Chapter 7
Two Months Later
She picked up on the second ring. “Yes, Boss?”
No irritation. No sleep-heavy voice.
“Tomorrow’s off,” he said.
A soft shuffle of papers on her end. “Off? Is the shoot canceled?”
“No shoot. My brother’s engagement is being fixed tomorrow. I need to be with my family.”
A brief pause.
“Oh.” Her tone shifted, warmer. “That’s wonderful news. Congratulations to Mr. Raghav.”
He almost smiled. “I’ll tell him. We’ll resume the day after.”
“Okay, Boss.”
He ended the call before it turned into a conversation.
Across the city, Divya didn’t immediately return to her thesis. Instead, she opened her laptop. Three emails to the production house. Costume fitting moved to Friday. Message to the stunt coordinator about the revised timeline. Calendar adjusted.
Only after every slot was reorganized did she shut the screen.
In his room, Vikram dropped his phone onto the bed and lay back. The silence felt heavier than usual. He had just told an intern something private. He could have just said, No shoot tomorrow.
That would have been enough.
Why explain?
A Khanna engagement was not small news. It would be covered. Analyzed. Speculated upon. Information like that usually passed through his publicist before reaching anyone.
With Divya, he had said it without thinking.
He told himself it was practicality. She had signed the NDA. In three months, she had not leaked a single photograph. Not one careless comment. Not one misplaced detail.
She was professional to a fault.
But as he stared at the ceiling, he knew that wasn’t the full truth. He trusted her. Trusted the way she never probed for more than she needed to know. Trusted the way she absorbed information and stored it without exploiting it.
In an industry where everyone angled for advantage, Divya Mathur asked for nothing. She simply made his days smoother. And that quiet reliability had become something he relied on more than he intended.
The thought unsettled him.
Because this, this instinct to share without calculation, was not something Vikram Khanna did lightly.
Two Days Later
Vikram scrolled through his tablet, grinning at photo after photo of his perfectly composed brother looking utterly besotted while guiding Ishani through reporters.
“Oh, Raghav,” he chuckled. “The mighty CEO, brought to his knees.”
He paused on one image. Raghav was glaring at a reporter who’d stepped too close to Ishani, his hand possessively spanning her lower back.
His controlled, calculated brother, the man who hated media attention, now dominated every gossip column in Mumbai.
Vikram reached for the call button. Three seconds later, the door opened.
Divya stepped in, notebook clutched to her chest, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses.
“You called, Boss?”
“My brother’s in love,” Vikram announced, waving his tablet. “And the media is having a field day.”
“Oh.” A small smile appeared. “That’s wonderful.”
“It is.” He set the tablet down. “I need you to coordinate some media responses. High-profile outlets get priority statements. Regional media gets official confirmation. Nothing leaked, everything controlled.”
“Okay, Boss. I’ll draft responses and send them for your approval.”
“No need. You know what I want. Handle it.”
She nodded, making notes. Then glanced up. “Oh, and Riya Ma’am’s assistant called twice this morning. She’s planned dinner tonight. Eight o’clock. I’ve already confirmed you’ll be there.”
The shift in topic was so abrupt that Vikram blinked. “Wait...what?”
“Dinner with Riya Ma’am. Tonight at eight. At Citrus. Private dining room.”
“Tell her I’m filming,” Vikram groaned.
“You wrapped yesterday.” Her response came without missing a beat.
“Tell her I’m sick.”
“She’ll send a doctor.” Divya’s voice was gentle but firm. “Your blue Tom Ford suit is being pressed. Car picks you up at seven-thirty. I’ve ordered orchids. Her assistant mentioned they’re her favorite after the lilies incident last time. I’ve also noted it in the preferences file.”
Vikram stared at her. “You keep notes on Riya’s flower preferences?”
“I keep notes on all frequent contacts’ preferences. It’s more efficient than asking each time.”
Something about the simple practicality of it, the way she managed his supposed relationship with the same efficiency she managed everything else, irritated him in a way he couldn’t quite name.
“You’re very thorough,” he said.
“I try my best.” She looked up from her notebook, expression earnest. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
The simple sincerity behind her words caught him off guard.
“You’re not disappointing anyone,” he said, voice softening. “You’re doing great.”
Her smile could have lit up the entire van. “Thank you, Boss.”
Vikram found himself watching that smile, the way it transformed her face from merely pleasant to something that caught and held his attention. The realization made him slightly uncomfortable.
“Your call time is in eighteen minutes,” Divya said, already shifting back to efficiency. “Costume is ready, and makeup is waiting.” She tucked her notebook against her chest. “And congratulations to your brother. It’s really very romantic.”
The unexpected softness in her voice caught him off-guard. “It is, isn’t it? Love at first interview.”
Her laugh was soft, almost musical. A sound he realized he’d heard rarely in their time working together.
She slipped out of the van, closing the door with a soft click.
Vikram stared at the closed door for a moment longer than necessary.
He had heard Divya speak every day for three months. Calm. Measured. Efficient. But laughter? Rare. And when she smiled, really smiled, it altered her face in a way that was… distracting.
He swiped back to the engagement photos of Raghav and Ishani, but his mind drifted.
Divya’s expression earlier. The careful notes about Riya’s preferred flowers. The way she’d said everything with such calm professionalism.
She genuinely believed he and Riya were something real. That she was coordinating for an actual relationship.
And she was so… comfortable with it. Too comfortable. No hesitation. No flicker. Just pure efficiency.
He could clarify. Tell her plainly that he and Riya were just co-stars with good PR chemistry. That the dinners and flowers were optics. That nothing about it was personal.
But why would he? What difference did it make what his assistant believed about his personal life?
It changed nothing.
Unless.
Unless the idea that she thought he was taken bothered him.
The realization annoyed him further. It wasn’t as if he owed her an explanation. It wasn’t as if she had asked. She had simply done her job. Efficiently. Without emotional investment.
And that, somehow, was the problem.
He stood abruptly, checking his reflection in the mirror.
He didn’t know why the thought of her calmly managing his supposed romance with Riya left a sharp edge under his ribs.
Annoying. Completely unnecessary.
Divya was his assistant. Riya was his co-star. Everything was exactly as it should be.
So why did it feel slightly off?
That Evening - Citrus
Dinner at Citrus was choreography.
Vikram reached across the table and brushed his fingers over Riya’s wrist. His smile landed exactly where it needed to, warm, controlled, suggestive without commitment.
The private dining room had just enough “accidental” witnesses. A waiter who lingered a second too long. Two diners near the window who held their phones at suspiciously steady angles.
“You’re distracted,” Riya murmured, turning her wrist so his hand framed her bracelet perfectly.
“Long day,” he replied, thumb tracing a slow arc over her skin. “This director is too meticulous.”
She laughed. Not her real laugh. The calibrated one. Softer than red-carpet volume, louder than intimacy.
“How tragic. You, forced to work hard.”
He took a measured sip of wine. “My assistant reshuffled half of tomorrow for him. Efficient to a dangerous degree.”
“The one with glasses?” Riya asked. “She coordinated tonight. Sent orchids.”
“She’s thorough.”
“Keep her,” Riya said lightly. “Your last assistant sent lilies. I’m allergic.”
A waiter placed their food. They adjusted instinctively, angles, posture, distance. Every movement muscle memory now. Shared dessert. Fed each other a bite. Laughed at nothing in particular.
Outside, cameras waited.
He guided Riya through the flashes, palm at her waist. Protective but not possessive. Kissed her temple at the car.
“Tell your mother happy birthday,” he whispered.
“Call me tomorrow,” she said loudly enough for effect.
His driver closed the door behind him. The sound sealed him into sudden silence, cutting off the shouted questions and camera clicks. The tinted windows turned the world outside into a muted light show.
The moment the car pulled away, Vikram’s shoulders dropped. He exhaled heavily and hooked a finger beneath his tie knot, tugging it loose. He unfastened his top button. Then the next.
“Home, sir?” his driver asked.
“Yes.”
The car merged into late-night traffic.
Vikram reached for his phone. Three missed calls from his publicist. An email from his agent. A text from his mother.
And a message from Divya.
He opened it immediately. Tomorrow’s schedule broken down into precise blocks, color-coded by priority.
She’d shifted his morning interview from 8:00 to 8:30.
Added a note: “Spoke with Filmfare. They agreed to the later start since your dinner ran late. Coffee will be ready when you arrive.”
She’d known he would be tired. Had made the adjustment without being asked. Had solved the problem before he’d recognized it would exist.
The corner of his mouth lifted without performance or calculation.
His thumb hovered over her name. He should send a quick thanks. Instead, he found himself scrolling back up, rereading the precise, practical words.
He remembered her laugh from that afternoon.
The memory triggered something physical, a lightening in his chest, a slight acceleration of his pulse.
Vikram closed his eyes.
Tomorrow’s script reading. That’s what he should be thinking about. Character motivations. Emotional beats.
Not the way Divya tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating. Not how she hummed tunelessly when organizing his calendar. Not the fact that she’d somehow known he hated early mornings after late events.
He opened his eyes and navigated to the script notes. He needed to focus. Keep the boundaries clear. Maintain the professional distance.
But as the car carried him home, Vikram found himself wondering what Divya was doing right now.
Whether she was still awake.
Whether she ever looked at the photos of him and Riya and believed the performance they so carefully staged.
Whether it would matter to her if she knew the truth.
Midnight
Divya’s laptop lit up her room. She lowered the brightness, but the images stayed sharp.
Vikram’s hand on Riya’s wrist.
Their heads tilted close.
The warm gold lighting of Citrus turning them into something almost unreal.
Every entertainment site carried the same headline: “Bollywood’s Golden Couple Enjoy Intimate Dinner Date.”
She sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, back against the wall. Laptop balanced on her knees. Her old college festival t-shirt hung loose. Hair damp from a quick shower.
On screen, Riya shimmered in midnight blue silk. Diamonds at her ears. Perfect waves. Vikram beside her, tailored and effortless, smiling like the world existed to frame him.
From the kitchen came the familiar rhythm of steel plates meeting water. Her mother finishing up. Ordinary sounds.
Divya clicked another photo.
This one caught Vikram helping Riya with her wrap. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders. His face angled toward her with that soft expression the articles called “undeniable chemistry.”
She zoomed in before she could stop herself.
Was that the same warmth he used when he said, You’re really good at this?
No.
Of course not.
That had been professional approval.
This was personal.
Her finger pressed harder than necessary as she closed the browser. The window vanished.
“Divya?” her mother called. “Warm milk?”
“No, Maa. I’ll sleep soon.”
“Don’t strain your eyes.”
She opened her thesis.
The cursor blinked at the end of her last paragraph.
Analysis of framing techniques. Audience perception. Cultural construction of intimacy.
She straightened her back until it hurt slightly. Discipline first. Feelings later. Or never.
She began to type.
Clear sentences. Structured thought. Evidence. Argument.
This was measurable. This had value.
Not the fact that she knew Vikram preferred one and a half sugars.
Not the way she anticipated his moods by the way he loosened his cuffs.
Not the way she had reorganized half his week tonight before returning to her own work.
Those were logistics. Professional reflexes.
Nothing else.
She typed faster.
Paragraph after paragraph formed. Solid, intelligent, sharp.
On screen, she wrote about how cinema manufactures romance through lighting, framing, and gesture. How audiences are trained to read proximity as intimacy. How repetition turns performance into perceived truth.
She kept typing, letting the rhythm of the keys drown out the memory of Vikram’s hand on Riya’s shoulder.
Her glasses slid down her nose again. She pushed them back up and kept writing.
The thesis demanded focus. Required analysis.
Unlike feelings that went nowhere. Unlike hope that had no foundation. Unlike the careful distance she maintained while coordinating his romance with someone else.
She saved the document. Closed the laptop.
Tomorrow would start at five-thirty. Another day of efficiency. Another day of perfect professionalism.
Another day of pretending that “Okay, Boss” was all she wanted to say.
She switched off the lamp. Streetlight filtered through the thin curtain.
In the darkness, she let herself think about Vikram’s smile one more time. The real one. Not the one for cameras.
Just once.
Then she’d forget again tomorrow.