Chapter 1 #2
He straightened it anyway.
“My feet are already numb,” she muttered. “These heels should come with a medical warning.”
“Still worth it,” he said, glancing at her. “You look beautiful.”
It wasn’t flirtation. It was professional honesty. Riya always understood the difference.
Inside the lobby, the lighting softened, the noise reduced to a polished murmur. Waiters moved through the crowd with trays of champagne. Industry faces filled the space. Directors. Producers. Rivals pretending to be friends.
“Your mother called mine yesterday,” Riya said, accepting a flute of champagne. Her tone was casual, but careful.
Vikram closed his eyes briefly. “I’m guessing it wasn’t a social call.”
“She wanted to know my ‘intentions’.” Riya took a small sip. “About you.”
He suppressed a groan. “What did you tell her?”
“That we are friends who attend events together and occasionally rescue each other from awkward questions.” She glanced at him. “She didn’t sound convinced.”
“She cornered me tonight too,” he admitted. “Apparently both her sons treat marriage like an infectious disease.”
Riya’s lips twitched.
Vikram scanned the room automatically, nodding at a veteran actor across the lobby, lifting his hand toward a producer near the bar. “I have three films in production. Another international project in discussion. Marriage is not even on the last page of my planner.”
“You’re underestimating your mother,” Riya said quietly.
He shrugged, but there was awareness in his eyes. “Let her try.”
She adjusted his lapel lightly, aware that photographers still lingered at a distance.
“We should go in,” he said, offering his arm with dramatic courtesy. “Ready to watch my emotional range for two hours?”
“As long as you don’t whisper your own dialogues before they happen,” she replied, sliding her hand through his arm.
He laughed softly as they entered the dim theatre hall.
◆◆◆
On screen, Vikram Khanna was breaking apart.
Mud streaked his face. Rainwater mixed with real tears as he clutched a photograph of his dead brother. His shoulders shook. His voice cracked. The theatre fell into complete silence. No popcorn rustling. No whispers. Just raw grief filling the room.
In the third row, centre seat, the real Vikram shifted slightly and checked his phone for the fourteenth time.
Another message from his manager. Another fan page tagging him. Another review already calling his performance “award-winning.”
On screen, his voice trembled.
“When you lose someone who shares your blood, you lose yourself. You become a story.”
A woman somewhere behind him sniffed loudly. Someone else reached for a tissue.
Vikram adjusted his cufflinks.
He replied to his PR Manager, Rahul, about tomorrow’s breakfast interviews. Retweeted a critic who had called the performance “career-defining.” He made sure to tag the production house. Visibility mattered.
“Pay attention,” Riya whispered, nudging him gently. “This is the scene everyone’s talking about.”
“I’ve seen it a dozen times in the edit,” he murmured back. “I know where I cry. I know where I collapse. It’s very moving.”
“It’s still your film.”
“And it’s still excellent,” he replied calmly.
On screen, his character staggered through heavy rain and slid down a wall, face tilted upward, eyes filled with helpless grief. The camera moved in slowly. Anguish. Acceptance. Silence. It was powerful work.
His phone vibrated again.
Rahul: “Filmfare wants an exclusive at 9 AM. Confirm?”
He typed quickly: “Make it 10. Send flowers to the director’s wife. Anniversary today.”
Riya glanced sideways at him. “You remember anniversaries?”
“Efficiency,” he said lightly, looking up.
But he wasn’t watching the film. He was watching the audience.
Row five. A middle-aged woman wiping tears. Two seats ahead. A young critic leaning forward, completely absorbed. Across the aisle, a studio executive nodded slowly.
They were reacting to something he had constructed. Every tear, every pause, every breath had been designed. He had built grief from technique. And yet it felt real enough to make strangers cry.
On screen, the funeral scene began. His character stood still under pouring rain, face rigid with pain.
In his seat, Vikram opened Instagram. Fifteen thousand new followers since the red carpet photos. Comments praising his tuxedo. His hair. His smile. Riya’s gold dress was trending. #VikRiya climbing steadily.
On screen, his character dropped to his knees at the grave, mud staining the expensive suit.
“Three takes,” Vikram whispered to Riya. “Ruined two armani suits before we got it right.”
“Shh,” she replied, eyes fixed on the screen.
The climax approached. Music rose. His character, broken and rebuilt, walked away from the cemetery into harsh sunlight. Symbolic. Clean. Beautiful.
The theatre held its breath.
For once, Vikram put his phone face down.
He felt it then. That collective shift. The exact second when an audience realises they’ve seen something special. That moment never lost its power.
The screen faded to black. Three heartbeats of silence. Then applause erupted.
The lights came on slowly. People turned toward him with admiration in their eyes. He stood, smiling modestly, accepting handshakes and hugs.
“Outstanding work.”
“Your finest performance.”
“That funeral scene destroyed me.”
He responded perfectly. Thanked the director. Praised his co-stars. Redirected compliments with polished humility.
“After-party at Zephyr?” a producer asked, clapping his shoulder. “The industry’s waiting.”
“Of course,” Vikram replied easily.
As they moved toward the exit, people made space for him without thinking. Attention followed him naturally. This was where he was most comfortable. Admired. Celebrated. In control.
“You didn’t watch your own film,” Riya said quietly as they approached the doors.
“I lived it,” he replied.
“Most actors can’t stop watching themselves.”
“Most actors aren’t me.”
It wasn’t arrogance. It was certainty.
He stepped out into flashing lights and shouting reporters. The applause followed him. The admiration wrapped around him, as always.