No change in breathing. No flicker in her eyes. No awareness that he was standing close enough for her to notice his cologne.
“We might need flexibility,” he continued, leaning in fractionally.
“For travel or media interaction?”
His jaw tightened. She had reduced his performance to logistics.
“The schedule is fine,” he said finally, stepping back.
“Okay, Boss.”
She returned to her color coding. Blue. Yellow. Pink.
Vikram walked away slowly. Either his effect was fading, or Divya Mathur was completely immune. Both possibilities irritated him equally.
He glanced back. She was humming again. Still off-key. Completely absorbed in aligning papers. She noticed everything about his schedule. His habits. His timing.
But not him.
It was the most confusing form of efficiency he’d ever encountered.
That evening, the shoot wrapped earlier than expected. In his vanity van, Vikram scrolled through his phone while Divya reviewed final details for the weekend.
“The charity gala requires formal attire,” Divya said, making notes. “Your tuxedo has been delivered. Car arrives at 6:30 tomorrow evening.”
Vikram adjusted his collar in the mirror. “Riya will attend with me. Make sure the press release mentions we’re arriving together.”
He watched her reflection carefully, looking for any reaction, a pause in her writing, a tightening around her eyes, anything that suggested his casual mention of Riya Sharma registered as more than a scheduling detail.
Divya’s pen moved smoothly. “Okay, Boss. I’ll coordinate with her team about timing.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
What Vikram couldn’t see from his angle was the way her other hand had fisted in her lap beneath the call sheets. Couldn’t see her swallow once, hard, before continuing to write. Couldn’t catch the moment her eyes closed briefly behind her glasses. It was a tiny, private reset.
“Also,” he continued, still watching, “schedule a lunch with her next week. Somewhere public. Filmfare wants a quote about our ‘relationship.”
“Understood. I’ll send options tomorrow.”
Still nothing visible. Perfect professional composure.
He turned back to his phone, satisfied and irritated that his assistant was exactly what she appeared to be, efficient, practical, completely unaffected by the complications of his public life.
He missed entirely the way she gripped her pen tighter. The slight tremor in her hand as she underlined “Riya Sharma” in her notes.
Divya had been sixteen when she’d first watched Vikram Khanna’s interview on Film Companion. Had paused and replayed certain moments to understand why particularexpressions worked. Had chosen him as her undergraduate thesis subject.
Not because he was handsome. Though he was. But because in his early films, there had been something unguarded. A softness in the pauses. It had felt real.
That thesis had earned her an A. That interest had led to Mrs. Menon’s class. That connection had placed her here. Now she sat inside his vanity van almost every day, closer to him than she’d ever imagined possible.
What unsettled her wasn’t his appearance. She’d prepared for that. It was the small, unpublicized things.
The way he remembered the spot boy’s daughter’s exam results. The way he arranged food for the makeup team during early morning shoots. The way he listened when a junior actor nervously asked for advice.
Those moments were far more dangerous than any magazine cover. But she’d learned to store each observation in a mental folder markedtemporary.
Six months total. Four months left.