Chapter 5
Week Four - Thursday Evening
Vikram arrived at Khanna Sadan at exactly seven-thirty, steps lighter than usual.
That was the unusual part. No frantic phone calls in the car. No last-minute scheduling crisis. No breathless dash from one commitment to another.
Just… time.
He found his parents in the dining room. Kavita looked up from her magazine.
“On time,” she observed.
He bent to kiss her cheek. “Credit goes to Divya.”
“She called yesterday to confirm your arrival for my charity gala,” Kavita said. “Very thorough.” A pause. “Do you think she’ll last?”
“If she survives four months, it’ll be a record.”
Footsteps sounded from the hallway. Raghav entered mid-call, ending it when he saw his mother watching.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Sit,” she said calmly.
Raghav obeyed, loosening his tie as he took his seat. He poured himself water and drank half before speaking.
“Singapore deal closed,” he announced. “Three hundred crores.”
Vikram lifted his glass. “Congratulations.”
Raghav nodded, then looked at him more closely. “You’re early.”
“I’m on schedule.”
“For you, that’s early.” Raghav’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re not checking your phone.”
“Don’t need to. My assistant handles it.”
“How long has she lasted?” Raghav asked.
“One month.”
Raghav leaned back. “Mine is at four.”
Vikram’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Noted.”
“She’s still studying?” Kavita asked.
“Final year MA. Mass Communication.”
“And professional?”
“Extremely.” Vikram served himself. “She treats me like a logistics problem to solve.”
“That’s different,” Raghav observed.
“It is.” Vikram gestured vaguely at himself. “She’s focused on her degree. Not on any of this.”
“Between the two of you,” Kavita said with a sigh, “assistants don’t stand a chance.”
“This one’s different,” Vikram said. “She’s here for experience. Nothing else.”
Raghav studied him for a moment. “Four months. Let’s see if you make it.”
It shouldn’t have landed as a challenge. But something about the way Raghav said it, calm, assured, slightly amused, made Vikram’s competitive instinct flare.
“I’ll make it past four months,” Vikram said.
“We’ll see.”
Kavita watched this exchange with the serene expression of a woman who understood her sons better than they understood themselves.
The conversation shifted to safer topics, but Vikram’s mind kept circling back to Raghav’s comment.
Four months.
What annoyed him more than the competition was the sudden realization that he’d never seen Divya flustered. Not once. Not even when he’d finished a particularly intense action scene, shirtless, breathing hard, sweat-slicked, that had caused two makeup assistants to walk into equipment.
She’d simply handed him his shirt and reminded him about his three o’clock call.
As if he were an accountant. Not Vikram Khanna, voted “Most Desirable Man” three years running.
That unsettled him far more than admiration ever had.
The Next Day
Between takes, Vikram decided to test something.
He walked to the corner where Divya sat reviewing call sheets. She was humming again, some romantic old Hindi song, completely off-key.
He stopped beside her. “Divya.”
She looked up immediately. “Yes, Boss?”
He didn’t answer at once.
Instead, he leaned closer, one hand on the back of her chair. Close enough that she’d feel his presence. He adjusted his stance slightly, the way photographers preferred. One shoulder angled. Chin lowered.
He shifted nearer. Not touching. But near enough that she’d have to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
He lowered his voice. The version directors loved. The one that wrapped around dialogue like velvet. “I was thinking about the weekend schedule.”
He let a small smile curve his mouth. Not the wide, public one. The slower one. The deliberate one.
Divya blinked. That faint crease appeared between her brows.
“Is there a scheduling conflict?” she asked immediately. “The charity gala is at seven. I’ve accounted for traffic diversions. If you want, I can increase the buffer.”
He stared.
Nothing.
No change in breathing. No flicker in her eyes. No awareness that he was standing close enough for her to notice his cologne.
“We might need flexibility,” he continued, leaning in fractionally.
“For travel or media interaction?”
His jaw tightened. She had reduced his performance to logistics.
“The schedule is fine,” he said finally, stepping back.
“Okay, Boss.”
She returned to her color coding. Blue. Yellow. Pink.
Vikram walked away slowly. Either his effect was fading, or Divya Mathur was completely immune. Both possibilities irritated him equally.
He glanced back. She was humming again. Still off-key. Completely absorbed in aligning papers. She noticed everything about his schedule. His habits. His timing.
But not him.
It was the most confusing form of efficiency he’d ever encountered.
That evening, the shoot wrapped earlier than expected. In his vanity van, Vikram scrolled through his phone while Divya reviewed final details for the weekend.
“The charity gala requires formal attire,” Divya said, making notes. “Your tuxedo has been delivered. Car arrives at 6:30 tomorrow evening.”
Vikram adjusted his collar in the mirror. “Riya will attend with me. Make sure the press release mentions we’re arriving together.”
He watched her reflection carefully, looking for any reaction, a pause in her writing, a tightening around her eyes, anything that suggested his casual mention of Riya Sharma registered as more than a scheduling detail.
Divya’s pen moved smoothly. “Okay, Boss. I’ll coordinate with her team about timing.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
What Vikram couldn’t see from his angle was the way her other hand had fisted in her lap beneath the call sheets. Couldn’t see her swallow once, hard, before continuing to write. Couldn’t catch the moment her eyes closed briefly behind her glasses. It was a tiny, private reset.
“Also,” he continued, still watching, “schedule a lunch with her next week. Somewhere public. Filmfare wants a quote about our ‘relationship.”
“Understood. I’ll send options tomorrow.”
Still nothing visible. Perfect professional composure.
He turned back to his phone, satisfied and irritated that his assistant was exactly what she appeared to be, efficient, practical, completely unaffected by the complications of his public life.
He missed entirely the way she gripped her pen tighter. The slight tremor in her hand as she underlined “Riya Sharma” in her notes.
Divya had been sixteen when she’d first watched Vikram Khanna’s interview on Film Companion. Had paused and replayed certain moments to understand why particular expressions worked. Had chosen him as her undergraduate thesis subject.
Not because he was handsome. Though he was. But because in his early films, there had been something unguarded. A softness in the pauses. It had felt real.
That thesis had earned her an A. That interest had led to Mrs. Menon’s class. That connection had placed her here. Now she sat inside his vanity van almost every day, closer to him than she’d ever imagined possible.
What unsettled her wasn’t his appearance. She’d prepared for that. It was the small, unpublicized things.
The way he remembered the spot boy’s daughter’s exam results. The way he arranged food for the makeup team during early morning shoots. The way he listened when a junior actor nervously asked for advice.
Those moments were far more dangerous than any magazine cover. But she’d learned to store each observation in a mental folder marked temporary.
Six months total. Four months left.
Then she’d leave. Finish her degree. Build a career on her own merit. The ache she felt when he mentioned Riya Sharma was irrelevant.
Temporary.
She finished her notes, closed her notebook with steady hands, and stood. “I’ll send the final schedule by tonight.”
“Thank you,” he said, still looking at his phone.
She walked out of the van, down the three metal steps, across the set toward the production office.
Only when she was alone in the bathroom with the door locked, did she allow herself to lean against the sink.
She removed her glasses and rubbed the faint marks on her nose. The mirror reflected a familiar face. Simple. Serious. Sensible. Not the kind of girl men like Vikram Khanna fell in love with.
“Crushes are meant to be crushed,” she whispered to her reflection.
The words sounded firm. Like strategy. Like protection.
Tomorrow she would wear them like armor when he smiled unexpectedly. When his fingers brushed hers taking a file. When Riya’s name entered another conversation.
The girl in the mirror looked back. Unconvinced. But trying.