Chapter 20 #2
Then, like a curtain falling, he recovered. His expression shifted back to pleasant professionalism, but something lingered in his eyes, darker, more intense.
He closed the distance between them.
“You look beautiful,” he said, the words simple but delivered with such quiet certainty they felt like truth, not politeness.
“Thank you,” she managed, voice smaller than intended.
“Shall we?” the photographer called, gesturing toward the set.
The photographer positioned them together in carefully calculated poses. Professional. Artistic. Intimate in a way that was supposed to be all for show.
Except something had shifted.
The first pose was simple, standing together, Vikram’s arm around her waist. But the moment his hand settled against her, the contact felt charged. Different. Like he was suddenly conscious of every point where their bodies connected.
“Closer,” the photographer directed. “Vikram, pull her in.”
Vikram’s arm tightened, drawing her flush against his body. She felt the heat of him through the thin fabric of her dress, felt the rapid beat of his heart.
“Good,” the photographer said. “Now, Vikram, look at her like she’s the only person in the room.”
When Vikram’s eyes met hers, something in his gaze made her forget how to breathe. Intent. Focused. Possessive in a way that had nothing to do with cameras.
“Beautiful,” the photographer murmured, camera clicking rapidly. “Don’t move.”
But Vikram did move. His hand slid from her waist to the curve of her hip. His other hand came up to cup her face, tilting it toward his.
The photographer was saying something about lighting, about angles. But Vikram didn’t seem to hear. His forehead touched hers, his breath warm against her skin.
She could feel the tension in him, the careful control in every muscle. Like he was holding himself back from something.
“This is just for the shoot,” she whispered.
His hand tightened on her hip. His jaw clenched. He didn’t respond with words. Just looked at her with eyes that had gone nearly black.
They moved through more poses. Each one tested something in him that seemed increasingly fragile.
When the photographer asked them to create an almost-kiss, Vikram’s entire body went taut.
His hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin below her ear. He leaned in until his lips were a breath away from hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the mint on his breath.
His eyes never left hers. Watching. Waiting. His breathing had gone uneven, chest rising and falling against hers.
Divya’s heart hammered so hard she was sure he could feel it.
“We’re just acting,” she whispered.
But the words felt hollow. Less convincing than they had two weeks ago. Less like truth and more like something she was desperately trying to believe.
Because she’d told herself this same thing on Day 5 when he brought her sandwich. On Day 8 when he kissed her forehead. Every time his touch lingered, every time his eyes tracked her across a room.
And each time, the reminder worked less. Meant less.
His thumb pressed gently against her lower lip. The gesture was intimate. Deliberate.
“Perfect!” the photographer called. “Hold that for three more shots.”
Three excruciatingly long moments where Vikram held her like that, lips a breath apart, his body taut with restraint, his eyes dark and intent.
She could see it in every line of him. The control barely holding. The way his grip tightened incrementally with each passing second.
When the photographer finally called wrap on that setup, Vikram didn’t immediately step back. He stayed there, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.
“I need a minute,” he said roughly to the photographer.
Then he pulled back just far enough to look at her. His thumb traced her jawline slowly, deliberately. His eyes noted every detail, her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the rapid pulse visible at her throat.
The photographer called for one final setup. Vikram seated, Divya standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders.
Vikram’s hands came up to cover hers. His fingers laced through hers, holding her there with a grip just shy of too tight.
Throughout the remaining shots, his thumb moved in slow circles against her palm. A constant touch. A reminder.
By the time the photographer called the final wrap, Divya was flushed from more than the lights. Her skin felt too tight. Every place Vikram had touched her felt branded.
“Wonderful work, both of you,” the photographer said, already reviewing images.
Divya stepped back quickly, too quickly, putting necessary space between herself and Vikram.
Vikram stood slowly, his eyes tracking her retreat. His hands flexed at his sides.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything, that he wanted to close that distance she’d created, that he’d let her retreat this time but it had cost him.
The styling team descended, breaking the moment. As Divya was led away for touch-ups, the makeup artist studied her face with professional assessment.
“You have incredible bone structure,” she said. “Why don’t you show it off more?”
Divya blinked, genuinely confused. “I don’t know how,” she answered honestly.
The stylist laughed, assuming it was modesty. But Divya meant it.
From just behind her came a slight intake of breath. She turned to find Vikram standing there, close enough to have overheard.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes had filled with something that looked almost like pain.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. Instead, he simply offered his hand to help her down from the platform.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and steady. But when she looked up to thank him, he was already looking away, jaw tight.
“Ready to go home?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded, gathering her things.
As they walked to the car, his hand found her back again.
And Divya told herself, for what felt like the hundredth time, that it was all just performance.
Except the words didn’t work anymore. Didn’t erase the way her skin still felt warm where he’d touched her.
Didn’t explain the way he’d looked at her, like she was something precious he was afraid to break.
Didn’t justify the tremor in his hands or the tension in his jaw or the hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with cameras.
She was running out of ways to lie to herself.
And that terrified her more than anything else.