TENSION: Chapter 3 – Pattern Recognition

Mimi Lola Lane moved swiftly down the narrow backstage hallway. She had to stay sharp and find the missing gown and Nyah’s sketchbook before Makeda completely unraveled.

But with every minute ticking toward the finale, the backstage chaos only thickened.
And worse, Mimi realized, everyone back here had a reason to want Makeda to fail.

Out front, she knew, the show’s charismatic host, Marsha Reed, was already warming up the crowd, cracking jokes, introducing the next lineup.

If things got worse backstage, Marsha would have to stall. And for that, thank goodness for Layla James, the rising-star saxophonist and one of Mimi’s oldest friends, booked to perform between segments.
If anyone could buy them precious minutes, it was Layla and her golden sax.

But first, Mimi had work to do.

She scanned the room, eyes sharp, cataloging faces.

First, Sabrina Hooks, brilliant, loud, and fearless with her geometric crochet sets.
Last month, she’d accused Makeda of copying her signature mesh jacket design, the fight ending in a screaming match and Sabrina’s furious exit. Her parting words had been unforgettable: “Good luck winning anything with stolen ideas, princess.”

Now, Sabrina sat hunched at a makeup table, stitching a trim onto a skirt with movements that were too fast, too aggressive. She hadn’t looked up once.

Next, Camille DuPont, the Parisian transplant known for avant-garde crochet sculptures that always turned heads. She and Makeda had been locked in a cold war ever since Makeda pulled strings to snag the Threaded Vogue cover Camille had been promised. Camille stood rigid by the racks, her sharp gaze slicing across the room, watching, waiting — a hawk circling for weakness.

Mimi tucked that away.

Then there was Zara Knotts, queen of minimalist crochet — clean lines, muted colors, perfect restraint.
Her grudge was simple: Makeda had pushed to bump Zara’s collection to an earlier show slot, mocking her work as “sleepy neutrals” and warning that “the audience wouldn’t stay awake.”

Zara now tied a belt around a model’s waist, her mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.

Jelani Blake lounged near the staging carts — the only male designer tonight, handsome, charming, and quietly ruthless. His experimental fiber pieces often blurred the line between fashion and installation.
Just yesterday, Mimi had overheard him joking, “Makeda wouldn’t last five minutes without her hype machine.”

And then Imani Rose — the indie darling, whose vibrant Afrocentric crochet designs had gone viral six months ago… until Makeda accused her of “cultural tokenism” in an interview.
The backlash had cost Imani a major sponsorship deal.

Mimi caught sight of her now, leaning against the wall, tapping furiously into her phone, her jaw tight.

Everyone here had motive.
Everyone had opportunity.
And every single one of them could have snatched the gown — and Nyah’s precious pattern book.

Mimi’s gut twisted.

This wasn’t just about loyalty to Nyah anymore.
It was about protecting the future of crochet fashion itself.
If Makeda’s deception exploded the wrong way, it wouldn’t just destroy Makeda — it could damage all of them.

Mimi straightened her shoulders.

First, she would find clues.
Then, she would figure out which of these designers had decided that tonight was the perfect time to take Makeda down.

The house lights flashed twice.
The finale was 2 hours away.

And backstage?
The real show was just getting started.