KIMANI
The next morning, I woke up with sunlight pouring across my room like it had been waiting just for me. For once, I didn’t have to drag myself out of bed to get ready for the office. No alarm blaring, no racing through breakfast, no steeling myself for stares and whispers.
For the first time in weeks, I could breathe.
I stretched lazily, rolled over, and grabbed my phone. A message from Malik was waiting for me: Come over to the fashion house today. I have something to show you. Bring your sass.
I grinned. Malik always knew how to pull me out of a slump.
By late morning, I was stepping into his fashion house—a converted warehouse that looked like a slice of New York dropped into the city. Bright lights, rolling racks of clothes, the faint hum of sewing machines, and fabrics in e
