THREADED

CHAPTER FIVE

The morning was quiet, the kind Kemfon liked best—where time felt suspended and the world left her alone.

Muted sunlight drifted through the half-drawn curtains of her studio apartment, soft and golden, warming the spools of thread on the window ledge and catching the glitter of sequin scraps in her fabric bin.

Outside, the city stirred faintly—distant sounds of early risers, the rumble of danfo buses down the street, but inside, everything remained still.

The place smelled faintly of lavender and fresh starch, mingling with the scent of fabric glue and leftover toast. Somewhere, a kettle whistled gently on the electric plate, ignored.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and the remains of a long, sleepless night.

Her hands rested on her knees, her fingertips stained with charcoal pencil, her eyes tired but glowing. Her head throbbed softly, but she didn’t mind.

That was the cost of creative momentum. When inspiration arrived, sleep became irrelevant.

Her phone vibrated beside her, screen lighting up against the polished wooden floor.

1 new mail: Tamuno Ariyo

She stilled.

Her breath caught just slightly, heart hitching. Slowly, deliberately, her hand reached for the phone, as though afraid the notification might vanish if she moved too fast. With a swipe, she tapped it open.

Hi Kemfon,

It was such a pleasure meeting you the other night. Your aura is just as memorable as your designs. As discussed, I’d love to see your catalogue. I have a special event coming up next month and I’m looking for something unforgettable.

Warmly,

Tamuno.

Kemfon stared at the screen. The message was short, gracious—but weighty.

This was not just any woman. Tamuno Ariyo. Heiress. Influencer. Daughter of the very respected Senior Advocate of the country. A society sweetheart and political insider. Someone whose approval didn’t just mean fashion—it meant status. Visibility. Doors flinging wide open.

An open door.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her lips. She leaned back slightly, the edges of the moment shimmering around her.

But before she could reply, her eyes flickered to the corner of the room.

There, leaning against her dressing dummy, still hung the backless emerald silk piece she had worn to the party. The same party where her life, in some small and strange way, had started to shift.

She hadn’t been able to put it away.

And just like that, he came back.

Banks.

The memory was uninvited, but it slipped in all the same—his voice, low and unexpected, catching her off guard on the garden path… the way his hand brushed hers as if it belonged there… that sudden, inexplicable kiss under a sky full of string lights, soft and electric.

Her fingers twitched.

She leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. She could still feel the weight of his eyes on her, the quiet intensity with which he looked—not at her clothes, or her name tag, or her curves—but at her.

Like he saw something she hadn’t shown anyone in years.

Her chest fluttered, and she hated that it did.

“No. No distractions,” she muttered.

She squeezed her eyes shut and gently shook her head, as if to clear the fog, to remind herself what mattered right now.

“Focus,” she whispered to herself.

Because whatever that kiss was—or was n’t—it didn’t pay her rent. It didn’t validate her designs. And it certainly wasn’t going to dress Tamuno Ariyo for a governor’s gala.

Her hand reached for her laptop. She pulled it onto her lap with practiced ease, opened the folder she had been refining for days—the one she’d poured her spirit into like a stitched prayer.

The Golden Thread Collection.

Each design was named after something powerful and feminine: Resolve. Spine. Ember. Grace. She had spent sleepless nights arranging them in a digital catalogue, ensuring that each page felt like a statement, a story—a slice of herself.

The silhouettes were bold yet elegant. The fabrics, lush. The details, meticulous. From hand embroidery to dramatic backs and sculpted sleeves, every sketch whispered of power, softness, and survival.

With careful keystrokes, she attached the PDF to her reply. Her fingers hovered momentarily over the keyboard as she composed her message.

Hello Tamuno,

It was an absolute pleasure meeting you as well. Please find attached a selection of my latest work. I hope one of them speaks to you.

Warm regards,

Kemfon.

She hovered over Send, heart thudding in her chest like a distant drum. Then she clicked.

Done.

She exhaled and set the laptop aside. Rising slowly, she stretched her arms above her head, her muscles aching from crouching over her sewing desk all night. Her back cracked, and she winced, smiling to herself. The sacrifices she made in silence.

Outside, the city moved on without her— car horns in the distance, birds chirping on her balcony rail, someone yelling at a generator next door. But in here, the world was smaller, intimate… holding its breath.

She walked to the window, parted the curtain slightly, and watched as a vendor pushed a cart of puff-puff past her building. Life was ordinary and magical in these fleeting seconds.

Just then, a new message blinked on her screen.

Already?

She padded back to the laptop, sat, and clicked.

These are breathtaking.

I’m especially drawn to the black silk number with the gold-threaded bust. Could we do a custom fit? I’ll send my measurements shortly. It’s for a gathering the Governor’s wife is hosting—so I need to look like the second coming. I trust you can make that happen.

Kemfon’s lips parted. A slow, stunned smile spread across her face.

She rose to her feet, the weight of the moment finally sinking in—warm and full.

This was real.

This was happening.

The first domino had fallen.

She pulled her sketchbook close and wrote carefully at the top of a new page:

Client: Tamuno Ariyo – Gala Gown – Black & Gold

She paused, pencil hovering midair. For a moment, just a breath of one, she thought about how Banks had said her brand’s name that night.

It tasted different in his mouth.

Like it meant Something.

She blinked the thought away and began to sketch.

The kiss could wait.

The gown could not.