Chapter 15
Three Days Later
The guest room at Khanna Sadan felt larger than her entire apartment.
Divya stood awkwardly near the velvet sofa as a renowned designer Anjali, whose name she recognized from Vogue covers, directed assistants to hang ten lehengas around the room like heavy, silken curtains.
Ten.
Each one a different shade of red. Each one more exquisite than the last.
“Vikram called me two days ago,” Anjali said, adjusting a ruby-and-gold creation. “Very specific instructions. He knew exactly what he wanted.”
Two days ago.
The day after the proposal.
Before the engagement was even announced publicly, he’d been ordering her wedding clothes.
Divya’s throat tightened.
“He was very particular about the shades,” Kavita added, fingers trailing over deep crimson silk. “Said certain reds would wash you out. He wanted undertones that would warm your skin.”
Divya’s face flushed. He’d been observing her skin undertones? When? How closely had he been looking?
She glimpsed a price tag dangling from one sleeve and nearly stopped breathing. The zeroes blurred together. This wasn’t a wardrobe. This was a ransom.
A shadow fell across the white marble.
Vikram leaned in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, watching.
Divya blinked. “You’re here? You have a 10 AM shoot. I put it in the calendar myself.”
“Canceled.” He adjusted his watch, quick, restless, not his usual composure. “The lighting was off. Not worth the drive.”
Divya raised an eyebrow. Vikram Khanna didn’t stay home because of bad lighting. He made the sun wait if a shot wasn’t ready.
“I’ll have to adjust the schedule for the week. We’re already behind on the climax. I’ll call the producer.”
Kavita and Ishani exchanged a long, weary look.
“For heaven’s sake,” Ishani muttered. “Stop talking about call sheets. You’re the bride, not the line producer. Go try on the first one.”
Divya’s fingers twisted together. “All of them?”
“All of them,” Kavita said firmly. “We need to see which suits you best.”
The dressing room felt like a trap.
Divya stared at the first lehenga, deep maroon with silver threadwork. The fabric alone probably cost more than her father’s annual pension.
She changed slowly, fingers fumbling with unfamiliar clasps and ties.
When she stepped back out, the room went quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet of approval. The uncomfortable quiet of people trying to find something nice to say.
“It’s... beautiful,” Kavita offered.
“The color is rich,” Ishani added.
From the doorway, Vikram said nothing. But his eyes tracked her movement, and something in his expression said: Wrong.
“Try the next one,” Kavita said gently.
Divya retreated.
The second lehenga was brighter, almost orange-red with gold embellishments. When she emerged, Ishani winced slightly before catching herself.
“The embroidery is stunning,” she managed.
Vikram pushed off from the doorframe, stepped closer, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “Too bright. It washes her out.”
He nodded toward a darker option. “Try the burgundy.”
Divya fled back to the dressing room, breath coming faster than it should.
He ordered these two days ago. Gave them her measurements. How did he even have her measurements?
The third lehenga. The fourth. The fifth.
Each time she emerged, she offered only a slight nod when asked her preference. Each time, the women tried to sound encouraging. Each time, Vikram’s quiet assessment cut through the politeness with brutal honesty.
“Neckline’s wrong for her frame.”
“Color’s too cool.”
“Embroidery overwhelms her.”
By the seventh lehenga, Divya felt like an awkward mannequin being dressed and undressed for an audience. Her responses had dwindled to near-silence, just small nods, tight smiles, and quick retreats.
“Two more,” Kavita said encouragingly. “You’re doing wonderfully.”
The eighth lehenga was coral-toned. Beautiful. Expensive. Wrong.
Divya saw it in their faces before anyone spoke.
“One more,” the designer said, lifting the final creation with something like reverence.
Deep crimson silk that seemed to glow from within. Gold embroidery so intricate it looked like lace. A dupatta that caught light like captured fire.
In the dressing room, Divya slid the fabric over her body.
And froze.
It fit.
Not just approximately. Not just well.
Perfectly.
The blouse hugged her exactly right. Not tight, not loose. The skirt fell at precisely the correct length. The waist sat where waists were meant to sit, as though the measurements had been taken from her own body.
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the dupatta.
When she stepped out, she didn’t need their reactions to know this one was different.
Kavita’s breath caught audibly. Ishani’s teasing smile vanished, replaced by something softer. The designer actually beamed.
And Vikram?
Vikram’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened to something dangerous. His hands curled slightly at his sides.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Just that one word claimed her more effectively than any contract.
Kavita walked a slow circle, nodding with deep satisfaction. “The cut suits your frame perfectly. Almost as if...”
She stopped, a knowing smile touching her lips as she glanced at her son.
“Almost as if it were designed specifically for her body,” the designer finished, pride evident. “Mr. Khanna was very thorough with the specifications he provided.”
Divya’s breath caught.
She couldn’t look away from Vikram’s reflection in the mirrors. He stood watching her with that unsettling focus, like a man who’d found what he was searching for and wasn’t planning to let it go.
She opened her mouth, to remind him this was temporary, that two years would pass and none of this would matter, but the words died.
In this moment, with crimson silk warming her skin and Vikram’s eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room, that future felt both too far away and too close.
“We’ll take this one,” Kavita told the designer. “Have it delivered tomorrow after final adjustments.”
The designer began packing away the other outfits, each one worth a fortune, each one rejected in favor of the one Vikram had planned for.
Divya turned back toward the dressing room.
She felt Vikram’s gaze follow her, heavy as a physical touch.
When she closed the door, she leaned against it, eyes closed, heart hammering.
The crimson silk whispered against her skin. The perfect fit felt like being held. Like being claimed.
Like he’d known exactly what he was doing when he ordered it.
The dupatta slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in crimson and gold.
It looked like blood spilled across the floor.
Like a warning.
Like a promise.
Seven Days Later
The days between the lehenga fitting and the wedding blurred into a haze of preparations Divya barely registered. Invitations were sent. Arrangements were made. The world was informed that Vikram Khanna and Divya Mathur would marry in an intimate family ceremony.
The media exploded with speculation, analysis, and, finally, acceptance. The narrative shifted exactly as Harshit had predicted. From scandal to romance. From invasion to celebration.
Now, sitting before a gleaming mirror in the same guest room at Khanna Sadan, Divya felt the weight of that transformation settling onto her shoulders along with the jewelry.
Mumbai’s most sought-after bridal stylists worked with quick, practiced hands. Jasmine flowers woven into her elaborately braided hair. Makeup she had never worn before applied with precision. Jewelry that felt heavy and foreign fastened around her neck, wrists, ears.
Ninety minutes of transformation while her stomach tied itself into knots.
The wedding, her wedding, was no longer theoretical. It waited downstairs. Real. Imminent. With families gathered and photographers positioned to capture every moment.
“Close your eyes,” the makeup artist instructed.
Divya obeyed, surrendering to hands that knew what they were doing even if she didn’t. The brush tickled against her eyelid. Someone fastened another piece of jewelry. The scent of jasmine grew stronger.
“The final touch,” someone murmured. “Open your eyes.”
Divya blinked. The world blurred, then cleared through contact lenses instead of her familiar glasses.
“Look,” the head stylist said, satisfaction evident.
Divya leaned forward.
Her breath caught.
A stranger stared back. A woman with wide eyes enhanced by kohl, cheekbones shaped by highlighting, lips painted deep red. Hair styled into an intricate arrangement with golden ornaments and fresh flowers. The deep crimson lehenga glowed against her skin.
Her hand lifted automatically to push up glasses that weren’t there.
Something about that missing weight, that absent barrier between herself and the world, made her heart race faster.
“Who is that?” she whispered, not meaning to speak aloud.
The stylists exchanged pleased glances.
“That,” said the head stylist, adjusting a final hairpin, “is Mrs. Vikram Khanna.”
◆◆◆
In another wing of the house, Vikram stood before his own mirror, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his wedding sherwani.
His hands, steady during the most demanding stunts, calm when facing thousands of fans, betrayed him with a slight tremor.
“If you rip that button off,” Raghav commented from his position against the wall, “the designer will have your head.”
Vikram shot his brother a look that would have silenced anyone else. Raghav merely raised an eyebrow.
“Nervous?”
“No.” The denial came too quickly.
Raghav’s smile was subtle but knowing. “You’ve acted in seventeen wedding scenes. This should be routine.”
Vikram’s fingers stilled on the final button. “This isn’t acting.”
Something shifted in Raghav’s expression, rare seriousness breaking through his usual composure. “No,” he agreed quietly. “It’s not.”
The weight of what was about to happen descended fully. In less than an hour, Divya would be his wife. Not just for cameras. Not just for headlines.
Legally. Irrevocably.
The thought steadied his hands rather than unsettling them further.