She stood abruptly, startling Pista. The puppy whined softly, confused by her sudden movement. But she couldn't sit still.
Her feet carried her toward the stairs without conscious thought. Up the steps. Down the hallway. Into their bedroom.
Theirbedroom.
The space they'd shared since their marriage while she'd maintained careful distance, built invisible walls, counted down to an expiration date that he'd just publicly declared meaningless.
She sank onto the edge of the bed. Her hands twisted in her lap. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She couldn't stop shaking.
The tears came then. Hot and fast and completely beyond her control. Relief. Terror. Joy. Overwhelming, consuming emotion that she'd held back for months, years, if she was honest.
She heard the front door open downstairs.
Heard his footsteps on the marble.
Heard them coming closer. Climbing the stairs. Moving down the hallway towards her.
She looked up as the bedroom door swung open.
Vikram stood in the doorway.
Still in his tuxedo, the bow tie hanging loose around his neck. His hair slightly disheveled. Looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. The award, the ceremony, the entire industry, none of it existed.
Only her.
"Millions of people." Her voice came out shaking, barely above a whisper. "You just told millions of people."
He didn't answer. He just crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of her.
His hands rose to her face, holding it gently but firmly, as if afraid she might disappear if he loosened his grip. The heat in his eyes clashed with the softness of his touch. His thumbs moved slowly across her cheeks, wiping away tears with a care that felt almost reverent.
His fingers slipped into her hair, spreading at the back of her head. He held her like something fragile and fierce at the same time, like something he had wanted for a long time but had only just been allowed to claim.
"You needed millions of people," he said, voice low, rough, unshakably sure. "You needed witnesses so you couldn't reduce it to a contract. Couldn't label it temporary. Couldn't convince yourself it was just Vikram Khanna being generous."
"You're an actor," she whispered, clinging to logic. "You know how to make people believe..."
"Look at me."
His voice was absolute. His hands steadied her face, so she could keep looking at him.
"Look at me and tell me that was acting."
She did look at him.
Past the polished smile the world knew. Past the camera-trained expressions. Into eyes stripped bare of performance.
It was just the truth.
"I tried quiet," he continued, each word deliberate. "I tried showing you."
His thumb brushed her cheek again, slower now.
"The chai I learned to make because you loved it. The documentary tickets I booked because I saw you checking that site. Going to your parents because I knew it mattered we go together, that you missed them. The way I watched you during that photoshoot and forgot there were cameras."
Her breath faltered.
"The forehead kisses. Carrying you back to this bed every night you tried to escape to the couch."