Chapter 21
Divya sat in the study, trying to focus on notes that refused to make sense. Her mind kept drifting back to yesterday, the photoshoot, the way Vikram had held her, the darkness in his eyes that had looked nothing like acting.
When they’d returned home, he’d disappeared immediately. “I need to practice some scenes,” he’d said, voice rough. “I’ll be in the study.”
This morning, he’d surprised her. Appeared at breakfast looking tired but determined, announced he’d canceled today’s shoot. “I need to sleep,” he’d said simply, then disappeared upstairs.
So she’d moved to the study to give him the bedroom. Except now she was surrounded by his things, his scripts, his reading glasses, the faint scent of his cologne, and her concentration was nonexistent.
She stared at the same paragraph for the fifth time, seeing nothing but the memory of his thumb brushing across her lower lip.
That’s when someone knocked.
The door swung open to reveal Ishani balancing a large vanity kit in one hand and several shopping bags in the other. She kicked the door shut with practiced grace, grinning.
“Emergency intervention,” Ishani announced, dropping the bags on the desk. “Actually, overdue sister bonding.”
Divya stared at the bags, recognizing logos from stores she’d never entered. “What’s all this?”
“Options.” Ishani sat on the desk, kicking off her heels. “And before you protest, this isn’t because you need fixing. This is because you’re family now, and I get to corrupt you properly.”
She pulled out a professionally printed booklet, spiral-bound, with “Style Guide: Divya Khanna (But Make It Fun)” embossed on the cover.
“You made me a manual?”
“I made you a cheat sheet.” Ishani unzipped the vanity kit. “Because imagining you navigate Mom’s social calendar in wire-rimmed glasses and a single braid is like watching someone go to war with a butter knife. Effective, sure. But unnecessarily difficult.”
Divya smiled despite herself. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“That’s literally why I’m here. First rule: this is supposed to be enjoyable. If it’s not fun, we stop. Deal?”
“Deal.”
For the next two hours, Ishani demonstrated makeup techniques with running commentary that had Divya laughing.
“Eyeliner is basically just drawing. Except if you mess up, you look like a raccoon who’s made questionable life choices.”
She showed Divya how to enhance features without masking them, subtle techniques that worked with her natural appearance.
“You have incredible cheekbones. Why are you hiding them? It’s like owning a Ferrari and using it to deliver newspapers.”
When they moved to clothes, Ishani pulled out pieces that looked nothing like Divya’s practical wardrobe. Fitted blouses in jewel tones. Tailored trousers. Dresses that acknowledged the existence of curves.
“These aren’t me,” Divya said, holding up a sapphire blue wrap dress.
“They’re not current-you. But they could be expanded-you. You contain multitudes, Divya. Might as well have clothes that match.”
Ishani’s expression shifted, becoming more serious without losing its warmth.
“This isn’t about fixing you. This is about giving you options.
Some days you want to be invisible-practical-Divya.
Great. Some days you might want to be look-at-me-I’m-spectacular-Divya.
Also great. But right now, you only have one setting, and that’s limiting. ”
She squeezed Divya’s hand. “You walked into this family through chaos. But you’re here now, and you’re ours. That means I get to do sisterly things like teach you how to weaponize eyeliner and make you practice walking in heels.”
She closed the distance and wrapped her arms around Divya. “I’m always here whenever you need me. Never hesitate to reach out.”
Pulling back, she brushed a tear from the corner of Divya’s eye and pulled her cheeks, making her laugh.
By the time Ishani left, Divya stood alone before the mirror. Not transformed. But different. Like she’d been given permission to be more than one thing at once.
Two Nights Later
Divya stood before the bathroom mirror, attempting what Ishani had taught her.
The contacts went in after three tries, uncomfortable, making her blink rapidly, but they worked. The world sharpened without the barrier of her glasses.
Makeup came next. Light foundation. A touch of the eyeshadow. Subtle eyeliner that only went slightly crooked. Not perfect, but better than she’d expected.
She’d chosen a deep green dress. It actually fit, following lines she usually hid. The heels were only two inches, manageable if she didn’t think too hard about each step.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Vikram was adjusting his tie in the bedroom mirror. He turned at the sound of her footsteps.
His hands stilled. His eyes tracked from her face down to her heels and back up, lingering.
“You look...” He paused. “Different. Beautiful.”
“Ishani helped,” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it too much? I can change...”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than intended. He softened his tone. “You look perfect.”
Something in his expression made her breath catch, but before she could analyze it, he was already heading for the door.
“We should go. Can’t be late.”
◆◆◆
The ballroom of the Taj Land’s End glittered with Bollywood royalty. Divya stood by the refreshment table, a glass of untouched champagne giving her hands something to do besides fidget.
Sideways glances. Whispers behind manicured hands. Curious stares that quickly darted away when she looked back. She’d become a curiosity, the assistant who somehow secured Bollywood’s most eligible bachelor.
Across the room, Vikram stood in conversation with a prominent producer.
Even from a distance, she could read his body language perfectly, the slight forward tilt when listening, the measured gestures, the practiced smile.
In his charcoal suit and crimson tie, he looked exactly like what he was, a man born to command these spaces.
“That’s a serious expression for such a beautiful face.”
The voice came from her left, smooth, calculated for maximum charm. A young actor stepped into her space. Ayaansh Malhotra. Rising star. Three hit films last year.
“Just thinking,” she replied, taking a small step back.
He followed. “About what? How you’re the luckiest woman in this room?”
His smile revealed perfect teeth, but his eyes held something less pleasant, assessment, curiosity.
“I don’t believe in luck,” she said.
“Ah, there it is.” Ayaansh leaned closer. “That charming simplicity. So refreshing.” His eyes swept over her, lingering in places that made her skin crawl. “You’re different.”
She shifted, looking for an escape route. “I should probably...”
“Why rush?” He stepped closer. “I’m shooting an independent film next month. Very artistic. You should visit the set. I could give you a private tour.”
His emphasis on “private” left little doubt about his intentions.
“I appreciate the offer, but...”
“I insist.” His hand found her shoulder. “Someone with your unique insight would find it fascinating. And Vikram doesn’t need to know. What happens between colleagues stays between colleagues, right?”
The implication hung in the air, ugly and unmistakable.
Across the room, something shifted.
Vikram’s conversation stopped mid-sentence. His head turned sharply, eyes locking onto Ayaansh’s hand on Divya’s shoulder. The change that came over his face was subtle but absolute, the smile vanishing, replaced by something cold.
He excused himself from the producer without pleasantries. Then he moved.
Not hurried. But inevitable. The crowd sensed something and parted instinctively, conversations faltering as he passed.
Divya saw him coming. The expression on his face made her breath catch. She’d never seen him look like that. Not angry. Dangerous.
Ayaansh didn’t notice, still leaning close.
“Think about it. My driver could pick you up anytime...”
A hand slid across Divya’s lower back. Possessive. Vikram appeared beside her, his body angled forward, deliberately inserting himself between her and Ayaansh with enough force that the younger actor had to step back.
“Ayaansh.” The greeting was arctic. “Remove your hand from my wife. Now.”
Ayaansh’s hand dropped immediately, but his smile stayed in place, nervous now. “Vikram! I was just telling your lovely wife about my new project...”
“I don’t care.” Vikram’s voice dropped lower, quieter, infinitely more threatening. “You touched her. That was your first mistake. Propositioning her was your second. Would you like to make a third?”
The ballroom had gone quiet around them. People were watching now, not even pretending otherwise.
Ayaansh’s face drained of color. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, you did.” Vikram stepped closer. “Let me be very clear. My wife is not available for your ‘private tours’ or whatever pathetic euphemism you’re using.”
He pulled Divya closer to his side. “If I ever see you near her again, if you so much as look in her direction, I will make it my personal mission to ensure every producer, every director, every casting agent in this industry knows exactly what kind of man you are. Do you understand me?”
Ayaansh’s throat worked visibly. “Yes. I’m sorry. I apologize, Mrs. Khanna. It won’t happen again.”
“No,” Vikram agreed, his smile appearing, cold and sharp. “It won’t.”
Ayaansh fled, nearly colliding with a waiter in his haste.
The surrounding guests pretended they hadn’t witnessed the exchange, conversations resuming with forced casualness. But Divya could feel eyes on them, could sense the shift in the room’s energy.
Vikram Khanna had just publicly threatened a fellow actor. Over his wife.
“We should go,” Vikram said, hand still firm at her waist.
“Are you sure? The party’s not...”
“Now.”
His tone brooked no argument. They said polite goodbyes, Vikram’s mask sliding back into place. But his hand never left her waist, and the tension in his body never eased.
◆◆◆
In the car, silence stretched between them. Divya twisted her hands in her lap.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she said finally. “Threaten him like that. It could damage your reputation. Make people think…”
“What?” He turned to look at her. “Make people think I’m possessive? Territorial? Exactly what I am when someone touches what’s mine?”
“I’m not...” She stopped, unsure how to finish.
“Not what? Not mine?”
She forced the words out. “This is temporary, remember? Two years. Then I go back to being nobody, and you go back to your life. You don’t need to...”
“What?” His voice had gone dangerously quiet. “Temporary? A convenient arrangement? Is that what you think this is?”
She looked at him, confused by the anger beneath his words. “Isn’t it? That’s what we agreed...”
“Fuck what we agreed.”
The curse shocked her. Vikram never lost composure like this.
“I don’t understand...”
“I know you don’t.” He turned away, staring out the window. “That’s the problem.”
The silence that followed felt different. Heavier.
And then she understood. The word that had triggered this.
Temporary.
The reminder of their expiration date. The casual way she’d reduced everything between them to a business arrangement.
She’d hurt him. Without meaning to, without understanding how, she’d hurt him.
“I…”
“Don’t.” His voice was flat. “Not right now.”
The rest of the drive passed in tense silence. When they reached Khanna Sadan, Vikram got out without waiting for the driver. He didn’t offer to help her out, didn’t touch her, didn’t look at her.
“I need to go out,” he said to the empty air between them. “Clear my head.”
“It’s almost midnight...”
“I’m aware of the time.”
He walked back to the car, got in, and told the driver something she couldn’t hear. The car pulled away, leaving her standing in the driveway.
Inside, Kavita appeared in the hallway, having clearly waited up.
“Everything alright?” she asked, though her eyes said she already knew the answer.
“I don’t know,” Divya admitted. “I think I hurt him, but I don’t understand how.”
Kavita studied her for a long moment. “Men are complicated creatures, beta. Especially when they’re feeling things they haven’t given themselves permission to feel.”
“I don’t...”
“It’s okay. Go to bed,” Kavita said gently. “He’ll come home when he’s ready.”
But lying in bed an hour later, Divya couldn’t sleep. She pulled out her notes, tried to focus. When that failed, she made chai, brought it back to the bedroom, and spread her research across the desk.
She would wait up. Just to make sure he got home safely.
That was the lie she told herself as the hours ticked past midnight, as her chai went cold, as her eyes grew heavy.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, glasses discarded on the desk beside cold chai.
Outside, the night deepened. Inside, she waited.
For him to come home. For morning. For understanding that felt just out of reach.