Chapter 3
Vikram Khanna did not simply enter a room. He shifted its centre of gravity.
He wore a black T-shirt darkened with sweat, clinging to his chest and shoulders that looked larger in real life than on any screen. Grey track pants sat low on his hips. His hair was damp, pushed back carelessly, and a shadow of stubble lined his jaw.
He looked less polished than he had on the red carpet last night.
He looked more dangerous.
Without pausing, he reached for a glass of fresh orange juice from a tray that appeared beside him almost instantly.
Divya stood up so fast her knee nearly hit the coffee table.
Her brain malfunctioned.
She had studied his interviews for assignments. Written notes on his media training style. Critiqued his film choices. None of that had prepared her for this.
In person, he was… overwhelming.
Taller than she had imagined. Broader. Solid in a way that made him seem less like a celebrity and more like something carved out of certainty.
The room felt smaller around him. He smelled faintly of sweat and citrus and sandalwood. Clean. Warm. Alive.
Divya’s carefully arranged facts scattered like loose papers in a strong wind.
Fact: He is human.
Her heart disagreed.
She realized she’d been staring when his dark eyes met hers directly. She straightened her spine, forcing oxygen back into her lungs.
“Good morning, sir,” she managed, proud that her voice sounded almost normal.
Vikram didn’t respond immediately. He drank his juice in three long swallows, his gaze never leaving her face. Then he handed the empty glass to the waiting servant without looking.
Up close, she noticed something she hadn’t expected. Faint shadows under his eyes. A thin line of fatigue around them. The premiere had ended late. The after-party ran probably later. And yet here he was at six in the morning, already awake, already in control.
His eyes moved over her in a single sweep—taking in her wire-rimmed glasses, her simple blue kurta, her practical braid, and her perfect posture. His expression revealed nothing, but his assessment was thorough.
Divya resisted the urge to push her glasses up again. She refused to shrink. She refused to blush. She filed her body’s reaction under a mental label: Handle professionally. Do not revisit.
“You’re early,” he finally said. His voice was deeper in person. Rougher.
“Yes, sir. Fifteen minutes.”
“Good. I hate waiting.”
He moved to the sofa opposite hers and sat with casual grace, stretching one arm along the back.
The position pulled his t-shirt tighter across his chest, which Divya absolutely did not notice because she was a professional who had come here to work, not to observe how his workout had apparently been effective.
“Sit,” he said. It was not a suggestion.
She sat immediately, still on the edge of the cushion, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Every nerve in her body alert.
For another long moment, he just studied her.
Up close, she could see the tiny scar near his right eyebrow that makeup artists usually covered for film.
The slight asymmetry of his features somehow made him more attractive.
The way one corner of his mouth naturally turned up, giving him a continuous hint of amusement even when his eyes remained serious.
This was the face that launched a thousand brand endorsements. That made teenage girls plaster posters on their walls. That commanded hundred crores per film.
And it was currently focused entirely on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“You’re Mrs. Menon’s recommendation.”
It wasn’t the question she’d prepared for, but Divya’s mind finally kicked back into gear. This wasn’t a god or a celebrity sitting across from her. This was her potential employer, and she had a job to do.
The thought steadied her.
“Yes, sir. Divya Mathur.” She resisted the urge to extend her hand for a shake. Mrs. Menon had mentioned that Vikram didn’t like unnecessary physical contact with staff. “I am completing my Mass Communication degree under her guidance.”
“And now you want to work in Bollywood.” Again, not a question.
“I want to work in media management, sir. This internship is part of my MA requirements.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. The position made him seem both more casual and more intimidating somehow. “Call me Vikram. ‘Sir’ makes me feel like my father.”
“Yes, sir… I mean, yes.” She adjusted her glasses with her knuckle, a nervous habit she couldn’t control.
His eyes tracked the movement. “Do you know why my last assistants quit?”
Divya had prepared for this. “I understand the position has high work demands,” she replied calmly.
A small smile touched his lips. “That’s a diplomatic answer.
Let me be less diplomatic.” He settled back against the sofa.
“My assistants quit because they couldn’t handle the hours.
One of them couldn’t deal with my schedule changing every thirty minutes.
One of them found me difficult to work with when I’m preparing for intense roles. ”
He paused, studying her reaction. Divya kept her expression neutral.
“And the last two,” he continued, voice dropping slightly, “developed feelings they couldn’t manage professionally.”
The statement hung in the air between them. Divya understood it for what it was. Not arrogance but a warning.
“I see,” she said evenly.
“Do you?”
“Yes. You’re clarifying expectations. And limits.” She held his gaze. “I’m here for my MA internship requirement and practical experience. Mrs. Menon recommended me because she believes I can handle pressure. I’m not here for anything else.”
For a second, something shifted in his expression. Surprise, perhaps. Or approval.
“Good,” he said after a pause. “You’ll shadow me for a week. Learn the rhythm. After that, you’ll manage my schedule, coordinate with my PR team, handle communication with production houses. You make sure I’m where I need to be, with what I need.”
“I understand.”
“Most days begin at six. Some end past midnight. Weekends aren’t guaranteed.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
He studied her again, more carefully this time. “You live in Andheri East, correct?”
The fact that he knew this unsettled her slightly. “Yes.”
“That’s a long commute at early hours. We’ll arrange a driver.”
“That’s not nec...”
“It’s not negotiable.” He cut her off smoothly. “I need you functional, not exhausted from public transport at 4 AM.”
Divya nodded once. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s practical, not generous.” He stood abruptly. “Meet me at Krishna Studios at eleven. Prerna, my former assistant, left notes and schedules. I’ll have them sent to your email this morning.”
She rose as well, smoothing her kurta. “What should I prepare for today?”
Again, that flicker of surprise. His previous assistants must have been either too intimidated to ask questions or too eager to please.
“We’re finishing promotions for River’s Edge. Observe today. By next week, you handle press coordination yourself.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And don’t call me ‘sir.’”
The words left her mouth before she could reconsider: “Okay, Boss.”
He stopped mid-step. For a brief second, the room felt still again. He turned slightly, studying her with a new expression. Not evaluation this time. Interest. The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Okay, Boss works.” He nodded once, decision made. “Krishna Studios. Eleven. Building Three, Suite 204.” He was already moving toward the stairs, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Lakshmi ji will show you out.”
As he climbed the stairs, she heard him speaking into his phone. “Anil, about the afternoon shoot, I need the lighting changed in the third sequence. The shadows aren’t working…”
His voice faded as he disappeared upstairs. Lakshmi reappeared as if summoned, smiling kindly at Divya. “This way, Miss.”
Lakshmi led her back through the vast entrance hall. The marble floors did not feel as cold now. The chandelier did not seem as blinding. Divya walked with steadier steps, her bag tucked firmly against her side.
At the main door, Lakshmi gave her a small nod. Divya stepped outside. The morning air hit her face, warm and real. She paused at the top of the marble steps and inhaled deeply.
She had done it.
She had not stammered. She had not gaped at him like a starstruck teenager. She had not confessed that she had once written a ten-page paper dissecting his performance choices.
The gardens looked different now. Less like a museum display. More like landscaping. The bougainvillea were just flowers again. The fountain was just water. The mansion was just… a house.
A very large house.
But still.
Her heart was still racing, but that was just adrenaline.
The faint trace of citrus and sandalwood and sweat that lingered in her senses was simply because she had been in the same room.
It meant nothing. The way he had actually listened to her answers instead of dismissing her was just professionalism.
Nothing more.
She adjusted her glasses and squared her shoulders before descending the steps.
By the time she reached the driveway, her mind was already working.
Go home. Change into something more formal for the studio. Review every promotional interview from River’s Edge. Create a template for press coordination notes. Organise questions by publication type.
She was completely professional, absolutely focused and totally unaffected. If she repeated it enough times, perhaps she would believe it.