Chapter 4
Vikram watched her from across the set, pretending to review his script.
Four days.
Four days of quiet observation. Constant writing. Zero drama.
Divya stood slightly to the side of the chaos, notebook in hand, pen moving steadily. When an actor missed a cue, she wrote down the exact timestamp. When the lighting was adjusted, she noted the change. When a producer made a new demand, she noted it without interrupting the flow of work.
She didn’t hover, didn’t interfere. She simply absorbed everything.
It was beginning to bother him.
Most new assistants either panicked or performed. They laughed too loudly at his jokes. Asked personal questions disguised as professional curiosity. Stole glances when they thought he wouldn’t notice.
Divya did none of that.
Her expression remained the same every day. Alert. Focused. Slightly distant. Posture straight. And every day, exactly once, she asked a single question.
Day one: “Do you prefer the schedule printed or digital?”
Day two: “Would you like me to coordinate with wardrobe regarding interview outfits?”
Day three: “Should I inform the director you’ll be fifteen minutes late due to traffic?”
Each question precise. Useful. Not a word wasted.
Today was day four.
And to his mild irritation, he realised he was waiting for question number four.
He leaned casually against the lighting rig, arms crossed, watching her organise call sheets into neatly colour-coded folders. Blue for interviews. Yellow for rehearsals. Pink for PR coordination.
Her hands moved quickly. No fumbling. No desperate glances his way to check if he was watching. No trying to impress.
She behaved as if he were simply… her boss. Which he was. And yet. Most people in this industry reacted to him first and worked second.
Divya worked first. For the first time in a long while, Vikram felt something unfamiliar.
It bothered him.
It bothered him that it bothered him.
Time for a real test.
“Divya.” He stepped away from the lighting rig and walked toward her. The crew parted slightly without thinking. She looked up at once, pen hovering above her notebook.
“Yes, Boss?”
That tone again. Not sweet. Not sarcastic. Just practical. Like he was simply a weather condition she needed to take account of.
“I need to meet Kapoor, Mehra and Singhania today,” he said casually, naming three producers who rarely shared oxygen, let alone time slots. “They all want two to four. None of them are flexible.”
Her forehead creased faintly. One small line. Then smooth again. “And they can’t be moved because…?”
“Because Kapoor flies to London tonight. Mehra has surgery tomorrow. And Singhania is only in Mumbai for the day.” He folded his arms. “Make it work.”
Most assistants would panic. Or make excuses. Or immediately start calling to beg for schedule changes.
Divya simply nodded. “Okay, Boss.”
She walked away, phone already at her ear. Vikram watched her go, waiting for the frantic backward glance that didn’t come.
Seven minutes.
That’s how long he’d give her before stepping in to solve his own manufactured problem.
He opened Instagram. Liked two comments from known critics. Replied to his mother’s message about dinner. Checked a notification from his PR team.
Six minutes.
He glanced up.
Divya stood near the edge of the set, speaking calmly, writing notes. She nodded once, listened, spoke again. Her posture remained steady.
Six and a half minutes.
She was walking back toward him, still completely composed.
“I’ve arranged a joint meeting,” Divya said, glancing at her notes. “Royal Mumbai Hotel. Diamond Room. 2:15 PM.”
Vikram stared at her. “A joint meeting?”
“Yes.” She said, pushing her glasses up.
“I informed Kapoor’s office that Singhania specifically wanted his opinion on international distribution strategy.
I told Mehra you preferred discussing the biopic revisions with both of them present.
And I told Singhania you wanted his insight on overseas markets while the other two were in the room. ”
She looked up. “They each believe they’re doing you a favour by agreeing.”
For a second, Vikram said nothing. Seven minutes. She had just convinced three powerful men, each with fragile egos and long memories, to sit at the same table.
“That won’t work,” he said automatically. “Kapoor and Mehra haven’t spoken since the Filmfare issue last year.”
Divya’s expression didn’t shift. “I mentioned that to Kapoor’s assistant.
He said Kapoor is willing to be the bigger person if it benefits your schedule.
” She glanced down at her notebook again.
“I’ve arranged separate entrances so they don’t cross paths before the meeting.
Seating will be neutral. No one feels cornered. ”
He watched her more closely now.
“The hotel will provide personalised refreshments,” she continued. “Kapoor gets imported sparkling water. Mehra gets masala chai. Singhania gets his preferred single malt.”
Vikram folded his arms slowly. “Singhania doesn’t discuss business before 3 PM,” he said. “Superstition.”
“The meeting begins at 2:15 as informal networking,” she replied. “Actual agenda starts at 3:01.”
Not three. Three-oh-one.
She pushed her glasses up lightly with her knuckle.
“I’ve also arranged for Kapoor’s preferred tobacco in the designated smoking lounge after the meeting. And Mehra’s driver has priority parking access to avoid delays.”
Each detail she ticked off felt like a small stone dropping into a pond, creating ripples of disbelief. She hadn’t missed anything. Not a single preference or peeve.
“And you arranged all this in seven minutes?”
“Six and a half, actually.” For the first time, something almost like humor flickered across her face. “The Diamond Room was already reserved, but it turns out the hotel manager’s son is a big fan of yours. I promised a signed photo.”
Vikram’s jaw tightened slightly. He had set a trap. She had turned it into strategy.
“Fine. Let’s see if they actually show up.” He checked his watch. “We leave in forty minutes.”
“I’ve already called your driver. Your blue Armani suit is being pressed.”
Vikram could only stare in disbelief, an expression he didn’t bother hiding.
“Question of the day?” he finally asked, realizing he was still waiting for it.
She looked up, that small line appearing between her eyebrows. “Do you want me to schedule follow-up calls with each producer for tomorrow, or would you prefer to let them initiate?”
Useful. Practical. Focused on the work.
“Let them initiate,” he said. “Makes us seem in demand.”
“Okay, Boss.”
Vikram found himself oddly disappointed by her lack of reaction. No pride in pulling off the impossible. No seeking of praise.
She gave him nothing to tease. Nothing to correct. Nothing to control.
And that quiet competence, that refusal to orbit around him, disturbed him more than any starstruck admiration ever had.
Week Two
Krishna Studios buzzed with its usual chaos. Spot boys ran with cables. Assistants shouted for quiet. Someone argued about a prop. Inside his vanity van, insulated from the noise and heat, Vikram scrolled through headlines praising the previous week’s producer meeting.
Smart strategy. Bold move. Vikram brings rivals together.
Across from him, Divya sat with her notebook open, reviewing the day’s call sheet.
He looked up.
Time for another test.
“I need you to schedule three meetings today,” he said suddenly. “Sanjay Hirani at Colaba for lunch. Anand Patil at Bandra at 1:30. And Zoya Mehta at Juhu at 2:15.”
Physically impossible. The Mumbai traffic alone made this request absurd. He watched her face carefully, waiting for the crack in her composure, widened eyes, nervous swallow or frantic calculation.
None came. Just that small line between her eyebrows, there and gone in a heartbeat. “Okay, Boss.”
She stood, tucked her notebook under her arm, and walked out of the van, phone already at her ear. No argument. No explanation of why it couldn’t be done. No request for a private helicopter to beat Mumbai’s legendary traffic jams.
Vikram sipped his espresso, satisfaction warming his chest. Finally, a challenge she couldn’t solve with clever manipulation and a notebook. Even Mrs. Menon would have pushed back on this one.
The morning shoot passed easily. He delivered every line perfectly. The director praised his “emotional depth” in a scene that required none. Two reporters waited outside the studio gates for quotes. Routine.
Two hours later, as the director called cut on another take, Divya appeared at the edge of the set and waited until he was free.
“Your meetings are confirmed,” Divya said calmly.
Vikram raised an eyebrow. “All three? At those times?”
“Yes. All at The Orchid Plaza.”
“The Orchid…” He paused. “That’s not what I asked for.”
“You asked for meetings with Hirani, Patil and Mehta between noon and 2:15,” she replied, glancing at her notes. “Hirani in the Lotus Room at noon. Patil in the Jasmine Room at 1:30. Mehta in the Lily Room at 2:15. Same building.”
He frowned. “They agreed to change locations?”
“Hirani was already planning lunch at Botanica inside The Orchid. I reserved a private dining space instead.” She adjusted her glasses. “Patil’s office is two buildings away. I mentioned you chose the hotel to reduce his travel time.”
“And Mehta?”
“She believes you remembered she once said The Orchid was her preferred venue during the Filmfare committee meeting. Each of them thinks you selected the location for their convenience,” she continued.
“The hotel has treated it as one extended booking with room changes, so we’re saving on rental charges.
Your preferred mineral water will be placed in each room. ”
Vikram looked at her in silence.
She had managed ego, logistics and budget in one move.
He tried to locate the crack. The self-satisfaction. The subtle smile that said, See what I did?
Nothing.
She simply waited for his next instruction.
He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more. The efficiency. Or the fact that she seemed completely unaware she had just outplayed his test again.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Tell my driver we leave at 11:30.”
“Already done.” She glanced at her watch. “You have forty minutes before you need to change. The black suit is being steamed now.”
She walked away, settling into a corner chair with her notebook. As the lighting crew adjusted for the next scene, Vikram found himself watching her instead of reviewing his lines.
That was when he heard it. A soft humming. Slightly off-key. Then very off-key.
He frowned.
It took him a second to recognise the tune. An old Hindi song his mother used to play on Sunday mornings. A classic. Emotional. Melodic.
In Divya’s version, it sounded like the melody had taken a wrong turn and refused to return home.
It was… jarring. Like finding a scratch on a perfect surface. This hyper-efficient assistant who anticipated his every need apparently couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. And didn’t seem to care if anyone noticed.
The next day, it was a different song. Equally inaccurate. The day after that, another one.
By week three, the humming had become part of the background noise of his day. Sometimes he caught himself waiting for it, that moment when she’d drop her professional guard just enough to reveal a human flaw.
Meanwhile, his professional life had shifted in ways he hadn’t fully acknowledged.
His schedule, once chaotic, now moved fluently. Meetings had breathing space between them. Scripts arrived pre-marked with notes on character arcs. Interviews were grouped intelligently to avoid pointless travel across Mumbai.
His protein shake appeared before he realised he wanted it. His preferred mints found their way into his pocket before press conferences. Lunch arrived exactly when he needed it, not after, not before.
Small changes, practical improvements, that made everything smoother.
On Wednesday of the third week, he arrived at a magazine photoshoot and paused.
The lighting was already set to favour his left profile. His preferred photographer’s assistant, Hassan, stood ready.
“How did you know Hassan is the only assistant I work with?” he asked during a short break.
Divya glanced up from her notebook.
“You mentioned it at the set last week,” she said. “You said Hassan understands your left-side lighting.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were discussing camera angles with the director.”
He hadn’t been speaking to her. He hadn’t even realised she was listening.
“You remember everything I say?” he asked, sharper than intended.
“Only the relevant parts.” No smile. No attempt to soften the statement. Just that steady gaze behind wire-rimmed glasses.
That week, something else changed.
He stopped testing her. The impossible requests disappeared. The deliberate complications ended. There was no point. She handled everything.
Instead, he found himself noticing different things.
The small line between her eyebrows appeared exactly forty-three seconds before she solved a problem.
She pushed her glasses up with her knuckle, never her fingertip, always the knuckle, and that too approximately forty times daily.
When writing quickly, she held her breath, releasing it only when she finished the sentence.
The way she rubbed her ear absentmindedly after tucking her hair back.
And the humming. Always the humming.
These details irritated him specifically because he had no reason to notice them. Yet, every detail he observed felt like a quiet shift inside him.
She did not orbit him. She did not treat him like a star. To her, he was a schedule. A series of tasks. A responsibility to be managed.
It shouldn’t have bothered him. It did.