The thesis demanded focus. Required analysis.
Unlike feelings that went nowhere. Unlike hope that had no foundation. Unlike the careful distance she maintained while coordinating his romance with someone else.
She saved the document. Closed the laptop.
Tomorrow would start at five-thirty. Another day of efficiency. Another day of perfect professionalism.
Another day of pretending that “Okay, Boss” was all she wanted to say.
She switched off the lamp. Streetlight filtered through the thin curtain.
In the darkness, she let herself think about Vikram’s smile one more time. The real one. Not the one for cameras.
Just once.
Then she’d forget again tomorrow.
Chapter 8
One Month Later
Khanna Sadan didn’t look like the same place Divya had first entered four months ago. Jasmine garlands draped every archway, their scent heavy and sweet in the evening air. Fairy lights transformed the gardens into something from a film set, thousands of tiny stars captured and strung between trees.
The estate that had once intimidated her now seemed like a different planet entirely, one where she had even less right to exist.
She adjusted her peach silk kurta. It was the nicest thing she owned, chosen carefully with her mother the weekend before. The fabric clung to her damp skin in Mumbai’s humid evening.
Bollywood royalty flowed past her in waves of designer lehengas and custom sherwanis. Each face familiar from magazine covers. Each person oblivious to the girl in peach silk who didn’t belong.
“Just stand where you won’t be noticed,” she whispered to herself. “Do your job. Then go home.”
Divya positioned herself at the edge of the mandap, just beyond the last row of white-covered chairs. From there, she could see the entire arrangement without being part of it.
The floral canopy rose like something out of a myth, layers of marigold, jasmine, and pale roses woven into gold latticework. Lights hidden among the flowers gave everything a soft glow.
A business card pressed into her palm. The fourth reporter in an hour.
“Just five minutes with Vikram Sir, ma’am.”
She smiled, redirected, repeated the official media schedule. Professional. Invisible. Functional.
From where she stood, the family tableau was perfectly framed.
Raghav at the altar, spine straight, expression composed but just slightly too still. Beside him sat a small cream-colored puppy with floppy ears and a brown patch on its chest. Pista. The little dog sat remarkably still for a puppy, as if understanding the solemnity of the moment, though his tail thumped softly against the mandap floor whenever Raghav’s hand drifted near.
In the front row, Harshit sat upright, observant. Kavita shimmered beside him in crimson silk and layered gold, her face glowing with satisfaction.
And then, Vikram.
Black sherwani. Subtle gold embroidery catching light when he shifted. He stood beside his brother, one hand clasped loosely behind his back.
Same height as Raghav. Same sharp jaw. Same commanding presence.
Different energy entirely.
Where Raghav felt like a closed ledger, precise, unreadable, Vikram was warmth and movement. He leaned closer to whisper something. Raghav’s mouth twitched. Pista’s ears perked up at the sound.
Divya felt the corner of her own lips lift despite herself.