Melissa's company was now a living organism, alive with movement, colors, and voices from every corner of the continent. Johannesburg stylists, Angolan PR managers, Zimbabwean textile geniuses, and Namibian photographers flowed in and out, all buzzing with one mission:
The FireThreads Global Launch.
The public didn't know the date yet. But the paparazzi were convinced it was soon. Rumors were louder than ever, especially after Melissa's late-night hospital scare. The media went wild with stories ranging from a near-death delivery to twisted conspiracy theories about Max being involved.
But Rama Hills, as always, stepped in.
He gave no press conferences. No statements. Just a single sharp letter through Melissa's legal team that threatened to sue the gossip blogs into extinction.
By morning, the headlines were wiped clean.
Melissa sat in her glass office overlooking Gaborone, a slow smile spreading across her lips.
"You saved my name," she told Rama.
"I saved the brand," he replied, without looking up from his tablet. "Your name is the brand."
She laughed. "That's smooth." He slyly responded, "Write it on my tombstone."
Preparations for the launch were in full swing. The runway was being built inside a transformed glass dome near Phakalane. A never-before-used location that whispered wealth and exclusivity.
The twist? Melissa herself would walk the runway.
Pregnant. Glowing. Dressed in a masterpiece that screamed strength, softness, and power all at once.
Fashion critics across Africa called it "a cultural reset."
Influencers were begging for invites. Southern Africa's fashion royalty and even a few international icons had responed yes.
Meanwhile…Avery was bleeding money as his investors were withdrawing. Quiet at first then rapid. Rumors of dangerous chemicals in his skincare line had surfaced. Blog exposés. Anonymous whistleblowers. Documents mysteriously leaked to regulators.
He tried to trace the leak.
He failed, but Melissa knew exactly where it started: her.
And the cherry on top? Melissa had casually expressed interest in buying the crumbling startup. She sent a team to "evaluate" the company. Avery, desperate, named a price: P25 million. She agreed smiling.
He thought he'd tricked her. That he was offloading a liability. But Melissa already owned three of the scientists in his lab.
And soon, she'd own everything else.
Back at the penthouse, things were calmer.
Miriam, the new nanny, had arrived and moved with quiet authority. She didn't fuss. She didn't flatter. She simply worked. Exactly what Melissa wanted.
Max, however, had been silent.
No angry calls. No scathing texts. Just silence which scared Melissa more than anything.
Until one day, a small package arrived,just a single box wrapped in navy silk.
Inside: a handwritten letter and a pair of tiny handmade booties.
The note read:
"For our baby.
No matter what, it's still ours.
– M."
Melissa stared at the booties for a long time.
And when she finally folded the note and tucked it in her robe pocket, she didn't cry.
She just got back to work.
That night, Rama found her sitting alone in the nursery, still unfurnished, still white and bare. "You okay?" he asked gently.
"I don't know what this kid is being born into," she whispered. "A war? A runway? A legacy?, A warm home perhaps?"
"Maybe all the first three,a warm family home is unlikely" he said. "But whatever it is… it's going to be a hell of a story."
She smiled.
"You're good with words for a fashion designer."He shrugged and said "That's why you keep me around."
Far away, in a quiet room inside Botho Global's private estate, Mma Botho stared at a photo.
A very old one of two children smiling in a dusty village street. One was her son while the other… was Rama.
She pressed her fingers over the glass and sighed, some ghosts don't stay buried and some truths don't stay hidden forever!