I hear Segun's voice before I see him — low and careful, the way he gets when he is handling something he does not want broken. I have my key in the studio door at half past seven in the morning because I forgot my sketchbook last night. That is the only reason I am here. That is the only reason any of this happens. The door is already unlocked. I push it open. Segun is standing at my main worktable with his back to me, and beside him is a woman I have seen exactly once — at the Sandton City launch party three months ago. Nia Okeke. She is tall, copper-skinned, natural hair twisted up into a crown, wearing a white linen blazer like she already owns the room. She is holding my dresses. The whole autumn collection — the one I have been building for eight months — folded across her arms like laundry. "These are ready to go," Segun says to her, smoothing the top garment. "All yours now." My phone is in my hand. I do not remember pressing anything. Later I will discover the voice memo app opened when I fumbled for the door. "Segun." He turns. He does not look surprised. That is what I will remember — that he does not look surprised. "Gifty—" "What is she doing with my work?" Nia does not move. She watches me with the calm of someone who prepared for this. "You need to lower your voice," Segun says. "I will not lower anything." The words come out jagged. "Put my collection down. Put it down right now." Nia glances at Segun. He gives her a small nod. "Gifty." His voice shifts — soft now, almost gentle, which is worse. "You are a good designer. You are. But carrying a full debut collection? Representing yourself at Fashion Week? You were never built for that pressure. You know it. I know it." Something in me goes very quiet. "I was protecting you," he says. "By giving my work to her." He does not answer that. He does not have to. I am still screaming when Nia steps around me. I grab for the nearest dress — my indigo wrap, the one I hand-stitched for six weeks — and she pulls it back firmly, like we are arguing over nothing. My phone hits the floor. I do not notice. I am watching the door close behind her, watching my eight months of work walk out in another woman's arms. The studio is very quiet after that.