Chapter 22
Temporary. Just temporary. Two years and then back to being nobody.
Her words had played on repeat for hours as he’d driven aimlessly through Mumbai’s emptying streets. Each repetition had carved deeper, drawing blood from wounds he hadn’t realized existed.
She thought this was temporary. Thought she was nobody. Thought two years from now she’d go back to being invisible.
The anger had burned hot at first, at her blindness, at her inability to see what was right in front of her, at the casual way she’d dismissed everything between them as just an arrangement.
But beneath the anger lay something worse: fear. Fear that she was right. Fear that two years from now, she would leave. Fear that he’d fallen for someone who saw herself as a placeholder in his life.
He’d driven for hours, trying to outrun the realization. Trying to talk himself out of feelings that had grown roots too deep to extract.
It hadn’t worked.
He let himself into the quiet house, climbing the stairs to their bedroom with exhausted steps. The door was ajar, she never locked it, some part of her still not quite believing this space was hers.
He pushed it open and stopped in the doorway.
Divya sat at the small desk, head resting on her folded arms, surrounded by scattered notes and research papers. A cup of chai sat at her elbow, long gone cold. She’d fallen asleep working, as she so often did.
She’d waited up for him.
Even after their fight, even after he’d walked away without explanation, she’d stayed awake. Tried to work but clearly couldn’t focus, the notes were barely filled in, the chai barely touched. She’d been too worried to concentrate.
Worried about him.
He stood looking at her longer than he intended, just watching her breathe. The steady rise and fall of her shoulders. The way her hair had escaped its braid to fall across her face.
After a moment’s hesitation, fighting with himself about boundaries and propriety, he crossed to her.
She was going to wake with a terrible crick in her neck if he left her like this.
That’s what he told himself as he carefully slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her against his chest.
She stirred, nestling instinctively against him. Even unconscious, even after their argument, her body recognized his. Trusted him.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
He carried her to the bed, intending to set her down quickly. But when he lowered her to the mattress, her hand fisted in his shirt, holding him there.
“You’re home?” she murmured, not quite awake.
“I’m home,” he said quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Waited for you,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “Wanted to make sure...”
She drifted off mid-sentence, her grip on his shirt loosening.
He should leave. Should step back. Should put distance between them before he did something stupid like confess feelings she clearly didn’t want.
Instead, he allowed himself one moment. One small indulgence.
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, soft, perfect, utterly devastating. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted it so badly his hands shook with the effort of restraint.
But she’d been clear. Two years. Then freedom.
He forced himself to step back.
The movement brought his attention to her desk, to the notes she’d been working on. Her thesis research. He moved closer, intending just to mark her place.
That’s when he saw the notebook.
Small. Blue leather. Tucked partially beneath her thesis notes like she’d been reading it before falling asleep.
He shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t.
He looked anyway.
The final page was dated yesterday.
“Today at the industry party, Ayaansh Malhotra touched my arm. Vikram saw it from across the room. Six strides. No smile. ‘Back off.’ His hand stayed at my back for the rest of the night.”
He flipped back. An older entry. The handwriting was younger, less certain.
“Watched Vikram Khanna’s interview on Film Companion today. Sixteen years old and I’m crying over how beautifully he talks about his craft. This is pathetic. I’m pathetic. But God, what I wouldn’t give to meet someone who sees the world the way he does.”
Vikram’s breath caught.
Sixteen. She’d been sixteen when she’d first seen him, first felt something for him.
Then there was an entry, dated two days ago:
“I think I’m in love with him. No, I know I am.
Have been for longer than I want to admit.
But he married me out of obligation. Out of protecting his reputation and mine.
And in two years, when this arrangement ends, I’ll have to watch him move on to someone who actually fits in his world.
Someone beautiful and polished and worthy of him.
I’m not sure how I’ll survive it. But maybe it’s better to have these two years than nothing at all. Better to pretend it's real, even knowing it's not. Even knowing he's just being kind.
God, I'm going to get my heart broken so badly."
His hands trembled.
He stood there, staring at the notebook like it might transform into something else if he looked long enough.
She loved him.
Had loved him since she was sixteen. Had fallen harder working for him. Was in love with him now, while simultaneously convinced he was just being kind.
While thinking she'd never be good enough for him.
The revelation hit with physical force.
He turned to look at her, curled on the bed where he'd placed her. And suddenly, with devastating clarity, he understood.
Divya had spent her entire life believing she didn't deserve to be seen. That she wasn't beautiful or special or worthy of attention. That the best she could hope for was to be useful, competent, invisible.
She’d married him thinking it was temporary because she couldn’t fathom any other possibility. Couldn’t imagine that someone like him might actually want her. She was terrified of hoping. Terrified of believing this could be real because when it inevitably ended, it would destroy her.
So she’d built walls. Convinced herself it was temporary. Protected herself with that certainty because uncertainty was too dangerous.
And he’d been so focused on showing the world she wasn't ordinary that he'd never stopped to show her.
The anger from earlier evaporated, replaced by something else entirely.
He looked back at the notebook. She'd misunderstood everything. Filed his feelings as kindness. His possessiveness as duty. Because she fundamentally didn't believe she deserved to be loved.
His chest hurt. Actually physically hurt with the realization of how badly he'd failed her.
He crouched beside the bed, watching her sleep.
This was Divya. His Divya. Brilliant and careful and so convinced of her own invisibility that she couldn’t see how thoroughly she’d owned him.
He loved her.
Had probably loved her since week four of her internship, when she’d reorganized his entire schedule and solved three problems he’d believed impossible.
Had definitely loved her by the time she'd stood in that mandap, looking at him with those wide, uncertain eyes while he'd filled her maang with sindoor.
He'd fought it. Denied it. Called it attraction or admiration or anything else that felt less terrifying than love.
But standing here now, looking at her vulnerability laid bare, he couldn't deny it anymore.
Vikram Khanna loved his wife.
And she had no idea.
Worse, she was convinced it was impossible. Had already planned for the ending. Was preparing to leave in two years because she genuinely believed that's what he wanted.
The fear hit then, sharp and cutting.
What if he couldn't convince her? What if two years came and she left anyway, unable to believe that someone like him could love someone like her?
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Dawn was breaking over Mumbai, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
He still held the blue notebook.
I'm in love with him. God, I'm going to get my heart broken so badly.
The words had rearranged his entire world.
He was Vikram Khanna. National Award nominee. He'd played romantic leads in a dozen films. Had delivered declarations of love that made audiences weep.
And yet, faced with the reality of his own wife, the woman he actually loved, he was completely, utterly lost.
How did you woo someone who thought they were unworthy of being wooed? How did you romance someone who'd already decided the relationship had an expiration date?
He needed help.
There was only one person he could ask. One person who'd understand. One person who'd faced a similar situation and somehow made it work.
He glanced at his watch. 5:47 AM.
Raghav was going to kill him.
Three Minutes Later
He found himself standing outside his brother's bedroom door, hand raised to knock, suddenly questioning the wisdom of this decision.
He knocked anyway. Three sharp raps.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder.
A muffled curse came from inside. Shuffling. Then the door swung open to reveal Raghav in rumpled pajamas, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes barely open.
"Someone better be dying," Raghav muttered, squinting against the hallway light.
"I'm in love with Divya."
The words came out in a rush. Desperate. Slightly panicked.
Raghav blinked once. Twice. Then, with absolutely no hesitation: "I know."
Vikram stared at him. "What?"
"I know. I've known." Raghav rubbed his face. "Since week six of her internship, actually."
"Week six..." Vikram's voice went up slightly. "That was months ago!"
"Yep." Raghav leaned against the doorframe. "Ishani knew from our wedding day. Mom knew before any of us. Even Dad mentioned it once."
From inside the bedroom, a sleepy voice called out: "Is that Vikram?"
"Yes," Raghav called back.
"Did he finally figure it out?"
"Apparently."
"About time," Ishani mumbled. "Tell him to come in before he wakes the whole house."
Vikram stood frozen. "You all knew? This entire time, you all knew, and nobody..."
"We were waiting for you to catch up," Raghav said, stepping aside. "It's been entertaining, honestly. Watching you both dance around it."
"I hate this family," Vikram muttered, walking into the room.