"Sunday," he said finally, voice carefully neutral. "Four-thirty."
Then he was gone, door closing with a soft click that somehow felt louder than a slam.
Divya sat surrounded by forgotten notes, tickets pressed against her chest.
He'd noticed her laptop tab. Three weeks ago. Had remembered. Had acted on it. Had secured impossible tickets and planned elaborate disguises just so she could watch a documentary without interruption.
And she couldn't even say his name.
The realization settled over her like weight. Like guilt. Like recognition of something she wasn't ready to face.
Outside the door, Vikram leaned against the hallway wall for a moment, eyes closed.
Boss.StillBoss.After seven nights of sleeping beside her. After watching her slowly relax into his presence.
StillBoss.
The barrier was deliberate. Protective. And it was going to take more than tickets and disguises to break it down.
???
The makeup artist arrived at exactly four-thirty, setting up in the garage instead of the usual vanity room upstairs.
"Garage?" Divya had asked when Vikram guided her down the side stairs.
"Privacy." He'd said it like it explained everything. "Don't want the whole family making this a production. It's just us tonight. Our thing."
Our thing.The phrase settled warm in her chest.
The transformation began. Professional-grade prosthetics altered Vikram's nose shape. A wig covered his distinctive hair with something longer, shaggier. Colored contacts changed his eyes from deep brown to hazel.
In the chair beside him, Divya watched her own metamorphosis. Her signature glasses replaced with contacts that made her blink rapidly. Her practical braid disappeared under a shoulder-length bob wig. Subtle contouring changed her face just enough.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Someone who could walk through Mumbai unrecognized.
"Done," the makeup artist announced.
Vikram stood, moving to stand beside Divya's chair. In the mirror, they looked like completely different people. Random. Ordinary. Free.
"Ready?" he asked, meeting her eyes in the reflection.
???
They took a regular car. Vikram drove himself, navigating evening traffic with surprising ease.
"You know how to drive in this chaos?" she asked.
"I did live a normal life before fame, you know. Dad never allowed us luxury until we earned it." The prosthetic-altered features made him look boyish. "Had a terrible car in college. Manual transmission. No AC. Drove it until the engine literally gave up."
She tried to picture it, young Vikram, pre-fame, struggling with Mumbai traffic. The image refused to form.
The theater appeared tucked between a bookstore and café in Bandra. Small. Weathered. The kind of place tourists never found and locals cherished.
Inside, perhaps fifty seats filled the intimate space. Worn red velvet. Small screen. Film students with notebooks. Elderly couples. Solo viewers who'd clearly been anticipating this screening for weeks.
Vikram guided her to the back row, far right corner.
"Okay?" he asked.