The day before the FireThreads Fashion Launch arrived like a storm waiting to break. The Gaborone International Convention Centre was unrecognizable, a swirling mosaic of lights, velvet drapes, suspended runway scaffolding, and a scent in the air that was a heady mix of fresh paint, hairspray, and something electric, hope, maybe.
Melissa stood in the center of it all, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other. Her eyes darted across the massive ballroom-turned-fashion-haven as workers shouted and ran past with boxes, rails, light rigs. Somewhere near the back, a model let out a startled yelp as a heel snapped. A tech guy dropped a cable reel. None of it surprised her anymore. This was launch day eve. Chaos was couture.
"We need to reset the main light panel," she called out, voice calm but firm. "It's two degrees off-center and that's the camera-facing side."
Dineo jogged over, clutching a latte in one hand, tablet in the other. "Did you sleep?"
Melissa gave her a side glance. "Define sleep."
"If you mean a 27-minute nap on the velvet couch in your office with one eye open, yes."
"Then yes. I slept."
They shared a quiet laugh. The kind you let slip when you're too tired to fake anything else.
Behind them, Lorato was deep in conversation with the makeup team. She turned, holding a color palette. "We got the samples for the cheek tint. It matches every skin tone, but the deep tones need a bit more gold shimmer. Rama says he can fix it."
Melissa nodded. "Where is he?"
"Backstage, playing therapist-slash-genius."
Melissa headed there next. She found Rama kneeling in front of a crying model, gently pinning a hem that had come undone. He was calm. Soothing. The kind of calm that made you believe everything would be okay even when nothing was.
He glanced up as she approached. "We had a wardrobe malfunction. Fixed now."
"You're a miracle in a turtleneck," she said softly.
Rama stood and smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Melissa caught herself watching it a beat too long.
Back on the main floor, a new wrinkle unfolded.
"Melissa," said Lesedi from PR, looking pale. "Avery Botho has confirmed attendance. VIP seat."
Melissa's body went still. Not stiff. Still. Like a lake right before a thunderclap.
"How?"
"He got the invite through one of the investor press lists. Someone leaked it."
Melissa didn't flinch. She turned to Dineo. "Make sure he's seated far right, not center. No cameras on him. No interviews. He's not the story."
Dineo nodded. Lorato looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it.
"Let him watch," Melissa muttered. "Let him see exactly what he never believed I could do."
By mid-afternoon, things were looking better. The runway was alive with LED strips, responding to motion and temperature. Models rehearsed the walk, music throbbed through hidden speakers. Rama coordinated the digital fitting station where garments would adjust in real-time to posture and body heat.
In between everything, Melissa stole five minutes of solitude in her private dressing room. She looked at her reflection. Slight puff under the eyes, a soft curve to her lower belly. Her pregnancy still wasn't obvious to the outside world. But she felt it with every breath.
She sat, placing her palm over her belly.
"Hey, little bean," she whispered. "We're almost there."
She wasn't sure when she'd started talking to the baby. It just felt... right. Like filling a silence that only they shared.
She remembered her own father then. Not in detail as he he'd left her in pieces when she was six A voice. A pair of sunglasses. A laugh from another room.
"I hope I do better," she whispered. "Even if I do it alone."
Later that evening, Lorato and Dineo reviewed final checklists while Melissa tested the light-reactive panels with the Seoul engineers via Zoom.
The venue transformed by the hour. Tables for the after-show dinner appeared. Custom FireThreads gift bags were lined neatly by the entrance. Influencers began arriving for sneak peeks, gushing on Instagram stories.
Rama appeared beside her, offering a bottle of water. "You're pushing too hard."
"I'm holding it together."
"Same difference," he said with a teasing grin.
Melissa rolled her eyes but took the water.
They stood together for a moment, watching the space glow under twilight. It was beautiful. And terrifying. And hers.
She turned to him. "You think they'll love it?"
Rama met her eyes, something soft and dangerous flickering in his own. "They won't have a choice."
At 11 PM, after everyone else had left, Melissa lingered at the end of the runway.
Her phone buzzed. A voice note from Max. Again.
She didn't play it. She didn't delete it either.
She stood in the silence, placed both hands on her stomach, and whispered to her child,
"Whatever happens tomorrow, we walk through it together."
And behind her, in the shadows, a camera clicked.
Unseen.
Watching.
Waiting.