Chapter 31
The days after her breakdown settled into a quiet routine.
Divya moved through Khanna Sadan politely, efficiently, carefully. She smiled when needed. Answered questions. Managed schedules. But something had shifted back inside her. The walls were up again. Stronger this time.
At night, she slept beside Vikram because he would not let her sleep on the couch. But she kept a measured space between them, her back turned, body curled inward. If he reached for her in his sleep, she did not pull away. She just did not lean in.
Present. But distant.
In the daytime, she buried herself in work. Production calendars. Script notes. Emails that could have waited but didn’t. Work was safe. Work had rules. Work did not ask her to feel.
The news about Professor Kashyap grew louder. What began as leave turned into suspension. Then an official inquiry. Then more students speaking up. His publisher announced a review of his academic papers
Divya read every update in silence. There was relief in it. And fear.
She never brought it up with Vikram. Never thanked him. Never questioned what he had done or how far he had gone.
She simply watched the fallout from behind the walls she had rebuilt.
And kept moving.
Meanwhile, the house began to feel different.
Conversations paused when she entered. Doors closed more often. Voices lowered. There were looks exchanged across rooms. Small, quick, loaded.
At the center of it stood Vikram.
Focused. Quiet. Intent.
She saw him speaking in low tones with Raghav in the study. Saw Ishani listening carefully in the garden, nodding instead of teasing. Once, she caught Harshit looking at Vikram’s phone and giving a slow, approving nod.
It had something to do with the Filmfare Awards. That much was clear. The nominations had been announced. Vikram was up for Best Actor, again. The house had started discussing stylists and seating charts.
Under normal circumstances, the whole family would attend.
Including her.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
“I’m not going,” she said four days before the ceremony, keeping her voice steady as Vikram arranged an appointment with the designer for Divya. “You should take your mother. It’ll look better.”
Vikram looked at her across the room. “You’re my wife.”
“I’m also your assistant,” she replied, calm and practical. “And as your assistant, I’m advising against another public appearance. The Kashyap issue hasn’t settled. It will draw attention.”
He held her gaze a moment longer.
Then, simply, “Fine. You’ll stay home.”
No argument. No pushback.
The easy agreement unsettled her more than resistance would have.
She nodded once and went back to reviewing his schedule, ignoring the small, sharp ache that came with it.
◆◆◆
The night of the ceremony arrived.
The house filled with movement. Stylists hurried into Kavita's room. Harshit paced the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, arranging cars. Even Raghav and Ishani arrived early.
Divya moved through it all like she always did. Checking details. Confirming times. Staying busy. Staying safe.
Pista appeared suddenly, weaving between her feet as she crossed the foyer. He had grown since Raghav and Ishani brought him home, but he still moved with clumsy enthusiasm.
"Pista, move," she said softly, stepping around him.
The puppy sat immediately, tail thumping against the floor, looking up at her with pure adoration.
Despite everything, the walls, the distance, the numbness she'd wrapped around herself like armor, a small smile pulled at her lips. She crouched down, scratching behind his soft ears.
"Good boy."
Pista licked her hand once, then bounded off toward the kitchen, probably hoping for dropped food.
When she straightened, Vikram was standing there.
The sight of him stole her breath.
The black tuxedo fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. His shoulders looked broader. His hair fell just right, styled but not stiff. He looked every inch the movie star he was, polished, perfect, untouchable.
For just a moment, her walls cracked.
He was beautiful. Not magazine-beautiful. Not camera-beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made something hurt deep in her chest, something she didn't want to name.
"How do I look?" he asked.
He already knew. But he was asking anyway.
"Perfect," she whispered. "You'll win tonight."
He moved closer. She caught his scent, the cologne that lived on his pillow, that she sometimes breathed in when she thought he wasn't watching.
"Watch it on TV," he said, his voice dropping low. Intimate. "I'll feel like you're there with me."
His hand came up slowly, like he was afraid she'd pull away. It settled against her cheek, warm and solid. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone so gently it almost hurt.
"Watch all of it," he said. "Promise me."
There was something in his voice. Something urgent. Something that made her look up and actually see him.
Behind the tuxedo, behind the camera-ready smile, his eyes were intense. Almost desperate.
"Okay, Boss," she heard herself say.
The old name. The safe name. The barrier between them.
But tonight, he didn't flinch. Didn't correct her. Didn't step back. His eyes held hers for one more heartbeat. Then he leaned down.
His lips pressed against her forehead in a deliberate, slow kiss. Like he was trying to say something he couldn't put into words.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. She felt him breathe in, felt the moment stretch and pull and almost break.
Then he let go.
"Good," he said quietly.
He stepped back. The connection snapped.
The family gathered in the foyer. Harshit in his formal suit. Kavita resplendent in deep blue silk. Raghav and Ishani standing close, watching.
Divya followed them to the door. "The car is waiting. Forty minutes before the red carpet."
Vikram turned at the threshold. "Remember your promise."
Then he stepped through. His shoulders squared. His jaw set. The man who'd kissed her forehead disappeared, replaced by someone with a mission. Harshit's hand settled on his son's shoulder. Kavita's chin lifted. Even Raghav and Ishani exchanged knowing glances.
They all knew something she didn't.
The door closed.
Divya stood alone in the quiet. Pista trotted over, settling at her feet. She scratched behind his ears absently, then moved to the living room and turned on the television.
Whatever was coming, whatever he wanted her to witness, she would keep her promise.
◆◆◆
The Filmfare Awards stage blazed with light. Harsh, unforgiving brilliance that exposed every emotion, every truth. Hundreds of India's most beautiful people sat perfectly still, faces turned toward the podium where the presenter held the Best Actor envelope.
"And the award goes to..." She paused, smile wide. The envelope tore slowly. "Vikram Khanna for 'River's Edge'!"
Applause erupted. Cameras swung toward Vikram, capturing his practiced humility, gratitude and surprise perfected over years. Beside him, Kavita squeezed his arm. He stood.
He walked to the stage, steps measured, smile in place. He looked exactly as a winner should. To millions watching, he was Bollywood perfection, the star who’d earned his place through talent and discipline.
The presenter handed him the trophy with congratulations before stepping aside. Vikram approached the microphone, holding the award at his side. His smile softened as he faced the crowd.
“Thank you.” His voice carried easily, trained through years of performance. “This role challenged me in unexpected ways. Thank you to Madan Sir believing I could play someone so far from who everyone thinks I am.”
Appreciative laughter rippled through the audience. Director Madan raised his hand in acknowledgment.
“To my incredible co-stars. You elevated every scene. To the crew who worked tirelessly. To my family for supporting every choice, even the unconventional ones.”
Standard thank-yous. Expected and sincere. The audience began to settle into the comfortable routine, some already reaching for their phones.
Then Vikram stopped.
His expression shifted. The practiced charm fell away, replaced by something raw that made people straighten in their seats. He looked directly into the main camera. The one broadcasting to millions of homes.
Including one specific home. One specific viewer.
“Three months ago, a photograph leaked.” His voice changed, dropping lower, becoming intimate despite the massive audience. “A behind-the-scenes moment showing me with a woman the media didn’t recognise.”
The audience went completely still. Publicists tensed. This wasn’t approved. This was dangerous. The scandal no one mentioned, the hasty marriage that spawned a thousand rumours.
“The speculation was immediate and vicious.” Vikram ignored the warning light. “Who was she? What was our relationship? Was it betrayal? A secret affair?”
He took a breath. The auditorium held its breath with him.
“It was the luckiest accident of my life.”
The words hung there. Unexpected. Utterly sincere. The camera stayed locked on his face as every defense dropped. The public persona gave way to the man beneath.
“Divya.” His voice caught on her name. Not for effect. A genuine break in his composure. “You’re watching right now because I made you promise. Because I needed you to hear this not in our bedroom, not in private, but in front of everyone.”
Kavita's hand pressed against her heart. Several rows back, Riya Sharma smiled with unexpected warmth. Near the side, Raghav leaned forward, utterly focused, while Ishani's eyes glistened with tears she didn't bother hiding.
"You're not in my life by accident." Vikram's eyes never left the camera. As if he could see through it directly to her. "This was never temporary. Never just a contract or an arrangement."
His hand moved to his pocket. There was a slight tremor of real nerves.
"I've been in love with you since the fourth week of your internship.
" The confession came simple and bare. Just truth.
"Since you challenged my script interpretation and refused to back down even though I was the star and you were just an intern.
Since you stayed until three in the morning fixing production notes because you couldn't bear for something to be done incorrectly. "
From his pocket came a small black box. Held carefully, like something precious. His thumb pushed it open, revealing a diamond ring that caught the lights, simple, elegant, perfect.
"I'm asking you, in front of millions of people, to stop thinking of this as temporary." His voice found strength in absolute certainty. "To stop thinking of yourself as ordinary. To stop believing that two years from now, you'll walk away from me."
The ring gleamed. Beautiful and real and permanent in ways contracts could never be.
"The timeline is meaningless. It always was." He closed the box, tucking it back into his pocket. A promise to be delivered in person. "I never intended to let you go after two years. I never intended to let you go at all."
The time limit light flashed red, but no one moved to stop him. The audience sat frozen, witnessing something that felt less like a speech and more like watching someone jump without knowing if he'd land.
"I'm coming home now." His voice softened, meant suddenly for just one listener despite millions of ears. "Not to negotiate or convince. To tell you what I should have told you months ago. To give you this ring because I need you to be my wife. Not for cameras or families."
A pause.
His voice cracked.
“For me.”
He stepped back from the microphone. The award tucked under his arm, forgotten. His eyes held the camera for one final moment. Direct. Unflinching. Completely honest.
Then he walked off stage.
The host rushed forward, flustered, trying to transition back to the ceremony. But applause had already started, scattered at first, then building to something thunderous. Not for his acting. For the raw courage of loving someone out loud.
Among the audience, Vikram handed the trophy to his mother. Her eyes were bright with tears.
"Go," was all she said, pressing car keys into his palm.
He didn't need to be told twice.