Chapter 25
Friday morning found Divya cross-legged on the bed, notes spread around her like a paper fortress. Her exam was in four days, and she'd been neglecting her studies. Media theory frameworks, theorists, publication dates, all blurring together.
She pushed her glasses up, squinting at a particularly dense paragraph about narrative construction. Her third read-through and the words still refused to stick.
The door swung open without warning.
Vikram stood in the doorway, one hand behind his back, expression carrying something between mischief and barely contained excitement.
"Studying?" he asked, though her notes were clearly visible.
"Exam on Friday." She started to close her notebook. "Did you need something? I have your schedule already prepared. The afternoon shoot was moved to Studio B because of the..."
"Not here for the schedule."
He stepped fully into the room, closing the door with his foot. Whatever he had behind his back seemed to vibrate with importance.
Divya set aside her notes, uncrossing her legs. "What is it?"
He moved closer, stopping at the foot of the bed. Then, with a flourish that was pure Bollywood drama, he produced two tickets.
"Ta-da."
She took them, studying the elegant print. Her breath caught.
"Voices Unheard: A Documentary Retrospective."
Sunday evening, seven PM. Small independent theater in Bandra. Limited seating. Two shows only.
Her fingers trembled slightly. This documentary, she'd been trying to get tickets for weeks. Had checked the website obsessively. Had resigned herself to missing it when it sold out in hours.
"How did you?" She looked up at him, eyes wide. "These were impossible to get. I checked multiple times."
"I have connections." He shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "Called in a favor with the theater owner."
Her professional mask was gone, cracked, shattered. Pure, unfiltered delight bloomed across her face, wide enough to show teeth, crinkle her eyes, transform her entire expression into something radiant.
"This is... I can't believe. Thank you!" The words tumbled out faster than she could organize them.
Vikram felt something warm expand in his chest. There. That expression. That genuine, unguarded joy. This was exactly what he'd been hoping to see.
"You've been working non-stop," he said, settling onto the edge of the bed. "Between managing my schedule and studying for exams. Everyone needs a break."
"But how did you know I wanted to see this?" She looked at the tickets again, then back at his face. "I never mentioned..."
"You didn't have to mention it." He leaned back on his hands, entirely too pleased with himself. "You had the theater website open on your laptop. Three weeks ago. During that production meeting. You closed it quickly when I walked in, but I saw the tab."
Her mouth opened. Closed. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything." He said it simply, as if observing her laptop tabs was normal behavior. "Also, your thesis research is literally about documentary filmmaking. Didn't take a detective."
She stared at him, something in her expression shifting. Softening. "Thank you. Really. This is incredible."
"There's one condition." His eyes glinted. "We have to go incognito."
"Incognito?"
"Disguises. Professional-grade makeup. The full transformation." He gestured dramatically. "Can't risk being recognized and turning our date into a circus."
The word date hung in the air.
"I'm thinking different hair for me. Contacts to change eye color. Maybe a beard. Very intellectual graduate student aesthetic."
"A fake beard?" She couldn't help the laugh that escaped.
"A convincing fake beard," he corrected. "There's a difference. And for you, different glasses maybe. Change your whole look so nobody recognizes you as 'Mrs. Khanna.'"
"This sounds very elaborate for a two-hour screening."
"This sounds very necessary for a two-hour screening without interruption." He stood, moving toward the door with that same satisfied energy. "Sunday. Seven PM. Be ready at four-thirty for the transformation."
"Wait, transformation takes that long?"
"Have you never gone incognito before?" He paused at the door, looking back with mock disappointment. "Amateur. Professional makeup artists, the works. We're going full spy movie."
"For a documentary."
"For an experience." His mouth curved. "Trust me."
She looked down at the tickets again. "Thank you, Boss. This is really..."
The temperature in the room dropped five degrees.
Vikram’s expression shifted from playful to something sharper. Not angry. But pointed. Deliberate.
He stared at her. Just stared. No words. Just that look that said really? We're doing this again?
"Sorry!" The word came out automatically. "Sorry, I just... it's habit..."
He continued staring. Eyebrow raised. Waiting.
She faltered, words dying in her throat. She knew what he wanted. For her to say his name. To use it naturally, casually, the way a wife should. But something in her chest resisted. Saying his name felt too intimate. Too real. Too much like admitting this was more than their careful arrangement.
"Sorry," she repeated, softer this time. Then fell silent.
The moment stretched. Vikram's jaw flexed slightly. He recognized the wall when he saw it. Could see her retreating behind professional distance even while holding tickets he'd secured specifically for her.
One step forward. Half a step back.
"Sunday," he said finally, voice carefully neutral. "Four-thirty."
Then he was gone, door closing with a soft click that somehow felt louder than a slam.
Divya sat surrounded by forgotten notes, tickets pressed against her chest.
He'd noticed her laptop tab. Three weeks ago. Had remembered. Had acted on it. Had secured impossible tickets and planned elaborate disguises just so she could watch a documentary without interruption.
And she couldn't even say his name.
The realization settled over her like weight. Like guilt. Like recognition of something she wasn't ready to face.
Outside the door, Vikram leaned against the hallway wall for a moment, eyes closed.
Boss. Still Boss. After seven nights of sleeping beside her. After watching her slowly relax into his presence.
Still Boss.
The barrier was deliberate. Protective. And it was going to take more than tickets and disguises to break it down.
◆◆◆
The makeup artist arrived at exactly four-thirty, setting up in the garage instead of the usual vanity room upstairs.
"Garage?" Divya had asked when Vikram guided her down the side stairs.
"Privacy." He'd said it like it explained everything. "Don't want the whole family making this a production. It's just us tonight. Our thing."
Our thing. The phrase settled warm in her chest.
The transformation began. Professional-grade prosthetics altered Vikram's nose shape. A wig covered his distinctive hair with something longer, shaggier. Colored contacts changed his eyes from deep brown to hazel.
In the chair beside him, Divya watched her own metamorphosis. Her signature glasses replaced with contacts that made her blink rapidly. Her practical braid disappeared under a shoulder-length bob wig. Subtle contouring changed her face just enough.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Someone who could walk through Mumbai unrecognized.
"Done," the makeup artist announced.
Vikram stood, moving to stand beside Divya's chair. In the mirror, they looked like completely different people. Random. Ordinary. Free.
"Ready?" he asked, meeting her eyes in the reflection.
◆◆◆
They took a regular car. Vikram drove himself, navigating evening traffic with surprising ease.
"You know how to drive in this chaos?" she asked.
"I did live a normal life before fame, you know. Dad never allowed us luxury until we earned it." The prosthetic-altered features made him look boyish. "Had a terrible car in college. Manual transmission. No AC. Drove it until the engine literally gave up."
She tried to picture it, young Vikram, pre-fame, struggling with Mumbai traffic. The image refused to form.
The theater appeared tucked between a bookstore and café in Bandra. Small. Weathered. The kind of place tourists never found and locals cherished.
Inside, perhaps fifty seats filled the intimate space. Worn red velvet. Small screen. Film students with notebooks. Elderly couples. Solo viewers who'd clearly been anticipating this screening for weeks.
Vikram guided her to the back row, far right corner.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Perfect."
The lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life.
The first segment began. 1970s footage of Mumbai's dabbawalas. Raw. Authentic. No narrator. No dramatic music. Just real people, real stories captured without manipulation.
Divya leaned forward immediately, absorbed. This. This was why she'd chosen her field.
Beside her, Vikram watched the screen with genuine interest. The cinematography was striking, unexpected angles, natural light, beauty in ordinary moments.
Seven minutes passed. Then his attention drifted.
To her.
Divya's face glowed in reflected light, expression completely open. Pure engagement. Her eyes tracked movement with total focus. Her lips parted slightly at particularly striking moments.
She was radiant. Not styled-photoshoot radiant. But joy-from-the-inside radiant.
Vikram forgot the documentary entirely.
The second segment began. Women's cooperatives in rural Maharashtra. Divya's hand moved to her chest, fingers pressing over her heart.
Halfway through the third segment, she turned her head slightly. Caught him.
"You're not watching," she whispered, confusion.
"Yes, I am."
"The film?"
"I'm watching you." Simple. Honest. "You're more interesting than the screen."
Her breath caught. Color rose in her cheeks, visible evenin dim light. She opened her mouth, closed it, seemed unable to form words.
She stared at him for three heartbeats. Then turned back to the film, but he could see it in profile, a small expression trying and failing to suppress itself.
The retrospective concluded ninety minutes later. Credits rolled. Lights brightened.
Divya remained seated, staring at the blank screen.