Chapter 16
The aarti thali gleamed in Kavita’s hands as the newly wedded couple stood at the threshold of Khanna Sadan. The flames danced in small circles as she moved the silver plate in ritual blessing, light reflecting in her eyes with warm welcome.
Divya stood still, feet aching after hours of ceremony, mind struggling to process the transformation from assistant to wife.
Wife.
The word felt foreign, disconnected from reality.
“Welcome home,” Kavita said, completing the final circle.
Home.
Another word that didn’t fit. This mansion with its marble floors and museum-quality art had never been meant for girls who grew up counting coins for bus fare.
Kavita pointed at the kalash filled with rice. “Step forward with your right foot. Scatter the grains as you enter.”
Divya did as she was told. Rice scattered, grains bouncing against polished marble.
Behind her, women began to sing, traditional mantras that had welcomed brides for centuries. The same songs that might have had welcomed Ishani months ago. The same songs that would have welcomed someone else entirely if Vikram hadn’t drawn that fateful line of sindoor.
More rituals followed. Sweet milk offered in silver cups. Blessings spoken by elders. Through it all, Divya moved as if sleepwalking, her body following instructions while her mind remained detached.
“One more ritual,” Kavita announced, voice carrying just enough authority to quiet the relatives. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “The groom must carry his bride to their room. It’s tradition.”
Divya’s head snapped toward her mother-in-law. “That’s not...”
But Vikram had already moved. One moment she was standing beside him, the next his arms were beneath her knees and back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
She gasped. Her hands flew up, wrapping instinctively around his neck.
“Tradition,” he murmured, eyes locked on her face with an intensity that had nothing to do with their audience. His voice was low, meant only for her. “Can’t disappoint my mother on the wedding day.”
Around them, relatives laughed and called out blessings. Someone made a comment about young love. Another about impatient grooms.
The teasing bounced off him. He didn’t hear any of it.
All he could hear was his own heart thudding against his ribs at the feel of Divya, his wife, in his arms. The weight of her slight frame. The warmth of her body pressed against his chest. The way her fingers gripped his shoulder, nails digging in slightly through fabric.
Her face was turned toward his, startled and innocent, and something in his chest pulled tight.
She was beautiful. Had always been beautiful. But here, in his arms, with that bewildered expression and her lips slightly parted, she was devastating.
He carried her toward the stairs, muscle memory guiding his steps while his entire focus remained on her face. The guests faded into background noise.
“You can put me down now,” she whispered as they reached the staircase. “They can’t see us anymore.”
“I’m aware.”
He didn’t put her down.
Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. “But...”
“Almost there.”
He took the stairs with deliberate slowness, in no hurry to end this. The slide of her dupatta against his arm. The faint scent of jasmine from her hair. The rapid flutter of her pulse visible at the base of her throat.
He’d carried dozens of actresses for romantic scenes. None of it had felt like this. None of it had made his hands shake slightly with the effort to keep his grip gentle, careful, reverent.
They reached the top. Turned down the hallway. His room, their room now, waited at the end.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, finally setting her down on the edge of the bed.
She sat there, hands braced on the mattress, breathing slightly uneven. Her hair, still pinned from the ceremony, had come slightly loose, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
Before she could recover, before she could retreat into professionalism, Vikram crouched before her. His hands moved to her ankles.
“What are you...” She tried to pull back, but his fingers had already closed around her ankle, holding it gently but firmly.
“Your sandals,” he said simply, undoing the delicate strap. “You’ve been dying to take them off for the past three hours.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “How did you...”
“You kept shifting your weight.” He slipped off the first sandal, his thumb brushing the arch of her foot almost absently. “You’re not used to heels.”
She pulled her other foot back quickly, tucking it under her. “I can do it myself.”
“I know you can.” His hand reached for her ankle anyway, patient and unhurried. “Let me.”
He removed the second sandal with the same deliberate care, his fingers warm against her skin. Set it aside next to its pair.
“There.” He looked up at her from his crouched position, something dark and intent in his eyes. “Better?”
She stammered something that might have been yes, then stood abruptly, putting distance between them.
“Come on.” He took her hand before she could spiral into overthinking, gently pulling her toward the massive walk-in closet. “Let me show you around.”
He pushed open the double doors.
Divya froze.
The closet was double the size of her living room at home. One entire wall held Vikram’s clothes, suits, sherwanis, casual wear organized by color and occasion.
But the other wall...
Her breath caught.
Sarees in jewel tones. Salwar kameez sets in soft cottons and silks. Western wear she would never have bought for herself. Everything in her size, chosen with obvious care, hanging in neat rows.
But it wasn’t the quantity that made her chest tight. It was seeing those clothes hanging next to his. In the same space. Sharing the same air. An intimacy she hadn’t prepared for.
“Mom had them delivered yesterday,” Vikram said, watching her face carefully. “She has excellent taste. Though if you don't like any of it...”
“They’re beautiful.” The words came out smaller than she intended. She moved forward almost unconsciously, fingers reaching to touch a deep blue saree, then pulling back before making contact. “But this is too much.”
“It’s not enough.” The words came out more intense than he meant. He softened his tone quickly. “You’ll need more as we go. Events and things.”
He pulled her back into the bedroom before she could argue, toward the seating area near the windows.
A desk sat positioned to catch morning light. Beside it stood a bookshelf.
Divya moved toward it as if drawn by invisible strings.
Her fingers traced the spines. Media production textbooks. Industry analyses. Biographies of directors she admired. Books she’d put on wish lists she thought no one had seen.
“The Evolution of Indian Cinema,” she whispered, pulling out a rare volume she’d been trying to find for months. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “How did you...”
“I pay attention.” Simple words. Carrying weight he didn’t fully express. “You’ll need to finish your degree. And this room is yours, Divya. Your space. No one enters without permission. Not even me.”
She turned to face him, clutching the book like a lifeline. “You got these for me.”
“Some of them. Mom helped track down the rare ones.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “I wanted you to have something familiar. Something that’s yours.”
Her eyes had gone too bright. She blinked rapidly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything.” He nodded toward the small stack of fresh clothes laid out on the chair. “Just get changed. You must be exhausted.”
She looked at the clothes, simple cotton nightwear, then back at him. “I should...”
“Sit first.” He nodded toward her hair and gently pushed her toward the vanity. “This looks uncomfortable.”
Before she could protest, he positioned her on the cushioned seat facing the mirror. Her eyes met his in the reflection, wide and uncertain.
His fingers found the edge of her dupatta where it was pinned near her shoulder. “Let me help with this.”
“It’s fine.”
“Divya.” His voice held gentle amusement. “Stop being professional for five minutes.”
He carefully unpinned the dupatta, the heavy fabric sliding free. Set it aside.
Then his fingers moved to her hair.
She went very still.
“Don’t jump,” he said quietly, reading her tension. “I’m just helping. That’s all.”
His fingers found the pins holding the elaborate braid in place. He worked slowly, methodically, giving her time to adjust.
“I’m starting work again in two days,” he said, his tone shifting to something easier. Safer. “That postponed shoot for the last sequence.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly at the familiar topic. “The burial scene.”
“Yes.” His fingers worked through another pin. “Should take about four hours if...”
“You’ll need the 7 AM call time.” Her voice steadied, slipping into assistant mode even while sitting in a wedding lehenga getting her hair undone by her brand-new husband. “Traffic to the studio is...”
His fingers brushed the nape of her neck as he removed another pin.
Her words cut off abruptly. Her breath hitched.
In the mirror, he saw her eyes widen slightly. Saw the flush rising along her throat.
“Traffic is what?” he prompted softly, fingers continuing their work through her hair.
“I...” She swallowed. “Terrible. After eight.”
Another pin came free. His fingertips grazed her scalp, gentle and deliberate.
She shivered.
“Cold?” he asked, voice dropping lower.
“No.” The word came out breathless. “I’m... the schedule. We should coordinate...”
“Should we?” His fingers found another pin, working it loose with careful attention.
“The magazine interview. Thursday.” She was struggling now, words coming slower. “We need to align our... our stories about...”
His thumb traced along her hairline as he removed the final pin from that section.
Her eyes closed briefly. When they opened, they looked slightly dazed.
“About what?” he murmured, watching her face in the mirror with growing satisfaction.
She’d stopped talking entirely. Just sat there, breath uneven, acutely aware of his hands in her hair, his presence behind her, the warmth of him at her back.
He kept working, kept touching, kept watching her come undone in the mirror.
The last pin came free. Her hair started to uncoil from its elaborate style, slowly unwinding.
And then it fell.
Vikram’s breath caught.
He’d never seen her hair down before. Never.
It reached her calves. Thick and dark and impossibly long, cascading down her back in waves. The kind of hair that would feel like silk if he let himself really touch it. The kind that would spread across pillows like spilled ink.
His hands stilled in the heavy mass of it.
He forced himself to step back before he did something foolish. Like bury his face in it. Like wrap it around his fist. Like...
“There.” His voice came out rougher than intended. “You can change now.”
She stood quickly, grabbing the fresh clothes from the chair. “I’ll just... in the dressing room...”
“Take your time.”
She practically fled.
Vikram stood alone in the bedroom, his hands still warm from her hair, his chest tight with the memory of how she’d stopped talking, stopped thinking, just felt when he’d touched her.
Good.
He wanted her feeling. Wanted her aware. Wanted her unable to retreat into professionalism when his hands were on her.
He shrugged off his sherwani, kept his kurta on. Sat on the edge of the bed. Stood. Paced.
The dressing room door opened. Divya emerged in simple cotton pajamas, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder, glasses back in place, looking so determinedly composed that it was almost endearing.
“You should take the bed,” he said immediately, already moving toward the couch.
“I’ll take the couch.”
“Divya.”
“...it’s your room and you’re much taller...”
“We’ll alternate.” The compromise came easily. “Every other night. You get the bed tonight, I get it tomorrow. Fair?”
She studied his face, looking for the catch. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” He guided her toward the bed with gentle pressure. “Now go. Sleep. You’ve had a very long day of accidentally becoming my wife.”
She almost smiled at that. Almost.
But she still hesitated. “Boss...”
“Goodnight, Divya.” He kept his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.”
She finally climbed into bed, still looking like she was doing something wrong. Pulled the covers up. Removed her glasses and set them carefully on the nightstand.
“Shall we turn off the lights?” Her voice was small.
He moved to the switch, turned off the lights and paused. “Divya?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” For what, he didn’t specify. For saying yes. For being here. For not running when she still had the chance.
“Okay, Boss,” she whispered back.
The nickname landed different in the dark. Soft. Almost intimate.
He settled on the couch that was too short for his frame.
Through the darkness, he could hear her breathing. Quiet. Steady. Eventually evening out into sleep.
He lay awake much longer.
Watching the shape of her in the bed. The way moonlight caught the edge of her profile. The slight rise and fall of her breathing.
His wife.
Not for two years.
Forever.
Sleep finally claimed him somewhere near dawn, still watching over her.
Tomorrow they would establish routines and boundaries and proper distance.
Tonight, he just let himself feel the weight of her presence in his room, in his space, in his life.
And it felt right in a way that terrified him completely.