Chapter 8
One Month Later
Khanna Sadan didn’t look like the same place Divya had first entered four months ago.
Jasmine garlands draped every archway, their scent heavy and sweet in the evening air.
Fairy lights transformed the gardens into something from a film set, thousands of tiny stars captured and strung between trees.
The estate that had once intimidated her now seemed like a different planet entirely, one where she had even less right to exist.
She adjusted her peach silk kurta. It was the nicest thing she owned, chosen carefully with her mother the weekend before. The fabric clung to her damp skin in Mumbai’s humid evening.
Bollywood royalty flowed past her in waves of designer lehengas and custom sherwanis. Each face familiar from magazine covers. Each person oblivious to the girl in peach silk who didn’t belong.
“Just stand where you won’t be noticed,” she whispered to herself. “Do your job. Then go home.”
Divya positioned herself at the edge of the mandap, just beyond the last row of white-covered chairs. From there, she could see the entire arrangement without being part of it.
The floral canopy rose like something out of a myth, layers of marigold, jasmine, and pale roses woven into gold latticework. Lights hidden among the flowers gave everything a soft glow.
A business card pressed into her palm. The fourth reporter in an hour.
“Just five minutes with Vikram Sir, ma’am.”
She smiled, redirected, repeated the official media schedule. Professional. Invisible. Functional.
From where she stood, the family tableau was perfectly framed.
Raghav at the altar, spine straight, expression composed but just slightly too still.
Beside him sat a small cream-colored puppy with floppy ears and a brown patch on its chest. Pista.
The little dog sat remarkably still for a puppy, as if understanding the solemnity of the moment, though his tail thumped softly against the mandap floor whenever Raghav’s hand drifted near.
In the front row, Harshit sat upright, observant. Kavita shimmered beside him in crimson silk and layered gold, her face glowing with satisfaction.
And then, Vikram.
Black sherwani. Subtle gold embroidery catching light when he shifted. He stood beside his brother, one hand clasped loosely behind his back.
Same height as Raghav. Same sharp jaw. Same commanding presence.
Different energy entirely.
Where Raghav felt like a closed ledger, precise, unreadable, Vikram was warmth and movement. He leaned closer to whisper something. Raghav’s mouth twitched. Pista’s ears perked up at the sound.
Divya felt the corner of her own lips lift despite herself.
She confirmed the photographer was positioned correctly. Scanned her email for last-minute changes.
Everything was in place.
The shehnai shifted into a softer note. Guests rose as one.
At the entrance, Ishani appeared.
Red silk. Gold embroidery. A veil light enough to be ceremonial, transparent enough to reveal the calm brightness of her face.
Beautiful in the quiet way that made people fall silent.
Raghav’s face transformed. The stern CEO disappeared, replaced by a man watching his world walk toward him.
Pista stood on his little hind legs, tail wagging furiously until Kavita gently settled him back down with a soft word.
Divya caught herself staring and looked away quickly.
Her phone vibrated. A media request needing immediate attention. She stepped further back, fingers flying across the screen.
This was why she was here. To work. To be invisible. To make sure nothing disrupted the perfect day.
When a particularly beautiful vow from Raghav made someone in the front row sniffle loudly, Divya glanced up to see Vikram passing a handkerchief to his mother.
Their eyes met across the crowd for a split second.
Her face burned. She looked away immediately.
But moments later, when she risked another glance, Vikram was still looking at her.
Not at the beautiful actress seated three rows ahead. Not at the famous director gesturing for his attention.
At her.
His expression wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t amused. It was focused. As if trying to read something.
Her fingers tightened around her phone.
“Divya Ma’am?” A server appeared beside her, looking nervous. “There’s an issue with the seating chart for the reception.”
Relief flooded her. A problem. Something she could fix.
“Show me,” she said, following him toward the reception hall.
From the altar, Vikram watched her go. He’d been vaguely aware of her presence since guests began arriving, a flash of peach silk moving efficiently through the crowd, always working, always at the edges.
Now, watching her slip away, he noticed the stiffness in her shoulders. The way she held herself separate from the celebration, like she was looking at it through glass.
On film sets, she moved with quiet confidence. Here, surrounded by wealth and fame that wasn’t tied to work, she looked like she was trying to disappear.
The observation bothered him.
“…I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Raghav pressed his lips to Ishani’s forehead. She looked down shyly. Applause erupted. Flowers showered from above. Pista barked once in excitement before Ishani scooped him up, laughing.
Vikram clapped along with everyone else, his smile genuine for his brother’s happiness.
But his eyes drifted toward the back again, searching for peach silk among jewel tones.
“She’s very efficient, your assistant.”
Vikram turned to find his mother beside him, her smile knowing.
“She’s just doing her job,” he said, deliberately casual.
“Is she? I don’t recall anyone asking her to work today. This is a family celebration.” Kavita adjusted her necklace. “Yet she’s been managing press and solving problems since she arrived.”
Vikram frowned. “She’s fine. She likes working.”
“Mmm.” His mother’s hum carried meaning he chose to ignore. “The reception starts in twenty minutes. Your father wants photos with the business associates first.”
She moved away, leaving Vikram with uncomfortable awareness. He glanced toward the reception hall where Divya had disappeared.
She’d looked smaller somehow. Like she was trying to take up as little space as possible in a world that wasn’t hers.
The thought followed him as he moved toward the reception.
◆◆◆
The reception hall glittered like excess given physical form.
Crystal chandeliers scattered light over sequins, diamonds, silk. Laughter rose in polished waves. Champagne flutes clinked. Every smile felt calibrated.
Divya stayed near a pillar, back to the wall. From there she could see everything without being part of anything.
Her feet throbbed. The silk at her waist felt too tight. The air carried layers of perfume that blended into something heavy.
She checked her watch. 8:30 PM.
A director nearby laughed too loudly. Actresses air-kissed, praising gowns that would be dissected later in private chats. Producers congratulated each other with business cards slipped into palms.
This wasn’t a celebration. It was a marketplace dressed in flowers.
Her gaze drifted to where Raghav and Ishani sat, hands intertwined. Pista curled contentedly in Ishani’s lap.
They looked genuinely happy. Like they’d found something real in this world of careful performances.
She wondered what felt like to be so sure of belonging beside someone that thousands of watching eyes couldn’t shake it.
Across the hall, Vikram stood surrounded by industry power players. Film producers, directors, an international distributor she recognized from trade magazines.
He smiled, gestured, told some story that had them all leaning in. Completely in his element. The center of gravity in any room.
Divya straightened her spine and walked toward the group. She stopped at a respectful distance, waiting to be noticed without interrupting.
Vikram’s gaze shifted mid-sentence, landing on her with unexpected intensity. Without finishing his thought, he excused himself from the group. Just like that, important people left waiting.
“Everything okay?” he asked, concern etching lines between his brows.
She nodded. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve coordinated everything needed for tonight. The media has been handled, the schedule is running smoothly.” She took a breath. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to leave now. I have a thesis deadline tomorrow morning.”
His expression shifted. “You’ve been working this entire time.” Not a question. An observation tinged with… annoyance?
“That’s why I’m here,” she said carefully.
“No, it’s not.” His voice dropped lower. “You’re here as a guest, Divya. Not staff. I invited you to celebrate my brother’s wedding.”
Heat rushed to her face. “I didn’t. I thought...”
“You thought wrong.” The words were gentle despite their directness. He studied her face. “It’s only nine. The party will go until midnight at least.”
“I know. But the thesis...”
“Can wait one more night.” He saw more than she wanted him to. “But that’s not really it, is it?”
She looked away. “I should go.”
His shoulders dropped slightly. “At least let me walk you out.”
“That’s not necessary. I can manage...”
“I’m sure you can.” A small smile. “You manage everything.”
Before she could protest, his hand settled at the small of her back.
Not gripping. Not pushing. Just… there.
Five points of heat burning through the thin silk of her kurta.
Her breath hitched.
The sensation was so unexpected, so foreign, that for a moment she couldn’t move. His palm against her back was a weight that anchored her while making everything else feel distant.
The heat radiated up her spine, traveled across her shoulders, pooled low in her stomach. She could feel each individual finger, the slight pressure of his thumb near her spine, his little finger just grazing the curve above her hip.
“This way,” he said, voice close to her ear.
The crowd ahead seemed to part. Or maybe it was the way he moved. Confident, purposeful, expecting accommodation.
Divya felt herself guided through spaces that would have been closed to her alone. Bodies shifted. Conversations paused. Eyes followed.
A group of actresses stopped mid-conversation, their gazes tracking the path of Vikram’s hand on her back. One leaned to whisper to another. A producer’s eyebrows rose. A director murmured to his companion, both turning to watch.
Vikram wasn’t looking at anyone but her. His attention was so focused it felt like another physical touch.
His hand never left her back. If anything, his fingers adjusted when they turned a corner, curling slightly more possessively.
“Everyone’s staring,” she whispered, horrified.
“Let them,” he replied, warmth in his voice.
His hand shifted higher on her back as they approached the main entrance.
The warm night air hit her face. His hand finally fell away, leaving a sensation that refused to fade.
A car waited at the bottom of the steps. And in the shadows beyond the decorative shrubbery, something glinted briefly, glass catching light. A camera lens, perhaps. Or nothing. Gone before she could be sure.
“Here is your ride,” Vikram said, walking her down the steps. His smile was genuine, the one he reserved for people he actually liked.
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded strange. “You didn’t have to...”
“I wanted to.” He reached past her to open the car door, his arm brushing her shoulder. Another point of contact that sent electricity through her.
She slipped into the car, face burning, skin tingling where his hand had been.
He leaned down, one hand on the door. “Get some rest. And next time, try to remember you’re more than just your function, Divya.”
The words landed soft and devastating.
More than just your function.
As if she could be anything else. As if there was a version of her that belonged in that glittering hall not because she was useful but because she simply… was.
The door closed. Through the window, she watched him step back, waiting until her car began to move.
She pressed her hand against the spot on her back where his had been.
The heat remained. A phantom touch that followed her through Mumbai’s streets, past the bright shops and dark alleyways, all the way to Andheri West where fairy lights didn’t exist and silk kurtas would be carefully stored for the next special occasion that might never come.
Her throat tightened.
She understood now, with painful clarity, what had broken something inside her tonight.
It wasn’t the wealth. Wasn’t the celebrities. Wasn’t even the feeling of not belonging.
It was the five seconds when his hand had rested on her back and she’d felt, just for that brief, impossible moment, like she was someone he’d choose to walk beside. Someone worth the attention of every watching eye. Someone more than just her function.
And now, sitting in the back of this car with streetlights painting shadows across her lap, she had to return to being Divya Mathur.
The girl who managed everything and belonged nowhere.
Her eyes watered.
The first tear fell before she could stop it. Then another.
She pressed her palm harder against her back, trying to hold onto the warmth that was already fading.
Trying to remember what it felt like to be seen.
Just once.
Before she had to forget again tomorrow.