He could clarify. Tell her plainly that he and Riya were just co-stars with good PR chemistry. That the dinners and flowers were optics. That nothing about it was personal.
But why would he? What difference did it make what his assistant believed about his personal life?
It changed nothing.
Unless.
Unless the idea that she thought he was taken bothered him.
The realization annoyed him further. It wasn’t as if he owed her an explanation. It wasn’t as if she had asked. She had simply done her job. Efficiently. Without emotional investment.
And that, somehow, was the problem.
He stood abruptly, checking his reflection in the mirror.
He didn’t know why the thought of her calmly managing his supposed romance with Riya left a sharp edge under his ribs.
Annoying. Completely unnecessary.
Divya was his assistant. Riya was his co-star. Everything was exactly as it should be.
So why did it feel slightly off?
That Evening - Citrus
Dinner at Citrus was choreography.
Vikram reached across the table and brushed his fingers over Riya’s wrist. His smile landed exactly where it needed to, warm, controlled, suggestive without commitment.
The private dining room had just enough “accidental” witnesses. A waiter who lingered a second too long. Two diners near the window who held their phones at suspiciously steady angles.
“You’re distracted,” Riya murmured, turning her wrist so his hand framed her bracelet perfectly.
“Long day,” he replied, thumb tracing a slow arc over her skin. “This director is too meticulous.”
She laughed. Not her real laugh. The calibrated one. Softer than red-carpet volume, louder than intimacy.
“How tragic. You, forced to work hard.”
He took a measured sip of wine. “My assistant reshuffled half of tomorrow for him. Efficient to a dangerous degree.”
“The one with glasses?” Riya asked. “She coordinated tonight. Sent orchids.”
“She’s thorough.”
“Keep her,” Riya said lightly. “Your last assistant sent lilies. I’m allergic.”
A waiter placed their food. They adjusted instinctively, angles, posture, distance. Every movement muscle memory now. Shared dessert. Fed each other a bite. Laughed at nothing in particular.
Outside, cameras waited.
He guided Riya through the flashes, palm at her waist. Protective but not possessive. Kissed her temple at the car.
“Tell your mother happy birthday,” he whispered.
“Call me tomorrow,” she said loudly enough for effect.
His driver closed the door behind him. The sound sealed him into sudden silence, cutting off the shouted questions and camera clicks. The tinted windows turned the world outside into a muted light show.