The backstage of the FireThreads x Botho Global launch buzzed with organized chaos. Models swirled in branded silk robes, stylists hustled between changing racks, and technicians double-checked the temperature sensors embedded in select garments. Cameras clicked, voice recorders hummed, and the scent of nerves mixed with high-end perfume.
Melissa stood at the center of it all, a wireless mic in her hand and her earpiece buzzing with updates. Her custom blazer, stitched with real-time thermal thread and a hidden cooling panel at her back, glowed faintly under the stage lights. She looked like she belonged in a sci-fi runway future. And she did. She'd built this.
"We go live in forty," Dineo announced, checking her smartwatch. "Press is seated. Livestream teams are in place. Max is with the investors."
Melissa nodded. "Status on the opening walk?"
"Model two had a lash emergency, but Lorato fixed it. Mpho Mohlakane from Lekgapha is shadowing the crew. She already posted five behind-the-scenes reels. We're trending."
Melissa gave a breath of a smile. The launch was finally happening. Years of sweat, betrayal, pivots, and purpose had brought her to this moment. Her baby bump was visible now, a soft arc under her fashion armor. She cradled it absentmindedly.
"You okay?" Dineo asked.
"I'm great. Just...feeling everything all at once."
Behind her, Lorato entered with a clipboard and a teasing smirk. "Boss lady, are you ready to make history or are we still adjusting fake lashes?"
Melissa laughed. "Just remind me to breathe."
As the lights dimmed and the crowd quieted outside, the team gathered around. It had become ritual now,a circle, a deep breath, hands held.
"To every woman who thought she'd never be seen," Melissa said, eyes shining. "Tonight, we light the runway for you."
"And for baby bean!" Dineo added, placing a hand on Melissa's belly.
The group cheered, and the music thundered on cue. The show began.
It was poetry in motion. From adaptive maternity wear that responded to body temperature to postpartum gowns with healing compression, every piece told a story.
There were tears in the audience when a mother of twins walked with both babies strapped to her chest, proud and fearless. Thunderous applause when the projection screen displayed heartbeats and biometric data in real time, synced with the models on stage.
Melissa stood backstage, watching through the curtain. Her eyes glistened. This was more than a fashion show. It was a movement. A manifesto wrapped in silk and fire.
When it ended, the applause shook the walls. Reporters surged forward, cameras blinking. Max approached with a subtle smile, flanked by two Botho Global board members. He didn't say anything, just handed her a single white rose and nodded.
She took it, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you."
Later, while the crew packed up and the media stormed social media with glowing praise, Melissa finally allowed herself a moment alone.
She stepped out onto the rooftop terrace of the venue, the city glittering beneath her. Gaborone never looked so alive. Her phone buzzed with hundreds of notifications, but she ignored them.
She pulled out the tiny pair of baby booties she kept in her bag. Blue and gold. Handmade. A gift from her grandmother long before she even knew she wanted a child.
A door opened behind her.
"You vanished," Lorato said.
"Needed air."
Lorato joined her. They stood side by side, silent for a long moment.
"We did it," Lorato said.
"Yeah. We did."
A pause.
"You know," Melissa said softly, still staring at the booties in her hand, "people keep saying I'm strong. That I'm unstoppable. But tonight... I just wanted someone to hold my hand and tell me it's okay to be scared."
Lorato slid her arm around her.
"It is okay. And if nobody else does, I will hold that hand. Always."
Melissa exhaled. Long and deep. The city lights didn't blink, but her heart did.
She felt the baby kick.
And for the first time in months, she let herself cry. Silent, relieved tears. Because she had fought, won for herself. But mostly to dull the pain of being impregnanted and left just like that. A pain she would never admit to Max.
Her hand went instinctively to her lower abdomen.
At first, it was just a tightening. Mild. Familiar. The kind she'd dismissed a few times over the past week. But this one didn't ease. It gripped her hard and fast like a vice made of fire.
"Dineo," she said through clenched teeth.
Dineo turned instantly, catching the shift in her boss's expression. "What's wrong?"
"I don't..." She doubled over. A sharp breath hissed out between her teeth. "It's too early."
Rama, nearby, dropped his clipboard and rushed to her side, catching her arm.
"What's happening?"
"She's in pain," Dineo said, already fishing her phone from her pocket. "Contractions?"
Melissa nodded, eyes wide, breath uneven. "Two weeks early," she murmured, "not now… not now…"
"Hospital. Now." Max's voice rang out behind them. He didn't wait for anyone's approval. "My car is out front. Let's move."
"I'll drive," Rama said.
"The hell you will," Max snapped, already guiding Melissa carefully toward the exit.
"You've been drinking champagne. I haven't," Rama retorted, snatching his keys from his back pocket.
Melissa winced. "Both of you, shut up and get me to the damn hospital!"
They moved together in tense, synchronized panic, barely masking their underlying distaste for each other. Dineo held the door as the trio rushed into the night, cameras following, whispers blooming like wildflowers in their wake.
"She's in labor?"
"Two weeks early?"
"She slayed the show and then boom her water breaks?"
No one knew the full details, but it didn't stop the press from running with it. A photo of Melissa clutching Max's arm, Rama on her other side, was snapped just before the car doors slammed shut.
Inside the car, the silence was deafening, broken only by Melissa's harsh breaths and Max's GPS directing them toward Botho Private Hospital.
Max gripped the steering wheel like it was trying to escape him. His jaw clenched. His gaze flicked to Melissa in the rearview mirror.
Rama sat beside her, trying to coach her through the contractions, voice calm but hands shaking slightly. "Breathe in,hold and breathe out slowly…"
Melissa looked between them, sweat dotting her forehead, her lips trembling.
In that moment, she wasn't FireThreads. She wasn't the queen of a billion-dollar fashion-tech empire. She was just a woman about to give birth, sandwiched between two men with too much pride and not enough answers.
Max's voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "I should've been more present."
Rama didn't reply. He didn't need to. The air was already thick with unspoken things.
Melissa groaned as another wave hit, sharp and sudden. "This baby is not waiting."
They arrived at the hospital in under ten minutes.
Nurses met them at the emergency entrance with a wheelchair and wide eyes. Melissa was swept inside with the speed of a royal emergency.
Behind her, Max and Rama stood side by side, the weight of everything left unsaid between them crackling like static.
Neither moved. Neither looked at each other.
From inside the lobby, a nurse's voice floated back to them, excited and urgent: "She's five centimeters already. It's happening tonight!"
Back at the launch venue, guests were still toasting champagne, oblivious to the chaos that followed the queen's final walk.
But Gaborone would remember this night.
The night Melissa Kgomotso redefined maternity fashion.
The night her baby decided to arrive early.
The night two men stood on the edge of everything past, present, and the uncertain beating heart of what came next!