The door opened.
And the world tilted.
Leila had expected many things.
Older.
Flashy.
Intimidating in obvious wealth.
Instead—
Alexander Njoroge stood framed in late afternoon light, tall and composed in a charcoal suit that spoke of precision rather than display. No entourage. No noise. No effort to impress.
Power that didn't need announcing.
His face was calm — striking not for perfection, but for restraint. Sharp lines softened by stillness. Dark eyes observant, steady, unreadable.
But it was presence that struck first.
The air around him felt… ordered.
Intentional.
Like a man who moved environments rather than entered them.
For one suspended second, neither spoke.
Because Alexander Njoroge was also looking.
At her.
Not the atelier.
Not the garments.
Her.
Leila Peters stood barefoot on worn studio flooring, curls loosely bound, chalk dust along her fingers, fatigue shadowing her eyes — and yet she held herself like flame contained in human form.
Not polished.
Not curated.
Real.
His pulse shifted once.
Interesting.
She broke eye contact first.
Professional reflex snapping back into place.
"Mr. Njoroge," she said evenly.
Her voice carried pride under exhaustion.
He inclined his head slightly. "Ms. Peters."
Low voice.
Controlled.
Measured cadence.
She stepped aside. "Come in."
He entered without hurry.
The atelier closed around him — fabric scent, steam warmth, colour, texture, creation layered into every surface.
He stopped near the central mannequin.
Fire-toned silk.
Bead geometry echoing Maasai patterns reinterpreted through modern structure.
He didn't touch it.
Just looked.
Leila watched him watching her work.
Most investors commented instantly.
Praised.
Critiqued.
Performed expertise.
Alexander Njoroge did none of that.
He assessed.
Quietly.
Thoroughly.
Respectfully.
Mwajuma approached from the worktable. "Welcome," she said, voice cautious but steady.
His gaze shifted to her — brief, acknowledging. "You're Mwajuma."
Not a question.
Recognition.
Mwajuma blinked once. "Yes."
"I've heard your construction work is exceptional," he said simply.
Mwajuma's eyes widened before she masked it. "Thank you."
Leila's attention sharpened.
He knows her by name.
So he had researched.
Deeply.
Strategically.
Of course he had.
His attention returned to Leila.
"Walk me through your show," he said.
Not please.
Not if you don't mind.
Authority wrapped in calm neutrality.
Leila's spine straightened instinctively.
She moved to the garment rack.
"This collection explores cultural geometry through contemporary African luxury silhouettes," she said. "Structure versus fluidity. Heritage versus evolution."
He listened without interruption.
That alone unsettled her.
Most men in power rooms interrupted.
Positioned.
Directed.
He simply absorbed.
She pulled forward a jacket. "Hand-beaded panels mapped from Samburu ornament grids. Modern tailoring lines to prevent costume reading."
His gaze tracked the beadwork.
Precise.
Analytical.
Then he asked, quietly:
"How many models left?"
The question landed like a blade.
No cushioning.
No false politeness.
Just reality.
Leila met his eyes. "Three confirmed gone. Six uncertain."
"And runway count required?"
"Eight minimum."
Silence.
He calculated.
She could almost see logistics matrices forming behind his still expression.
Finally: "Replacement window?"
"Forty-eight hours."
Another silence.
Then—
"Doable."
The word stunned the room.
Leila blinked. "Doable?"
"Yes."
No elaboration.
No performance.
Just certainty.
Hope surged before she could stop it.
Then suspicion followed immediately.
"How?" she asked.
His gaze met hers fully for the first time since entering.
And something shifted.
Because up close—
His composure wasn't cold.
It was disciplined.
And beneath it, she sensed… focus.
Not on profit.
On problem-solving.
"I specialise in crisis logistics," he said. "Elite talent sourcing across hospitality and entertainment networks is within my reach."
Translation:
I can replace your models.
Easily.
Her pride recoiled.
Her survival leaned forward.
She folded her arms. "And what do you gain?"
There it was.
The real question.
He didn't answer immediately.
Which told her everything.
He was choosing truth level.
Interesting.
Finally he said, calmly:
"Challenge."
She stared.
He continued, tone unchanged:
"I haven't encountered a brand resisting both investment and dilution while sustaining organic growth at your scale."
Her pulse tripped.
He respected Bloom.
Not pitied it.
Not dismissed it.
Respected it.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now it's threatened," he said. "Which makes stabilisation complex."
A pause.
Then: "I enjoy complex."
Heat flickered low in her chest — unexpected and unwelcome.
Because competence was attractive.
And this man radiated lethal competence.
She forced neutrality back. "So I'm… entertainment?"
"No," he said quietly.
The single word carried weight.
"You're leverage," he continued. "A culturally authentic luxury brand in early ascent phase. If protected correctly, you scale globally within three years."
Her breath caught.
Because that—
That—
Was exactly the trajectory she had envisioned in private.
He saw it.
Instantly.
Without explanation.
Without persuasion.
Saw her.
For the first time since Nadia's attack, certainty returned to her spine.
"You really believe that," she said.
"I don't invest belief," he replied. "I assess probability."
Her lips almost curved.
Almost.
Mwajuma watched them both, eyes widening slightly.
Something electric had entered the room.
Professional.
Yes.
But more.
Recognition meeting recognition.
Fire meeting structure.
Leila stepped closer to him unconsciously.
"If you stabilise my runway," she said, "Bloom remains independent."
"Agreed."
"No ownership."
"Understood."
"No brand interference."
"Expected."
She frowned faintly. "Expected?"
"I don't dilute authenticity assets," he said. "It destroys long-term value."
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
He spoke her language.
Not fashion.
Essence.
They stood closer now than either had noticed.
Silence stretched.
Charged.
Then he said, softly:
"You're exhausted."
The observation landed intimate in a way nothing else had.
She stiffened. "I'm functional."
His gaze held hers.
"Barely."
Heat rose to her face — anger or embarrassment she couldn't tell.
"Do you always analyse people this directly?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Efficiency."
She shook her head slightly. "You're infuriating."
A faint shift touched his expression.
Almost amusement.
"So I've been told."
Their eyes held.
Too long.
Too aware.
Mwajuma cleared her throat deliberately.
Both stepped back a fraction.
Professional walls sliding back into place.
Alex turned toward the door.
"I'll deploy sourcing tonight," he said. "You'll have confirmed replacements by tomorrow evening."
Leila's pulse surged again. "That fast?"
"Yes."
He reached the door, then paused.
Turned back once more.
His gaze moved over her — chalk-streaked fingers, fierce eyes, stubborn posture.
Then he said the words that altered everything:
"You don't break easily, Ms. Peters."
Her breath caught.
"Neither do you," she replied quietly.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Respect.
Challenge.
Recognition.
He inclined his head once — acknowledgment.
Then left.
The door closed.
Silence flooded the atelier.
Mwajuma turned slowly to Leila.
"Well," she said.
Leila exhaled.
Her heart was still racing.
Her mind still catching up.
Her world still shifting.
"Yeah," she murmured.
Mwajuma tilted her head. "So?"
Leila stared at the closed door.
"He's dangerous," she said softly.
Mwajuma blinked. "To Bloom?"
Leila shook her head.
"No," she whispered.
"To me."