
"Connect me to Leila Peters."
The line transferred.
A click.
"Hello?"
Her voice carried the same contained steadiness he remembered from Boom Atelier — alert, composed.
"Leila."
A brief pause.
"…Mr Njoroge."
"I've reached a decision," he said.
Silence gathered on the line.
"We will not sign before Fashion Week."
The surprise registered instantly, even through quiet.
"You think I might refuse after success," she said slowly.
"No."
His tone remained level.
"I want to observe execution under pressure," he said. "Recovery. Audience response. Structural resilience."
A longer pause.
Processing.
"But understand this," he continued quietly. "If I construct your visibility, your brand will move through channels no other designer in this city accesses."
The words settled — measured, exact.
"Scale," he said, "is architecture."
Her voice softened slightly.
"And if I don't sign?"
Alexander answered without hesitation.
"Then you remain where you are," he said. "Talented. Respected. Limited."
No threat.
Only reality.
He heard her inhale slowly.
"You're very certain," she said.
"Yes."
Silence again — but different now.
Recognition.
"After Fashion Week," he said.
He did not ask.
He concluded.
"…Alright," she said quietly.
Agreement.
The call ended.
Alexander set the phone down and leaned back, gaze drifting once more toward the skyline — though what he saw was not the city.
It was a modest atelier filled with discipline.
It was a woman who did not reach.
It was potential waiting for scale.
Two days.
Alexander Njoroge rarely anticipated outcomes.
He engineered them.
But this time,
he found himself waiting
for a runway.