“Yes,” he said simply.
Just that one word claimed her more effectively than any contract.
Kavita walked a slow circle, nodding with deep satisfaction. “The cut suits your frame perfectly. Almost as if...”
She stopped, a knowing smile touching her lips as she glanced at her son.
“Almost as if it were designed specifically for her body,” the designer finished, pride evident. “Mr. Khanna was very thorough with the specifications he provided.”
Divya’s breath caught.
She couldn’t look away from Vikram’s reflection in the mirrors. He stood watching her with that unsettling focus, like a man who’d found what he was searching for and wasn’t planning to let it go.
She opened her mouth, to remind him this was temporary, that two years would pass and none of this would matter, but the words died.
In this moment, with crimson silk warming her skin and Vikram’s eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room, that future felt both too far away and too close.
“We’ll take this one,” Kavita told the designer. “Have it delivered tomorrow after final adjustments.”
The designer began packing away the other outfits, each one worth a fortune, each one rejected in favor of the one Vikram had planned for.
Divya turned back toward the dressing room.
She felt Vikram’s gaze follow her, heavy as a physical touch.
When she closed the door, she leaned against it, eyes closed, heart hammering.
The crimson silk whispered against her skin. The perfect fit felt like being held. Like being claimed.
Like he’d known exactly what he was doing when he ordered it.
The dupatta slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in crimson and gold.
It looked like blood spilled across the floor.
Like a warning.
Like a promise.
Seven Days Later
The days between the lehenga fitting and the wedding blurred into a haze of preparations Divya barely registered. Invitations were sent. Arrangements were made. The world was informed that Vikram Khanna and Divya Mathur would marry in an intimate family ceremony.
The media exploded with speculation, analysis, and, finally, acceptance. The narrative shifted exactly as Harshit had predicted. From scandal to romance. From invasion to celebration.
Now, sitting before a gleaming mirror in the same guest room at Khanna Sadan, Divya felt the weight of that transformation settling onto her shoulders along with the jewelry.
Mumbai’s most sought-after bridal stylists worked with quick, practiced hands. Jasmine flowers woven into her elaborately braided hair. Makeup she had never worn before applied with precision. Jewelry that felt heavy and foreign fastened around her neck, wrists, ears.
Ninety minutes of transformation while her stomach tied itself into knots.
The wedding, her wedding, was no longer theoretical. It waited downstairs. Real. Imminent. With families gathered and photographers positioned to capture every moment.
“Close your eyes,” the makeup artist instructed.
Divya obeyed, surrendering to hands that knew what they were doing even if she didn’t. The brush tickled against her eyelid. Someone fastened another piece of jewelry. The scent of jasmine grew stronger.
“The final touch,” someone murmured. “Open your eyes.”