Okay Boss (Billionaire Boss Romance #2)

Chapter 1

Vikram Khanna stood before the full-length mirror in his bedroom, adjusting his midnight blue Tom Ford bowtie. He tilted his chin slightly. Left profile. Right profile. The intense stare that had sold magazine covers and perfume ads. Satisfied, he gave his reflection a small wink.

Mirror time was not vanity. It was an inspection. When you were the brand, you made sure the brand looked flawless.

The tuxedo fit him perfectly. Three fittings. Custom tailoring. The shoulders sat sharp, the waist tapered clean, the trousers falling just right over polished Italian shoes. No one would notice the shoes on the red carpet, but Vikram believed details separated stars from legends.

“National Film Award for Best Leading Man…” he said softly, lowering his voice, extending his hand as if accepting a trophy. Then he shifted into his well-known half-smile, the one that made girls scream at airport arrivals. “It’s an honour just to be nominated.”

His phone kept buzzing on the bed. Messages from his PR team. Early reviews calling his performance powerful. Fans flooding his social media. He glanced once, then ignored it.

Success was not a surprise.

It was the standard.

“Vikram! The car is waiting!” His mother’s voice carried up the marble staircase, elegant even when shouting. “At this rate, you’ll walk the red carpet alone because Riya will have already gone inside!”

“Coming, Mom!” he replied, but he stayed in place for one more second. He loosened the bow tie slightly. Formal, but not stiff. Perfect.

“Vikram Khanna!” His mother again, closer this time.

He finally moved, picking up his phone and jogging down the curved staircase, taking the last three steps in one jump like he had done since he was ten.

Kavita Khanna stood at the bottom, wrapped in an emerald silk saree that caught the light beautifully. Even when annoyed, she looked composed. Silver streaks lined her neatly tied hair, and her expression held equal parts irritation and pride.

“Thirty-three years old and still not punctual.” She adjusted his already perfect bowtie.

“The film doesn’t start for another two hours, and the star never arrives early.” Vikram kissed her cheek. “And you look stunning. Trying to steal my spotlight?”

The compliment landed. Her mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “Your charm might work on your fans, but I changed your diapers.”

“And now I make you proud every day.” He grinned.

“In the dictionary, pride should come after punctuality,” she muttered, but her tone had softened.

The study door opened, and Harshit Khanna emerged, the evening newspaper folded under one arm. Unlike his wife, who dressed for every dinner as though photographers might arrive, Harshit wore simple linen trousers and a white kurta. Calm. Observant. Always thinking three steps ahead.

“You’re late,” he said, without emotion.

“Strategically late,” Vikram corrected, adjusting his cufflinks. “The film won’t start without its hero.”

Harshit let that pass. “Did Prerna finalise tomorrow’s interview schedule?”

A beat of silence.

“Prerna quit yesterday.” Vikram checked his watch.

“Another one?” Kavita shook her head. “That’s the eighth in two years.”

“Ninth if you count the one who lasted three days,” Harshit corrected.

Vikram shrugged. “It wasn’t working.”

Kavita studied him. “Or she fell in love with you?”

He didn’t answer directly. “I offered a fair settlement. Three months’ salary.”

“Expensive habit,” Harshit remarked. “What about tomorrow?”

“Rahul will manage until I hire someone new. Considering an intern. Film school graduate. I’ll interview her later.”

“Her,” Kavita repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe try hiring a man this time.”

“Gender isn’t the issue. Professionalism is.” Vikram said smoothly. “Besides, men fall in love with me too. Equal opportunity heartbreaker.”

Kavita sighed dramatically. “One son married to business. One son married to his own reflection. Meanwhile, my friends are becoming grandparents.”

“Mom, please.” Vikram groaned. “Not tonight.”

“Riya seems sensible,” Harshit commented, seemingly casual but eyes sharp. “Known her family for years. Good people.”

“Riya and I are friends. Co-stars. That’s it.”

“Friends who look very cozy on Page Three,” Kavita noted.

“That’s called promotion,” he replied, already glancing at his phone to end the topic. “Which I’m going to be late showcasing if we continue this conversation.”

Harshit nodded, accepting the deflection. “Your brother called. Said he’d try to make the after-party but can’t promise. Some crisis at the Singapore office.”

“Of course.” Vikram wasn’t surprised. Raghav, his twin and polar opposite, practically lived at Khanna Consolidated headquarters. “Tell him he missed a great performance.”

“I’ll add it to his list of regrets.” Harshit’s dry tone couldn’t hide his pride. One son ran the family business empire; the other conquered Bollywood. The Khanna legacy was secure on multiple fronts.

“The car is waiting,” Vikram said, heading toward the door.

“Give Riya my love,” Kavita called after him. “I like her though.”

Vikram pretended not to hear, already focused on the night ahead. He slid into the waiting car, adjusted his cuffs one final time, and felt the familiar surge of anticipation.

Another premiere. Another triumph. Another perfect night in the life of Vikram Khanna.

His world, ordered exactly as he liked it, with himself at the centre.

◆◆◆

The red carpet stretched ahead like another step towards success.

Barricades lined both sides, packed with fans three rows deep.

Phones were already raised, recording even before anything happened.

Photographers stood on ladders, crouched low, balanced on stools.

Reporters adjusted their hair and lipstick, rehearsing their opening lines.

Vikram’s car slowed to a stop. The crowd recognised it instantly. The screaming doubled. Before the door even opened, his name was already in the air.

Showtime.

He stepped out calmly, not rushing, not posing too hard.

The noise crashed into him like a wave. Flashlights burst one after another, turning the night silver.

Fans pushed forward against the metal barricades, hands stretched toward him, some shaking, some holding posters, some just trying to touch his sleeve.

“Vikram! Vikram! Vikram!”

His name rose and fell like a chant.

He lifted his hand in a relaxed wave. Not overly excited. Not distant either. Just enough to say, I see you.

Three girls in the front row started crying instantly. One of them swayed, her friends grabbing her before she collapsed fully. Security removed her gently but quickly.

Vikram smiled, but only halfway. This was only the beginning.

“Vikram! This side!”

“Sir, look here!”

“Over the shoulder, please!”

He turned exactly where he needed to. Left profile, chin slightly lowered. A three-quarter angle that highlighted his jawline. Then straight to the centre cameras. Each move smooth, practised.

He walked toward the press line, the flash of cameras following every step.

First stop. Bollywood Buzz. Prime slot. Maximum visibility.

“Vikram!” the reporter said brightly, pushing her microphone closer. “Early reviews are calling this your best performance so far. What do you have to say?”

He paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough to look thoughtful.

“If I’m not growing with every film, then I’m not doing my job properly,” he replied with a warm smile. “But honestly, this credit belongs to our director. He pushed all of us harder than ever.”

The answer was perfect. Grateful, but confident. Humble.

“There are rumors about a Khanna family biopic in the works. Any truth to that?”

Dangerous territory. His father would have a stroke.

“My family prefers spreadsheets to spotlights.” He laughed, deflecting with charm. “But never say never. The right script could change anyone’s mind.”

Safe. Playful. Non-committal.

“And after so much success,” the reporter pressed on, “what challenges are left for you?”

Vikram leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just a bit. Not enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to make the camera catch the moment.

“There’s always something new to learn,” he replied. “Every role pushes me to discover a different part of myself. That’s what keeps this exciting.”

A commotion erupted at the carpet entrance. Camera flashes intensified, creating a lightning storm.

Riya Sharma had arrived.

She emerged from her car in a gold gown that caught every light, transforming her into a walking flame. Her hair swept up to showcase diamond earrings. She moved gracefully, each step measured for maximum camera impact.

They spotted each other at the same moment. Professional respect. And the activation of their public facade.

Vikram met her halfway down the carpet. Air kisses—left cheek, right cheek. His hand found the small of her back automatically. Her palm rested on his forearm. They turned toward the cameras in perfect synchronization.

The photographers went feral.

“Gorgeous couple!”

“Vikram! Riya! Look this way!”

“When’s the wedding?”

They shifted positions with the practiced ease of dancers who knew the choreography by heart. His arm around her waist. Her hand on his chest. Both smiling with just the right amount of warmth. Not too much to look desperate. Just enough to keep the rumors alive.

“Are the engagement rumors true?”

“Any wedding plans to announce?”

“How long have you two been together?”

Vikram avoided the question with practiced ease. “We’re here to celebrate the film tonight. Riya’s performance is extraordinary. You’ll all see for yourselves in about twenty minutes.”

They moved ahead slowly, stopping where required, turning when called, offering quick quotes to familiar media houses.

Smile. Pose. Step forward. Repeat.

By the time they reached the theatre entrance, the glass doors shielding them from the noise outside, both of them exhaled quietly.

“Your bow tie is crooked,” Riya said under her breath, though her smile for the cameras never slipped.

“It’s intentionally asymmetrical,” he replied. “Adds personality.”