"Because you're you." Simple. Absolute. Devastating in its conviction. "Because you see me, not the star. Because you're not impressed by the things that impress everyone else. Becauseyou make me want to be better, not better at acting or more successful or more famous. Better as a person. Better as a man."
His forehead pressed harder against hers, like he was trying to transfer his certainty directly into her.
"Because when I look around after a scene I’ve performed, I'm not looking for applause or adoration or someone to tell me I'm brilliant. I'm looking for you. For the way you exist in my space and make it feel like home."
"I've been in love with you since I was sixteen," she confessed, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. "I watched your Film Companion interview eleven times. Eleven times. I couldn't stop. You talked about storytelling with such honesty, such passion, such reverence for the craft. Not like a star performing. Like an artist worshipping his passion."
Her hands slid from her lap to his chest, fingers curling into his tuxedo lapels like she could anchor herself to him.
"When I got the internship and met you in person, I tried so hard to be professional. To keep distance. To be the competent assistant, not the star-struck fan. To remember that you were Vikram Khanna and I was nobody from nowhere with nothing but student loans and dreams that felt too big for someone like me."
Her voice broke.
"And then the photo happened and suddenly I was your wife. But still your employee. Still temporary. Stillnot really yours. Just convenient. Just a solution to a problem. Just…"
His mouth caught hers mid-sentence.
Not gently. Not tentatively. Not with the careful restraint that had defined every brush of skin, every almost-kiss, everycharged second they had forced themselves to survive without crossing the line.
His lips claimed hers with hunger that had built during every night they'd slept inches apart without touching. With frustration at watching her retreat behind walls. With possessiveness that said she'd never been temporary, never been convenient, never been anything but his from the moment he'd realized what she was behind that simplicity.
The kiss erased the careful line they had guarded for months. Professional distance burned away under the heat of his mouth on hers. The walls she had built cracked and fell as she kissed him back with equal urgency.
Her hands tightened in his lapels, not to resist but to pull him nearer, closing the last inches between them. His fingers slid deeper into her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper, to claim more, to erase any doubt that this was real and permanent and forever.
It wasn't sweet. Wasn't gentle. Wasn't the tentative first kiss of new lovers testing boundaries.
It carried want and denial and watching and aching. Of his hands learning restraint when all they wanted was to reach for her. Of her body craving his touch she told herself she had no right to want.
It tasted of possession and need, of finally surrendering to something that had been inevitable from the start.
When he finally broke away, both of them breathing hard, her glasses askew, his bow tie completely undone. He didn’t pull back. He stayed close enough that his breath brushed her swollen lips.
"That," he said roughly, "was not in the agreement."
A laugh broke from her. Half sob, half genuine amusement. "No. It wasn't."
"Neither is this." His hands slid down from her face to her waist, fingers spreading wide against the thin cotton of her kurta. "Or this." He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot below her ear. "Or anything else I'm planning to do tonight. And every night after."
Her breath caught audibly. Her hands moved from his lapels to his shoulders, needing to hold onto something as the room tilted.
"Vikram…"
"Say it again." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Say my name like that again."
"Vikram." Less steady this time. More breathless.
"Better." He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the heat in his eyes made her shiver. "But I'm not done with you yet."
He reached into his pocket with one hand, the other still anchored at her waist like he couldn't bear to stop touching her. The small black box emerged, the same one millions of people had seen on television less than an hour ago.
He opened it one-handed, the diamond catching the bedroom light and throwing fractured rainbows across her tear-stained face.
"Divya Mathur." His voice had gone rough again, thick with emotion. "Will you marry me? For real this time. Not for contracts or arrangements or solving scandals. Not for families or appearances or two-year timelines. For love. For always. Forthe rest of our lives, however long or short, however easy or hard, however ordinary or extraordinary they turn out to be."
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Yes." The word came out choked. "Yes. A thousand times yes."