Chapter 17
Only then did her fingers find her wire-rimmed glasses, and as she slipped them on, reality crashed in with the suddenly sharp edges of the room. The spacious bedroom. The soft silk sheets. The wedding yesterday.
She slid from beneath the covers, bare feet meeting cold marble.
That’s when she saw him. Vikram sprawled across the couch, one arm flung above his head, legs dangling off the edge.
In sleep, his face lacked its usual intensity, the furrow between his brows smoothed away. Her hand reached out automatically, hovering inches from his cheek. For one suspended moment, she imagined brushing her fingers against his skin, feeling its warmth.
She stepped back, curling her fingers into her palm.
This wasn’t real. The marriage, yes. But the rest? Vikram Khanna could never be her reality. She was the solution to a PR problem, nothing more.
She dressed quickly in one of the few outfits she’d brought from home, a simple cotton kurta in pale blue. Practical. Modest. Herself.
The hallway outside stretched empty and silent. She moved quietly, testing each step on the marble to avoid making noise.
The grand staircase loomed ahead. A path to what? What was her role now? What function did she serve?
Usefulness.
The word settled in her mind like an anchor. She needed to justify her presence in this house that had never been meant for her.
◆◆◆
The kitchen was three times the size of her family’s entire apartment. Gleaming steel surfaces. Professional-grade appliances. Already staffed with four people working.
A woman in a crisp uniform looked up as Divya entered. “Ma’am, can I help you with something?”
“I just...” Divya’s hands twisted in front of her. “Thought I might help with breakfast?”
The woman’s confusion was evident. “Everything is prepared according to schedule, ma’am. The breakfast will be served at 7:30 in the dining room.”
“Would you like tea now?” the woman asked, already reaching for a cup.
“No, thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you.” Divya backed toward the door, cheeks warming with embarrassment.
She wandered through halls that felt like a museum, priceless art, pristine furniture, floors that reflected her hesitant steps. Every corner seemed designed to make her feel like an intruder.
Through French doors left ajar, morning air slipped through. Divya stepped into the garden where Kavita and Ishani approached on a winding path, returning from their morning walk. Both women moved with innate confidence, Kavita in sleek black athletic wear, Ishani in complementary blue.
Divya’s hand smoothed her simple cotton kurta. She took an instinctive step backward.
But Kavita had already spotted her. “Divya! You’re up early.” She approached with a warm smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. The room is very comfortable.”
“Would you like to join us tomorrow?” Ishani asked, gesturing to the path. “We walk the full estate perimeter each morning.”
“Oh.” Divya’s hand rose to adjust her glasses.
Kavita’s eyebrow arched slightly. “And why are you wearing your old clothes? Didn’t you check your closet?”
Divya’s stomach dropped. She had seen the wardrobe. But she’d pulled out her own simple clothes instead, unable to touch anything that felt too expensive, too much like accepting something she hadn’t earned.
“I saw them,” she said quietly, the words coming out smaller than intended. “I just... I didn’t think I should...”
Something flashed across Kavita’s face, not anger, but determined resolution. She took one deliberate step toward Divya. “Didn’t think you should what? Use them? Wear them? Accept them?”
Divya’s hands twisted in front of her. “They’re too nice. I thought maybe they were just for occasions.”
“Divya,” Kavita said, her tone leaving no room for argument, “they are not for show. The workout clothes, casual outfits, evening wear, they’re for you to use whenever you wish. Not costumes for performances.”
“I just thought...” Divya started, then stopped, unsure how to explain standing in that massive closet, surrounded by things she’d never owned, feeling like an imposter in someone else’s life.
“I know what you thought.” Kavita’s voice softened slightly. “You thought you needed to earn your place here. To justify your presence by not taking too much, not asking too much, not being too much.”
The accuracy of the assessment made Divya’s breath catch. She nodded once, a small, tight movement.
“You’re my daughter now,” Kavita continued, her gaze unwavering. “You are family.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “And you will call me Mom, just like Vikram does. Understood.”
Mom.
The word felt impossible in Divya’s mouth. A presumption too great. For twenty-three years, only one woman had held that title. The idea of transferring it to this elegant, intimidating woman seemed like a betrayal.
“If she apologizes again, there’s a fitness penalty,” Ishani interjected with a light smile. “Twenty extra minutes on tomorrow’s walk.”
The gentle teasing broke some of the tension. Divya’s shoulders lowered slightly.
“I’ve never been much for exercise,” she admitted quietly. “Just walking to the bus stop.”
“Then we’ll start slowly,” Kavita said, making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “Comfortable clothes. Reasonable pace.” She gestured toward the house. “Come have tea with us on the terrace. It’s where we always go after our walk.”
As they turned toward the house, Kavita’s hand settled briefly on Divya’s shoulder, not guiding, not controlling, just connecting. The simple contact after days of chaos felt unexpectedly grounding.
“Thank you...” Divya began, then paused. She swallowed hard and finished in a voice barely above a whisper, “...Mom.”
The word emerged awkward and quiet, like a rusty hinge forced into motion after years of disuse. It didn’t feel natural. Didn’t feel earned.
But Kavita’s smile in response carried genuine pleasure, as if Divya had given her something valuable.
An Hour Later
Vikram woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and an empty bed across the room. He sat up too quickly, scanning the space. Her glasses were gone from the nightstand.
Where was she?
He checked his watch. 7:15 AM. Still early.
He changed quickly, and headed downstairs. The main rooms were empty. The dining room was being set for breakfast but no sign of her.
A thread of worry pulled tight in his chest.
Had she left? Gone back to home? Decided this was too much?
Then he heard voices from the terrace, and an unmistakable happy bark.
He moved toward the French doors and stopped just inside, catching sight of the scene through the glass.
Divya sat at the small table with his mother and Ishani, a cup of tea cradled in her hands.
Pista lay at her feet, his golden head resting on her flats, tail thumping lazily against the terrace floor.
She was listening to something Kavita was saying, her expression less guarded than he’d seen it in days.
Not relaxed, exactly. But not quite so defensive either.
As he watched, his mother said something that made Divya’s lips curve into a small, hesitant smile. Her free hand dropped absently to scratch behind Pista’s ears, and his tail wagged harder.
The knot in his chest loosened.
She hadn’t left. She was here. Trying to find her place.
He stepped back from the doorway before they could see him watching. Let them have this moment. Let his mother work her quiet magic the way she had with Ishani. Let Pista offer the uncomplicated affection that asked for nothing in return.
By the time he entered the dining room for breakfast twenty minutes later, Divya was already seated. Pista had followed her in and now sat beside her chair, looking up at her with adoring eyes every time she moved.
She looked up when Vikram entered, and something in her eyes was different from last night.
Still uncertain. Still wary. But slightly less lost.
“Good morning,” he said, taking his seat across from her.
“Good morning, Boss,” she replied automatically, then caught herself. Her cheeks flushed slightly.
His mother raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Pista whined softly, nudging Divya’s hand with his nose. She obliged, scratching his head while carefully not meeting Vikram’s gaze.
Vikram hid his smile behind his coffee cup. They’d figure it out. One morning at a time.
Later That Morning
At 8:30 AM, Khanna Consolidated’s official channels released twelve breathtaking, caption-free photos: Vikram applying sindoor, Divya’s shy gaze, their hands clasped as they circled the fire, families standing proud.
By 8:37 every major entertainment outlet ran them.
By 9:00 #KhannaWedding trended worldwide.
A single statement announced the private ceremony and asked for blessings, no mention of past scandals. The narrative shifted exactly as planned: from “Khanna Scandal” to “Bollywood’s Most Romantic Wedding.”
Within hours, fresh gossip replaced the Khanna story.
In Divya’s apartment block, the WhatsApp group reverted to water-tank schedules and festival notices. Mrs. Deshmukh discussed vegetable prices. Mrs. Apte sent society-meeting reminders. Reporters vanished.
The next morning, Suresh Mathur checked his watch at 6:25 AM, donned his walking shoes, and greeted his three companions as if nothing had happened. Their route sparked cricket debates and mithai recommendations, free of cameras or scrutiny.
At home, Aditya showed his father messages from classmates requesting a visit, friends once warned off. Suresh agreed, savoring the simple reassurance of normal life. His medication remained unchanged. At the chai shop, he was once more just a respected retired banker.
The scandal had washed away, leaving only the quiet relief of routine restored.