By the time they reached the theatre entrance, the glass doors shielding them from the noise outside, both of them exhaled quietly.
“Your bow tie is crooked,” Riya said under her breath, though her smile for the cameras never slipped.
“It’s intentionally asymmetrical,” he replied. “Adds personality.”
He straightened it anyway.
“My feet are already numb,” she muttered. “These heels should come with a medical warning.”
“Still worth it,” he said, glancing at her. “You look beautiful.”
It wasn’t flirtation. It was professional honesty. Riya always understood the difference.
Inside the lobby, the lighting softened, the noise reduced to a polished murmur. Waiters moved through the crowd with trays of champagne. Industry faces filled the space. Directors. Producers. Rivals pretending to be friends.
“Your mother called mine yesterday,” Riya said, accepting a flute of champagne. Her tone was casual, but careful.
Vikram closed his eyes briefly. “I’m guessing it wasn’t a social call.”
“She wanted to know my ‘intentions’.” Riya took a small sip. “About you.”
He suppressed a groan. “What did you tell her?”
“That we are friends who attend events together and occasionally rescue each other from awkward questions.” She glanced at him. “She didn’t sound convinced.”
“She cornered me tonight too,” he admitted. “Apparently both her sons treat marriage like an infectious disease.”
Riya’s lips twitched.
Vikram scanned the room automatically, nodding at a veteran actor across the lobby, lifting his hand toward a producer near the bar. “I have three films in production. Another international project in discussion. Marriage is not even on the last page of my planner.”
“You’re underestimating your mother,” Riya said quietly.
He shrugged, but there was awareness in his eyes. “Let her try.”
She adjusted his lapel lightly, aware that photographers still lingered at a distance.
“We should go in,” he said, offering his arm with dramatic courtesy. “Ready to watch my emotional range for two hours?”
“As long as you don’t whisper your own dialogues before they happen,” she replied, sliding her hand through his arm.
He laughed softly as they entered the dim theatre hall.
???
On screen, Vikram Khanna was breaking apart.
Mud streaked his face. Rainwater mixed with real tears as he clutched a photograph of his dead brother. His shoulders shook. His voice cracked. The theatre fell into complete silence. No popcorn rustling. No whispers. Just raw grief filling the room.
In the third row, centre seat, the real Vikram shifted slightly and checked his phone for the fourteenth time.
Another message from his manager. Another fan page tagging him. Another review already calling his performance “award-winning.”
On screen, his voice trembled.
“When you lose someone who shares your blood, you lose yourself. You become a story.”
A woman somewhere behind him sniffed loudly. Someone else reached for a tissue.