Melissa's days began to blur together from the sheer volume of everything. Meetings. Final fittings. PR approvals. Vendor coordination. A global fashion launch wasn't a sprint, it was an orchestral war, and Melissa Kgomotso was both the conductor and the general.
The warehouse-turned-studio behind FireThreads HQ had been transformed into a living storyboard. Racks of clothes lined the walls, grouped by collection: Empress (for postpartum queens), RebelMama (with asymmetrical cuts and electric colors), and the coveted Evolve line, featuring the Botho Group's smart-fabric innovations.
Dineo walked beside Melissa, tablet in hand, checking off items as they moved between garment racks.
"We still need five more models for the closing walk. Preferably postpartum. At least one plus-size, one who had twins, and someone with a visible C-section scar."
Melissa nodded. "Real women. No perfect filters."
They turned into a smaller fitting room where a soft-spoken young woman stood nervously in front of a full-length mirror. She wore one of the Evolve prototypes, a midnight blue postpartum bodysuit with side support panels and gentle compression along the waist.
"I feel like…" the girl started, her voice trembling, "I feel like I'm being held. Not squeezed. Just… supported."
Melissa smiled. "That's exactly the point."
The model teared up, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I haven't worn anything this tight since the birth. I thought I had to hide my shape."
"You never have to hide," Melissa said gently. "Your body brought life into this world. Let's dress it like the miracle it is."
Dineo paused, blinking hard. "I swear, one of these fittings and I'm going to ugly cry."
"Same," Melissa chuckled, hand on her back. "My spine says I'm thirty, but this baby says I'm a whole hundred."
They stepped out of the fitting room and into the hallway. Lorato stood there waiting, holding a fresh stack of mood board printouts.
"You alright?" she asked.
Melissa shrugged. "I'm surviving."
"No nausea today?"
"Nah, just fatigue. My bones are filing HR complaints."
Lorato snorted. "You need to rest."
"I'll rest when the final model walks down that runway and the world loses its collective mind."
Lorato followed her into the open-plan workroom. She hesitated before handing over the printouts.
"I forgot to mention," she said, "we got confirmation from Oprah's Africa media team. They're sending someone. Not Oprah herself, but it's still major."
Melissa blinked. "Shut up."
"I won't."
"No, seriously, shut up."
Dineo let out a squeal from behind her tablet.
"This is nuts," Melissa murmured, awe sweeping in like a slow tide. "We're not just launching clothes. We're launching impact."
The rest of the day flew by in a kaleidoscope of coffee cups, fabric tape, model photos, and interviews. A documentary crew from Botho Global was capturing behind-the-scenes footage. Melissa gave them ten minutes of talking head time and then ducked out to the FireThreads rooftop for air.
It was dusk. Gaborone was melting into soft pinks and purples. She sat on a wooden bench near the glass railing and stretched her legs out in front of her.
Her phone vibrated. A message from her mother.
"Ngwanake, I had a dream about you last night. You were surrounded by stars, but one of them was very close. It was warm and bright, and it stayed with you. I think it's the baby. Don't forget to rest. I love you."
Melissa read it three times. Her eyes welled, but she blinked the tears away. Again.
Sometimes she didn't know if the baby inside her would ever understand the kind of fight she was putting up for their future. Not just financially. Emotionally. Spiritually. To raise a child in a world that often demanded women be everything and still criticized them for it.
She rubbed her stomach slowly.
"You better come out kind," she muttered. "Or I'm returning you."
A voice startled her. "That would be a shame."
She turned. Max.
"I'm starting to think you have a tracking device on me."
He smirked. "I'm not that petty. Yet."
She rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"
He handed her a small black box. Inside was a sleek bracelet made of interlinked metal and fabric of the same material from the Evolve collection.
"What's this?"
"Smart accessory. We're testing integration. Tracks heart rate, temperature, emotional shifts. Syncs to the clothing to adapt accordingly."
Melissa held it delicately. "It's beautiful."
"I thought maybe you'd want to wear it during the launch. Functional, and very… you."
He sat beside her but didn't crowd her.
After a beat, he asked, "Do you ever wonder what kind of father I would've been?"
Melissa didn't respond at first. Her heart thudded, slow and heavy.
"I used to," she said finally. "Then I stopped wondering and started planning for reality."
Max exhaled. "I deserved that."
She looked over at him. "If you want to show up — truly show up — there's still time. But not for me. For them."
He nodded. "Understood."
Silence settled between them again, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was possible.
Just as she stood to go, her assistant peeked out from the rooftop door.
"Melissa! The production team needs sign-off on the press video script."
She nodded, pocketed the bracelet, and headed back inside. Max remained behind, watching the city lights flicker on one by one.
Inside, the studio had shifted into a low evening hum. Melissa returned to her desk, signed off on the script, and pulled up the final week's checklist.
There were only six days left until launch.
Six days until FireThreads would stand under a global spotlight.
Six days until the world would witness what a woman could build while carrying a whole life inside her.
And in that moment, Melissa wasn't afraid. Not of the pressure. Not of the work. Not of the future.
Because she was no longer just a businesswoman.
She was a mother.
A maker.
A force.
And she was ready.