Chapter 20
Two Weeks Into Marriage
The afternoon heat hit like a physical wall as Divya pushed through the studio’s side entrance.
Her glasses slid down her nose as sweat gathered at her temples.
She pushed them back up with her knuckle, squinting at the message on her phone.
A delivery for Vikram was waiting at the main gate, documents he needed for a shoot in Dubai two months later, and it couldn’t be entrusted to just anyone.
She could have sent an intern. Should have sent an intern. But the courier required signature verification, and some habits died harder than others. Managing Vikram’s logistics was the one thing she knew how to do without second-guessing herself.
As she approached the main gate, she spotted a cluster of journalists and photographers loitering just outside the perimeter. Waiting. Hunting. Their cameras hung like weapons, ready to capture anything that might give them a headline.
She slowed her pace instinctively. The studio’s security guard spotted her, gesturing toward a package held by a courier who stood just inside the gate.
“Divya Madam,” he called, waving her over.
The movement caught the journalists’ attention. Heads turned. Cameras lifted. She forced herself forward, keeping her eyes on the security guard, not the lenses now pointed in her direction.
“Delivery for Mr. Vikram Khanna,” the courier said, holding out an electronic signature pad. “Needs authorized signature only.”
Divya nodded, scribbling her name where indicated. As she took the package, a voice called from behind the gate.
“Mrs. Khanna! Just a few questions!”
She didn’t turn. Just held the package and nodded thanks to the guard. But as she turned to leave, a woman’s voice cut through the babble.
“Divya! How does it feel to have trapped India’s most eligible bachelor?”
The question froze her mid-step. She turned despite herself, facing a slender woman with calculating eyes and a microphone thrust forward through the gate’s bars. The journalist’s smile was professionally bright, toxically sweet.
“Excuse me?” The words came out smaller than Divya intended.
“Your fairy tale,” the journalist pressed, smile never wavering. “From assistant to Mrs. Khanna overnight. Was it planned? Did you set your sights on him from the beginning, or was it just lucky timing with the photo scandal?”
Heat crawled up Divya’s neck, sharper, more painful than the afternoon sun. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.
A hand settled at her waist. Warm. Steady. Claiming.
“Would you like to rephrase that question?”
Vikram materialized beside her as if conjured by her distress. His voice was pleasant, pitched to carry without seeming aggressive. His smile remained in place, camera-ready, perfected over years. But his eyes had gone cold, obsidian dark.
The journalist’s smile faltered. “Mr. Khanna! I was just asking your wife about your whirlwind romance...”
“No.” The single word sliced through her backpedaling. “You were implying my wife manipulated me. That’s not a question. That’s an accusation disguised as journalism.”
His fingers splayed possessively across the small of her back. The touch anchored her as the world seemed to tilt.
“I didn’t mean to suggest...” the journalist tried again.
“Yes, you did.” His tone remained conversational, but the temperature around them seemed to drop. “So I’ll give you the chance to rephrase. Once.”
The journalist’s throat worked visibly. Her microphone lowered an inch. “I apologize if my wording was inappropriate. I was simply curious about how your relationship developed.”
“Our relationship developed privately,” Vikram replied, his smile never reaching his eyes. “And will remain that way.”
He turned to the security guard. “No more press at the gates. New studio policy.” Then, to Divya, so softly only she could hear. “Let’s go.”
His hand guided her back toward the interior of the studio, gentle pressure at her waist steering her away from the journalists who continued calling questions that faded with distance.
Only once they were inside the vanity van did his hand drop away. The sudden absence of contact left her skin cooling in the air-conditioned space.
“Thank you,” she said, clutching the package tighter. “I wasn’t expecting them to...”
“Why were you at the gate?” His question cut across her gratitude.
She blinked, taken aback by the sharp edge in his tone. “There was a delivery for you. The courier needed an authorized signature.”
“You could have sent someone else.”
“It needed someone with authority to sign.” She attempted a small smile.
His expression didn’t soften. “That’s not how this works anymore, Divya. You’re my wife, not my assistant fetching deliveries.”
My wife.
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than they should have been for an arrangement with an ending already planned.
A heavy silence fell. She studied his face, trying to read what lay beneath the tension in his jaw. Was he angry at the journalist? At her? At the situation that had forced them into this arrangement in the first place?
“I understand,” she said quietly. “I’ll be more careful.”
Something flickered in his eyes, frustration, perhaps, or something deeper she couldn’t name. But before he could respond, he was called away for a scene. The conversation suspended itself, hovering like smoke in a closed room.
Hours later, they sat in the back of his car as the driver navigated Mumbai’s evening traffic. Divya stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The package rested on the seat between them.
“Next time, ask someone else,” Vikram’s voice broke the silence, continuing their interrupted conversation as if no time had passed.
She nodded, fingers twisting in her lap. “I’m sorry. I should have thought...”
“Don’t apologize.” His response came quick, almost sharp. “Just don’t put yourself in that position again. Those people…” He stopped, jaw working. “They’re looking for any angle to exploit. You’re Divya Vikram Khanna now. That makes you a target.”
Divya Vikram Khanna.
The name settled over her like weight. She felt something she didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Okay,” she said softly.
The car continued through Mumbai’s crowded streets. Vikram unlocked his phone, stared at the screen, then made a call.
“Rahul. I need you to arrange something.” His voice shifted to business mode. “A photoshoot. Magazine spread. Something high-profile. And I want Divya included, not just mentioned, fully featured.”
A pause.
“Yes, together. Make it about us.”
A pause.
“Because I’m telling you to. The best photographer, the best publication. Make it happen within the week.”
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Divya watched him from the corner of her eye.
“Another cover story?” she asked quietly.
“Something like that.”
The car pulled up to Khanna Sadan. As they walked inside, his hand found her back again, that touch that was becoming a habit.
Divya told herself it was all part of the act.
She was getting worse at believing it.
Two Days Later
Divya found herself in a styling chair for what Rahul had arranged, a cover shoot for Filmfare’s “Love in the Spotlight” special issue. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“You have amazing skin,” the lead makeup artist said, tilting Divya’s chin up with cool fingers. “Such a natural glow. We won’t need much foundation.”
Divya forced a small smile. Her skin was just skin, unremarkable, nothing that had ever warranted comment before the Khanna name attached itself to hers.
“We’ll start with your eyes,” the artist continued, removing Divya’s glasses gently. The world immediately blurred. “We’ve brought contacts for you.”
The transformation happened in layers.
First the contacts, strange and uncomfortable, making her blink rapidly.
Then light makeup played across her cheekbones. Her eyes expanded, defined by subtle smoky hues. Her lips became fuller, tinted to match her skin tone.
Next, her hair, released from its practical braid, washed, styled into soft waves that cascaded past her shoulders.
“Why do you always pull it back so tightly?” the stylist asked.
“It’s practical,” she answered. The real answer, that beauty wasn’t a currency she’d ever believed was hers to trade in, remained unspoken.
Ninety minutes later, they brought the outfit. Midnight blue fabric that shimmered with subtle beadwork. Cut to follow curves she usually disguised under practical kurtas.
“It matches his suit exactly,” the wardrobe consultant explained. “The photographer wants cohesion.”
When they finally turned her toward the mirror, Divya froze.
The woman staring back wasn’t her. This woman had clear eyes that didn’t hide behind smudged glasses. This woman’s features looked sculpted, refined, striking in ways Divya had never associated with her own reflection, not even when she was readied as a bride.
“That’s... me?” The question slipped out.
The makeup artist smiled. “That’s all you. We just enhanced what was already there.”
Divya’s hand lifted, touching her cheek as if to verify the reflection moved when she did.
“They’re ready for you on set,” an assistant called.
◆◆◆
The photography set sprawled across the studio’s main floor. Simple but elegant, cream backdrops, minimalist furniture, soft lighting.
Vikram stood with the photographer, deep in conversation about angles. His back was to her as she approached.
He wore a suit in the same midnight blue as her dress, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. Even from behind, he exuded easy confidence.
“Ah, here she is,” the photographer said, looking past Vikram toward Divya.
Vikram turned.
His reaction happened in stages, visible in the heartbeat before his professional mask could slide back into place.
First, his eyes widened. His lips parted on an indrawn breath. His entire body went still, like someone had pressed pause mid-film.
For three seconds, she counted them, Vikram Khanna looked at her without filters, without performance, without careful control. Raw. Stunned.