The guest room at Khanna Sadan felt larger than her entire apartment.
Divya stood awkwardly near the velvet sofa as a renowned designer Anjali, whose name she recognized from Vogue covers, directed assistants to hang ten lehengas around the room like heavy, silken curtains.
Ten.
Each one a different shade of red. Each one more exquisite than the last.
“Vikram called me two days ago,” Anjali said, adjusting a ruby-and-gold creation. “Very specific instructions. He knew exactly what he wanted.”
Two days ago.
The day after the proposal.
Before the engagement was even announced publicly, he’d been ordering her wedding clothes.
Divya’s throat tightened.
“He was very particular about the shades,” Kavita added, fingers trailing over deep crimson silk. “Said certain reds would wash you out. He wanted undertones that would warm your skin.”
Divya’s face flushed. He’d been observing her skin undertones? When? How closely had he been looking?
She glimpsed a price tag dangling from one sleeve and nearly stopped breathing. The zeroes blurred together. This wasn’t a wardrobe. This was a ransom.
A shadow fell across the white marble.
Vikram leaned in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, watching.
Divya blinked. “You’re here? You have a 10 AM shoot. I put it in the calendar myself.”
“Canceled.” He adjusted his watch, quick, restless, not his usual composure. “The lighting was off. Not worth the drive.”
Divya raised an eyebrow. Vikram Khanna didn’t stay home because of bad lighting. He made the sun wait if a shot wasn’t ready.
“I’ll have to adjust the schedule for the week. We’re already behind on the climax. I’ll call the producer.”
Kavita and Ishani exchanged a long, weary look.
“For heaven’s sake,” Ishani muttered. “Stop talking about call sheets. You’re the bride, not the line producer. Go try on the first one.”
Divya’s fingers twisted together. “All of them?”
“All of them,” Kavita said firmly. “We need to see which suits you best.”
The dressing room felt like a trap.
Divya stared at the first lehenga, deep maroon with silver threadwork. The fabric alone probably cost more than her father’s annual pension.
She changed slowly, fingers fumbling with unfamiliar clasps and ties.
When she stepped back out, the room went quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet of approval. The uncomfortable quiet of people trying to find something nice to say.
“It’s... beautiful,” Kavita offered.
“The color is rich,” Ishani added.
From the doorway, Vikram said nothing. But his eyes tracked her movement, and something in his expression said:Wrong.