Chapter 19
Eight Days Into Marriage
The afternoon shoot was supposed to be simple, a romantic scene where the CEO confesses his feelings to his assistant. Light touching. Hand-holding. A near-kiss interrupted by a phone call.
Except Vikram couldn’t seem to get through it.
“Cut,” Farhan called for the fifth time. “Vikram, what’s going on? This should be effortless for you.”
Vikram stood in the middle of the set, looking frustrated. His co-star Anika waited patiently beside him, professional smile in place despite having to reset repeatedly.
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up what makeup had carefully styled. “The rhythm’s wrong.”
“We’ve been shooting this for an hour,” Farhan said, checking his watch. “You want to break for lunch and come back to it?”
“No.” Vikram’s jaw set. Then his eyes found Divya across the set. “Actually, yes. But give me five minutes first. I want to try something.”
He crossed to where she stood near the monitors, ignoring Farhan’s confused look.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as he approached, automatically shifting into problem-solving mode.
“I need you to stand in for this scene.”
Her heart stuttered. “What? No. Anika Ma’am’s right there...”
“I know where Anika is.” His voice was matter-of-fact, entirely practical. “But I’m not connecting with the blocking. The spatial dynamics are off. I need someone shorter to get the angle right.”
It was a completely reasonable explanation. Professional. Logical.
It was also complete bullshit, and they both knew it.
She dropped her voice. “I’m not an actress. I don’t know what I’m supposed to...”
“You don’t need to do anything except stand there.” His hand found hers, fingers threading through with casual ease. “Five minutes to get the positioning right, then we’ll shoot it properly with Anika.”
The lie was so smooth she almost believed it.
“This is ridiculous...”
“Farhan,” Vikram called over his shoulder, not waiting for her agreement. “I’m going to run through it once with Divya. Check sight lines.”
Farhan’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Your... wife?”
“She’s the right height,” Vikram said, as if this explained everything. “And she’s here. It’s efficient.”
“Sure.” Farhan’s grin was unholy. “Very efficient. Anika, take five.”
Anika stepped aside gracefully, shooting Divya a look that was pure amusement.
Before Divya could protest further, Vikram was guiding her toward the set, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, not rough, not forceful, simply inevitable.
She found herself positioned in the middle of the set, the same spot where Anika had stood moments before. The lights were hot. The crew was watching. And Vikram was standing closer than necessary, looking at her with an intensity that had nothing to do with sight lines.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “This is technical work.”
She managed a nod, not trusting her voice.
“Action,” Farhan called, sounding far too entertained.
Vikram’s entire demeanor shifted. His voice dropped, rough and raw. “I know I’m your boss. I know this crosses every professional line we have. But I can’t...” He stepped closer, his hand finding her waist. “I can’t pretend anymore that you’re only my assistant.”
This was the dialogue from the script. She’d heard it during revisions. But hearing it directed at her face, feeling his hand warm against her waist, seeing his eyes focused entirely on her, it didn’t feel like blocking.
“I tried to ignore it,” he continued, his forehead nearly touching hers now.
“Tried to maintain distance. But every time you walk into my office, every time you anticipate what I need before I ask, every time you look at me like...” His thumb traced her lower lip.
“...like you’re seeing something worth seeing, I lose myself a little more. ”
Her breath caught. She wasn’t supposed to react. This was positioning. Nothing more.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, so quiet only she could hear. “Tell me this is inappropriate.”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t remember why this was supposed to be pretend.
“Cut!” Farhan’s voice broke the spell. “Perfect! That’s exactly what I needed. Vikram, can you replicate that energy with Anika?”
Vikram stepped back slowly, his hand leaving her waist with visible reluctance. His eyes never left hers.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll try.”
But when he ran the scene with Anika, something was missing. The intensity was there, the technical performance flawless, but that raw edge, the thing that had made Divya forget to breathe, was gone.
Farhan noticed it too. Called cut after the second take.
“You know what,” the director said, making a decision that would haunt Divya’s thoughts for weeks, “let’s shoot it with Divya. We’ll keep the camera on Vikram’s face. I need his performance, and clearly that’s what’s working.”
“Sir, that’s not,” Divya started to protest.
“It’s practical,” Vikram cut in, already moving back toward her. “We’re burning time. This is the fastest solution.”
“This is insane,” she muttered as he positioned her again.
“This is efficient,” he corrected, hand finding her waist once more. “Now stop overthinking.”
They shot the scene six more times.
Six times Vikram touched her face, pulled her close, whispered words meant for a fictional character that landed like confession.
Six times she forgot how to breath, forgot this was temporary, forgot the man holding her was the same one who’d agreed to let her go in two years.
By the time Farhan called wrap on the scene, Divya felt stripped bare in front of forty people.
“Good work,” Vikram said, helping her step down from the platform, his hand holding hers.
He caught the eye of a nearby spot boy and gestured toward craft services. The spot boy nodded, hurrying off.
Vikram stayed close, closer than necessary for someone who’d finished their scene. His hand remained intertwined with hers, thumb brushing absently against the inside of her wrist.
“You’re flushed,” he observed, voice pitched low. “I wonder why.”
Her face heated further. “The lights are hot.”
“Mm.” His eyes tracked the color rising in her cheeks with obvious satisfaction. “The lights. Of course.”
The spot boy returned with a chilled bottle of water. Vikram took it, dismissed him with a nod, and handed the bottle to Divya.
She took it automatically, then looked up at him.
Something in his expression had shifted. Not the intensity from the scene, something lighter. Almost... playful.
“It’s warm on set,” she managed. “That’s all.”
“Right. Warm.” He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “Nothing to do with my hands. Or my mouth near your ear. Or the way your breathing changed every time I touched you.”
She stared at him. Was he…was he teasing her?
“You were performing,” she said, trying to find her footing. “For Farhan.”
“Was I?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Strange. I could have sworn I was performing for you.”
Her pulse kicked hard. “That’s not…”
“You know what I noticed?” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Your pupils. Every time I got close, they dilated. Every single time.”
She should step back. Should remember they were on a set where people could see.
But her feet wouldn’t move.
“You were watching my pupils?” The question came out breathless.
“I was watching everything.” His voice was soft. Dangerous. “I pay attention when something interests me.”
Interests.
The word hung between them, loaded with implications.
“You’re impossible,” she managed.
“So you keep saying.” His smile widened. “Drink your water. You look like you need to cool down.”
Before she could respond, he moved.
Quick and deliberate, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her against him. Not roughly. Firmly. Her body pressed against his, close enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt.
She tried to step back. “What are you...”
“Don’t move.” His voice stayed low, but his expression shifted to something warmer, public, perfect for anyone watching. “The crew’s looking. If you pull away now, they’ll wonder why.”
She went still. He was right. She could feel eyes on them. The boom operator. The script supervisor. Half the crew pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.
“Better,” he murmured.
Then, while they watched, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead.
Soft. Gentle. Lingering.
The kind of gesture that looked impossibly tender from a distance.
Divya’s eyes closed involuntarily. The kiss was chaste, nothing scandalous. But the intimacy of it, the public nature of it, the way his hand splayed across her lower back holding her close… Her heart hammered so hard she was sure he could feel it.
When he pulled back, his eyes met hers. Something in them that looked almost like satisfaction.
“There,” he said quietly. “Now everyone knows I’m completely gone for you.”
Then he stepped away, casual as anything, moving toward Farhan to discuss the next setup like he hadn’t shattered her composure in front of forty witnesses.
Divya stood frozen, the ghost of his lips still warm on her forehead.
Around her, the set had resumed its rhythm, crew members moving equipment, adjusting lights, calling out technical instructions. But underneath the professional bustle, she caught the looks. The knowing smiles. The exchanged glances.
The makeup artist leaned toward her colleague, whispering something behind her hand. The camera operator grinned at the boom operator. The script supervisor’s mouth curved as she made a note on her clipboard.
They believed it. All of it.
“Great work, ma’am.”
She turned. A production assistant was passing by, nodding at her with respectful acknowledgment. “Really helped Vikram Sir nail that scene.”
Ma’am.
Not “excuse me” or the barely-there recognition she’d gotten used to as an assistant. Ma’am. With eye contact. With respect.
She blinked, watching the PA walk away.
When had that started?
She noticed it then, really noticed it. The way the lighting technician had stepped aside to let her pass earlier instead of expecting her to move.
The way the assistant director had asked her opinion about a scheduling conflict this morning instead of simply informing her.
The way the makeup artist smiled at her now like an equal.
The sound guy had asked if she wanted anything from the craft services run. The costume designer had shown her fabric swatches for Vikram’s next outfit, genuinely interested in her thoughts.
She wasn’t the assistant anymore.
She was Vikram Khanna’s wife.
And on this set, that meant something.
The realization settled over her with uncomfortable weight. She’d spent six months being invisible, and now people saw her. Respected her. Valued her input.
Because she’d married the right man.
The thought should have felt hollow. Should have reminded her this was temporary, performance, carefully constructed illusion.
Instead, it made her tired.
She pressed her fingers to her forehead where his lips had been, feeling the warmth still there.
He’s selling the story, she told herself. Maintaining the illusion.
But the words felt thinner than they had days ago. Less like truth and more like defense. Because the respect she was getting, the ma’am instead of being ignored, the opinions being valued, the space being made for her, it wasn’t about being his wife.
It was about people believing he actually loved her.
And the more real it looked, the more people treated her like she mattered.
Which meant the harder it would be when it ended.
Two years. Then divorce. Then back to being invisible Divya Mathur who took the bus and counted coins and nobody noticed.
She took a long drink of water, the bottle still cool in her hands.
Across the set, Vikram glanced back at her. Their eyes met. He smiled, not the public smile, not the actor’s smile. Something smaller. Private.
Her stomach flipped.
Two years, she reminded herself desperately. This ends in two years. Don’t forget.
But when she looked at him, really looked at the way he was watching her even while discussing blocking with Farhan, forgetting felt inevitable.
And that terrified her more than anything else.