Chapter 30
Vikram pushed open the bedroom door without knocking. The scene that greeted him stopped him just inside the threshold.
Divya stood by the couch, mechanical in her movements as she laid out a pillow and blanket. Her face remained blank, emptied of emotion, as she smoothed the fabric with the same attention she gave to production schedules.
She'd changed into simple cotton pajamas. Her glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose. Her hair hung loose down her back. But it was her eyes that caught him, flat, distant, empty.
"What are you doing?" Vikram asked, though the answer lay obvious before him.
Divya didn't look up, just continued arranging the pillow. "Setting up for the night."
"On the couch." Not a question. A statement loaded with disbelief.
"Yes." Her voice maintained that careful neutrality that had become rare between them. The professional tone. The assistant's voice. "We can return to our original arrangement now that your mother's concerns are addressed."
Vikram stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. The soft click sounded final.
"Our original arrangement," he repeated, the words bitter. "You mean sleeping separately."
"It's more appropriate." She straightened, still not meeting his eyes. "Given our situation."
"Our situation." His voice hardened slightly. "And what situation is that, exactly?"
Her hands stilled on the blanket. "The arrangement. The contract. Two years." Each phrase emerged clipped. "We should maintain proper boundaries."
Vikram moved closer, confusion mingling with the anger still simmering from his earlier calls. "This is about what happened at your examination. Mrs. Menon told me everything Kashyap said."
"This isn't about that." Divya spoke faster, louder, as if trying to drown out his words. "This is about being practical. About remembering what this actually is."
"And what is this, Divya?" He gestured between them, the space that had grown smaller over weeks now suddenly expanding again.
"A contract." She finally looked at him, her eyes shielded behind her glasses. "A business arrangement with mutual benefits and a clear end date. I got carried away with the performance of it."
"Performance." The word fell like a stone between them.
"Yes." She nodded too quickly. "And it's working. The scandal has died down. Your family has accepted me. But we shouldn't confuse convenience with..."
She trailed off, unable to name what lay on the other side of that sentence.
Vikram stepped closer. "With what?"
"With anything that lasts." She stepped back, maintaining distance. "I'm still your assistant. This is still temporary. We should remember that."
He watched her retreat behind walls, building them brick by careful brick. The timing wasn't coincidental. Today's humiliation had driven her back to the safety of clear boundaries. Back to a world where she was just an employee with an end date.
He could push. Could tell her about the lawsuit already in motion, the systematic destruction being arranged for anyone who dared speak to her that way. Could insist that what had grown between them was far beyond any contract.
But her eyes showed fragility behind the professional front, a crack that wouldn't hold under pressure.
"Fine." He nodded, controlled. "If that's what you want."
Relief swept over her face, too quick to hide. She'd been ready for a fight. His calm agreement caught her off guard.
"It is." She turned back to the couch, adjusting the pillow that needed no adjustment. "Thank you for understanding."
He didn't understand. Not really. But he understood the retreat when necessary, the quick step back to safety before losing ground.
For now, he'd let her have this illusion of control.
◆◆◆
The night stretched between them.
Vikram lay in bed, his bed now, apparently, staring at the ceiling. The space beside him felt wrong. Empty. Cool where it should have been warm.
Across the room, Divya curled on the couch, her back to him, body tight beneath the blanket. Her breathing hadn't settled. She was awake, pretending to sleep.
Minutes stretched to hours. The digital clock marked their silent standoff. 11:45. 12:30. 1:15. Neither spoke. Neither slept. Both pretended.
At 2:37, her breathing finally changed, deepening into genuine sleep.
Vikram waited five more minutes to be sure, then moved.
He crossed to the couch silently, bare feet making no sound. In sleep, she'd relaxed slightly, her body no longer wound tight. Her face had softened, the professional mask slipping away.
Silver tracks traced down her cheeks in the dim light, evidence of tears she'd kept silent, shed only when she thought he couldn't see.
His jaw tightened.
He slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders.
She stirred. Her eyes opened, unfocused and confused. "What..."
"You're not sleeping on the couch." His voice was quiet but firm.
"I'm fine here." She tried to push against his chest, but the movement was weak, still caught between sleep and waking.
"You're not fine." He straightened, lifting her easily despite her halfhearted resistance. "And you're not sleeping there."
"Put me down." The words lacked conviction. She was too exhausted to fight properly, her body already going pliant against his.
"No."
He carried her to the bed. She made one more small sound of protest, but her head had already settled against his shoulder, her body recognizing something her mind refused to accept.
The mattress dipped as he laid her down. She tried to sit up. "Boss…"
"Sleep." He pulled the covers over her. "We'll fight about it in the morning if you want."
She stared at him for a moment, something vulnerable flickering behind the exhaustion in her eyes. Then she turned onto her side, facing away from him, drawing into herself.
He slipped into bed behind her, careful to leave a quiet space between their bodies. Close enough to stay, far enough to respect the distance she seemed to need, while making it clear she wasn’t sleeping on the couch.
For several minutes, they lay like that. Separate. Silent.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it. "Why?"
"Because you belong here," he said simply.
She didn't respond. But her breathing gradually evened out, and this time, when sleep claimed her, it was real.
Vikram stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the small space between them like a physical thing.
Tomorrow, he'd show her exactly what happened to people who hurt her.
Tonight, this was enough.
◆◆◆
Early morning light filtered through the high windows of Vikram's gym.
His fist connected with the punching bag, a precise, controlled strike that carried more force than usual. Sweat darkened his t-shirt. Another punch. Another. Each impact echoed sharp and rhythmic.
He'd left Divya sleeping. She hadn't stirred when he slipped away at dawn, one hand stretched across the space he'd left as if searching for warmth even in sleep.
The punching bag swayed under another strike. Then another. His form remained perfect. Years of discipline maintained technique even as something darker fueled each blow. Not wild anger. Something colder. More focused.
His knuckles burned beneath the wraps. Physical pain anchored him, kept him from dwelling on the image of Divya standing frozen while Kashyap dismantled her dignity.
Right hook. Left cross. The combination snapped the bag on its chain.
Forty minutes in, his phone chimed.
Vikram stepped back from the bag, chest heaving. He unwrapped one hand before checking the screen.
A news alert from one of India's leading publications.
"Mithibai College Professor Faces Defamation Lawsuit And Ethics Investigation"
The article didn't name Divya. His lawyers had ensured her privacy. But it detailed allegations against Professor Kashyap for "unprofessional conduct during examination" and "personal attacks unrelated to academic assessment." The college had placed him on immediate leave pending investigation.
A second notification appeared. Then a third.
Rahul's team had been efficient. Multiple outlets now carried stories not just about the lawsuit but about Kashyap's history.
Previously buried complaints from students about inappropriate comments.
Financial irregularities in a research grant.
Plagiarism allegations from a doctoral candidate whose work showed suspicious similarities to Kashyap's recent publication.
Nothing planted. Nothing fabricated. Just Kashyap's own actions finally catching up to him.
The professor's reputation was unraveling thread by thread. By afternoon, his career would be in tatters. By evening, his name would mean professional disgrace.
Vikram set the phone down. He hadn't smiled while reading. Hadn't felt triumph. Just cold certainty that actions had consequences, especially when those actions hurt someone who was his.
He stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and grabbed a fresh towel.
The gym door opened behind him.
He knew who it was before turning. Could sense her presence like a shift in the air.
Divya stood in the doorway, still in her sleep clothes, glasses crooked as if she'd put them on in a hurry. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. In one hand, she clutched her phone.
Her expression wasn't professionally blank anymore. It burned with something raw. Unleashed.
"What did you do?" She stepped into the gym, phone extended toward him. The screen showed one of the news articles.
Vikram tossed the towel over his shoulder. "What needed to be done."
"A lawsuit? Media exposure? His entire career?" Her voice rose with each question. "This is too much. It's…"
"It's fair." He didn't raise his voice to match hers. "He publicly humiliated my wife. Questioned your integrity. Suggested you didn't earn what you accomplished."
"I can fight my own battles." Her hand shook slightly. "I've been handling difficult people my entire life."
"This isn't about whether you can handle it." Vikram stepped closer. "It's about the fact that you shouldn't have to."
"You can't just destroy someone because they insulted me!"
"Yes, I can." Simple. Direct. Absolute. "No one disrespects my wife."
My wife.
The words hung between them.
Something broke in Divya's expression. Her eyes filled suddenly, tears spilling over before she could stop them.
"Don't you understand?" Her voice cracked. "This is exactly what he accused me of. Using your name, your power, your position to get what I want."
"That's not what this is."
"It's what everyone will see!" The words tore from her throat, raw and stripped bare. "The opportunist who married Vikram Khanna and now uses his influence to destroy anyone who criticizes her."
The tears flowed freely now, tracking down her cheeks. Her breathing hitched, her body seeming to cave in on itself as she wrapped her arms around her middle.
"Do you know what they'll say? That I slept my way to a distinction.
That I couldn't handle critique so I sent my powerful husband to silence it.
" She looked up at him, glasses fogging from her tears.
"I will always be the girl who wasn't good enough on her own.
Who needed Vikram Khanna to fight her battles. "
He reached for her. She stepped back.
"Don't." The word emerged sharp despite her tears. "Don't try to fix this. You can't fix what I am."
"And what are you?" His voice remained steady.
"A nobody. From nowhere. With nothing." Each word emerged like it had been ripped from somewhere deep and painful. "The opportunist who got lucky when scandal turned into marriage."
"That's not who you are."
"It's who everyone sees!" Her voice rose, cracking. "It's who my professor saw. It's who the media sees. It's who your industry sees when they look at me."
Her shoulders shook. Months of careful composure, of being exactly what everyone needed her to be, all of it collapsing in a single, devastating moment.
"Maybe we should end this sooner." The words emerged quieter but no less shattering. "The arrangement. All of it."
Vikram went completely still.
"No." A single word, filled with absolute certainty.
"It would be cleaner." She wiped at her tears with shaking hands. "Before more damage is done. Before…"
"No." He stepped forward, erasing the distance she'd tried to create. "That's not happening."
"You can't just decide that."
"I can and I am." He reached for her again, and this time she didn't back away, perhaps too exhausted to maintain distance. His hands settled on her shoulders, warm and solid. "I'm not letting you run from this. From us."
She looked up at him, eyes red behind fogged glasses, face blotchy from crying, stripped of everything except raw vulnerability.
"Why?" The question came out small. Broken. "Why hold onto something that brings nothing but problems?"
His hands tightened slightly on her shoulders. "Because you're not a problem to be solved, Divya. You're my wife."
Fresh tears welled in her eyes.
She pulled away. His hands dropped. She turned and walked toward the door, still wiping at her face.
Vikram didn't follow.
He watched her leave, watched her shoulders shake with silent sobs even as she tried to compose herself.
And he felt relief.
Not because she was crying. But because she was finally letting herself feel something instead of retreating behind professional distance. The tears meant the walls had cracked. The breakdown meant she cared too much to stay numb.
She'd spiraled. She'd cried. She'd let him see her vulnerable.
That was better than cold detachment. Better than the mechanical composure she'd shown last night. Her walls had climbed higher now. He knew that. But he also knew they were weaker than before.
And he would take it slow. Again. As many times as it took.