Chapter 2
Fifteen minutes early.
Good.
She adjusted her simple wire-rimmed glasses and drew in a slow breath that did very little to calm her nerves.
In front of her, stood the towering gates of Khanna Sadan.
Tall. Ornate. Polished to a shine that reflected the pale morning light.
The kind of gates that announced power without saying a word.
For a second, she felt very small.
She tightened her grip on her leather bag. The brown had faded at the corners. The strap had been stitched once where it had torn. Her father had polished it carefully the previous night, rubbing conditioner into the cracks as though he could smooth out more than just the leather.
“First impressions matter,” he had said softly.
The security guard inside the booth was already watching her. Not openly rude. Just measuring. Assessing.
Divya straightened her back instinctively, recalling Mrs. Menon’s Interview Posture Workshop from college. Shoulders relaxed. Chin level. Speak clearly.
“I’m Divya Mathur,” she said, relieved that her voice stayed steady. “I have an interview with Mr. Vikram Khanna. For the assistant position.”
The guard’s eyebrow moved slightly. “ID?”
She opened her bag, annoyed at herself when her fingers trembled against the zipper. She handed over her ID card.
The guard examined it, then picked up the intercom.
“There’s a Miss Mathur here for Vikram Saab.”
A pause.
“Yes, for the position.”
Another pause.
“ID verified.”
Silence again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He placed the phone down and returned her card.
“Wait here.”
Divya stood still, fingers wrapped tightly around her bag, repeating her achievements in her head like a quiet mantra.
Second-rank in Mass Communication.
Editor of the college magazine for two consecutive years.
Internship at Mumbai Mirror during graduation.
Recommendation from Mrs. Usha Menon.
Mrs. Menon, who taught their Celebrity Management module and had been Vikram Khanna’s PR Manager for eight years before joining academia.
Two days ago, her professor had removed her glasses, looked straight at Divya, and said, “You don’t get intimidated easily. That’s rare. He needs someone who won’t freeze when he enters a room.”
Divya had nodded then.
The security guard’s phone rang. He listened, pressed a button, and the gates began to slide open with a smooth mechanical hum.
“Go straight. Main house,” he said.
Divya murmured a thank you and stepped inside.
The gates closed behind her with a final metallic sound that felt louder than it should have.
The driveway stretched long and wide, paved in smooth stone.
Gardens lined both sides, trimmed so perfectly they looked unreal.
Fowers climbed up stone walls, weaving around bursts of pink bougainvillea.
A fountain sparkled at the centre of a circular lawn, water rising and falling in steady rhythm.
Divya kept walking.
Each step felt measured. Counted.
Her parents had never once complained about money. Not when fees increased. Not when she needed a new laptop for editing assignments. But she had seen the numbers.
Her father at the dining table with his reading glasses low on his nose. Columns of figures on ruled paper. Pension in one column. Fees in another. Household expenses squeezed into what remained.
Her mother quietly choosing not to buy a new saree that year. Saying she didn’t need one.
Divya knew what this job meant. It wasn’t ambition alone. It was relief. Stability. Return on sacrifice.
The mansion rose in front of her in full view now. It wasn’t loud or flashy. Everything about it spoke of quiet power.
A man trimming the hedges glanced up and gave her a small, polite nod.
Divya nodded back automatically.
She forced herself to walk at a steady pace. Even though her heart was racing ahead of her.
Her kurta suddenly felt too simple. It was her best one. Faded blue cotton, freshly ironed. White plazo pants. Kohlapuri sandals polished carefully the previous night. Professional. Decent. Not attention-seeking.
Mrs. Menon had been clear. “Dress like you belong, not like you’re trying to impress.”
Standing in front of this house, Divya wondered if “not trying” had been a mistake.
She did what she always did when anxiety threatened to take over. She organised facts.
Fact: Vikram Khanna was a person. A famous person, yes. A wealthy person, obviously. An extremely good-looking person, unfortunately. But still human.
Fact: She was here for a professional opportunity. Not as the sixteen-year-old who had watched his Film Companion interview eleven times and paused to analyse every answer.
Fact: She had opinions. Strong ones. His performance in River’s Edge had been self-indulgent. In Safar, he had saved a weak script with sheer screen presence. He chose too many commercial roles that did not challenge him.
Fact: She would never voice those opinions unless asked.
And then there was the truth she would never admit even to herself.
Half of India lost balance around Vikram Khanna. She was not special enough to be immune.
She reached the wide marble steps leading up to the main entrance. The doors were tall, carved, heavy enough to belong in a palace.
She adjusted her glasses again, smoothed the front of her kurta, and ran her hand lightly over her braid to make sure no strands had escaped.
One deep breath.
Then she climbed the steps. Her hand had barely lifted to knock when one of the double doors opened from inside.
A woman in a simple, neatly pressed salwar kameez stood there. Her face was calm, observant, neither warm nor cold.
“Miss Mathur?” she asked gently.
Divya nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. I’m here for the assistant position with Mr. Khanna.”
The woman stepped aside, gesturing her in. “Please come. I’m Lakshmi. Sir is finishing his workout.”
Divya stepped inside.
The air itself felt different. Cooler. Still. As if even dust particles here knew how to behave.
Lakshmi led her through the entrance hall. The house did not scream money. It carried the kind of wealth that had settled comfortably over decades.
Paintings framed in gold hung on walls so tall they reminded Divya of temple ceilings. A crystal chandelier caught the morning sun and scattered light across the room in sharp, dancing fragments.
She had never felt more aware of where she came from.
“Please sit,” Lakshmi said, gesturing toward a large living room that opened to the right. “Sir will come soon. Tea?”
“No, thank you,” Divya replied quickly, even though her throat felt painfully dry.
Lakshmi nodded once and disappeared silently.
Divya stood for a moment before approaching the sofa. Cream leather. Smooth. Untouched. It looked like something people admired but rarely used. She sat carefully on the edge, afraid she’d leave a mark.
Her bag suddenly seemed very old. The cracks at the corners stood out more. She placed it gently on the floor beside her feet, making sure it did not brush against the sofa.
She adjusted her glasses and looked around.
The walls were painted a shade of white that did not look like any white she had seen before. Soft. Expensive.
This one room was larger than her entire two-bedroom flat.
She folded her hands tightly in her lap to stop them from moving. Fifteen minutes passed. The wall clock ticked. She rehearsed answers in her head.
Why do you want this position?: Because it aligns with my academic training and offers practical exposure to celebrity management.
What are your weaknesses?: I can be overly detail-oriented.
Where do you see yourself in five years?: Working in media strategy for production houses.
A door opened somewhere deeper inside the house.
Two male voices carried through the hallway. One steady and commanding. The other answering with quiet respect. Footsteps followed. Measured. Unhurried.
Divya’s back straightened before she even realised she was doing it.
And then he walked in.