Chapter 15 #2
He finished buttoning the sherwani, adjusted the heavy gold watch at his wrist, and turned toward his brother.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I have a wedding to attend.”
The Ceremony
The mandap glowed with hundreds of tiny lights woven through marigold and jasmine. Family members sat around the sacred space, faces expectant, cameras ready. The pandit waited beside the sacred fire, ancient Sanskrit verses prepared.
And at the entrance, Vikram stood tall.
He felt it in his chest before he saw her.
The music shifted.
A crimson canopy moved at the entrance, held steady by her brother and cousins. Beneath it, Divya stepped forward, her mother at her side.
Red silk flowed around her like a slow flame. Gold caught against her skin with each movement. The faint rustle of her lehenga whispered across the ground with each careful step.
She did not look up.
But he did not look away.
The woman who’d spent six months making herself invisible on his sets now commanded every eye in the room simply by existing.
When she reached the base of the mandap stairs, her mother’s fingers tightened briefly around her arm, a silent blessing, a wordless gesture for the new beginnings.
Vikram stepped down without thinking and extended his hand.
Palm up.
Waiting.
Her fingers rested against his.
Heat. Immediate. Quiet. Undeniable.
His hand closed around hers, firm and warm. His thumb brushed once over her knuckles, slow, instinctive, before he stilled it.
She took the first step. Then the second.
He felt the slight tremor in her grip. Felt her breath shift. His gaze lingered, at the line of kohl darkening her eyes, at the pulse fluttering at her throat, at the delicate curve where her neck disappeared into red silk.
She looked like the bride of Vikram Khanna. But she also looked like Divya. His Divya. The woman who hummed off-key and pushed her glasses up with her knuckle and made his chaos manageable.
Except the glasses were gone. And in their absence, he could see her eyes more clearly than ever before.
Wide. Uncertain. Beautiful.
His hold tightened just enough to steady her as she climbed the final step.
Under the canopy, he guided her to their place. His fingers remained around hers a heartbeat longer than necessary before easing away.
When she finally lifted her eyes to his, there was no actor there.
Only heat. Dark. Unmasked.
And dangerously aware of the woman sitting inches from him.
Raghav noticed his brother’s reaction from his position nearby. So did Ishani. Kavita saw it too, her lips curving with quiet satisfaction.
Vikram recovered, somehow, his public mask sliding back into place.
But his hand itched to hold hers again.
The ceremony proceeded with the weight of tradition guiding each movement. Prayers were spoken. Offerings were made. Promises were exchanged.
Through it all, Divya moved as if in a dream, following instructions through a fog, her world narrowed to the sensation of Vikram’s hand returning to hers after each ritual, anchoring her.
When the time came for the mangalsutra, Vikram took the sacred necklace from the pandit’s hands. The black and gold beads caught firelight as he lifted it.
For all the rehearsals he’d done for film scenes like this, his hands had never been as steady as they were now.
He leaned forward, bringing the necklace around Divya’s neck. The weight settled against her collarbone, cold at first, then warming against her skin. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck as he fastened the clasp, the brief contact sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.
Then came the sindoor.
The small silver container gleamed in the firelight as Vikram dipped his thumb into the vermilion powder.
This wasn’t a film set. This wasn’t a rehearsal.
This was real. Witnessed by family, world, and the sacred fire itself.
His right hand rose toward her forehead.
Unlike that day on set when emotion had overtaken him, now his movement was deliberate. Calculated. Intent.
His eyes never left hers as his thumb pressed firmly against the center of her hairline, marking a perfect crimson line down the part in her hair.
A full, uncompromising claim.
The sindoor felt warm against her skin, heavier than its physical weight. Her breath caught.
His eyes burned into hers, dark, focused, brooking no misunderstanding about what was happening.
This wasn’t contractual. This wasn’t for show.
This was Vikram Khanna staking a claim before families and gods alike.
When he finished, his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, thumb pressing one final time at the end of the line. Making sure. Making certain. Making a statement to the cameras, to their families, and most of all to Divya herself.
Mine.
The word wasn’t spoken, but it hung in the air between them, as vivid as the sindoor on her skin.
The ceremony continued. More rituals. More prayers.
Food and music followed as the celebration extended into the evening.
Divya’s father smiled with the determined enjoyment of a man committed to cherishing his daughter’s wedding regardless of the circumstances that led to it.
Her brother moved through the gathering with his phone, taking countless pictures to share with friends who had been politely distant just days earlier.
Through it all, Vikram remained close to Divya’s side. Not hovering. But present. Possessive in a way the cameras could capture but she couldn’t quite name.
A constant pressure against her awareness that refused to fade into the background no matter how much she tried to focus elsewhere.