“Indeed,” Kavita said, drawing out the single word until it contained volumes. Her eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “A very professional habit.”
“Quite an interesting habit,” Harshit added from behind his newspaper, which he raised again with suspicious speed.
Raghav had given up all pretense of composure. His shoulders shook silently. Ishani elbowed him in the ribs, which only made it worse.
Divya stared at her plate, idli and sambar she hadn’t even started, wishing fervently that the polished marble floor would develop a sudden crack and swallow her whole.
She’d spent six months perfecting the art of professional invisibility. Six months where “Okay, Boss” was just efficient communication. And now, with five syllables and zero brain-to-mouth filtering, she’d managed to highlight exactly how strange their situation was to his entire family.
Wife who says “Okay, Boss” at the breakfast table.
Assistant who shares his bedroom.
The contradictions were suddenly, painfully visible.
“Eat something,” Vikram said, his voice gentler now. “Please. Everything else can wait twenty minutes.”
She picked up her fork. Put idli in her mouth. Chewed mechanically. Across the table, Raghav whispered something to Ishani. She grinned, shaking her head. Kavita had returned to her tea, but a small, knowing smile played at her lips.
And Harshit, Harshit had given up all pretense of reading. He was watching his younger son with an expression Divya couldn’t quite decode. Something between amusement and approval.
The breakfast continued. Conversation resumed, carefully, gently, around her. Normal family breakfast things.
She didn’t open her notebook again. Didn’t reach for her pen. She just sat at the Khanna family breakfast table and tried very, very hard to figure out how to be a wife instead of an assistant.
Old habits, she was learning, died incredibly, embarrassingly hard.
Five Days Into Marriage
The set ofDil Aur Deskhad become a stage for a different kind of performance entirely.
Divya stood near the production coordinator’s station, finalizing Vikram’s schedule for the week. She was cross-referencing his commitments with location availability when she felt it, that particular warmth that meant Vikram had entered her orbit.
She didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. The man had been around her for twenty-four hours a day now. She’d developed a sixth sense for his presence.
“Here.”
His voice came from directly behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She turned to find him holding a glass of fresh juice in one hand and a sandwich in the other.
“I can get my own...”
“I know.” He set both down on the table beside her notebook, completely unbothered by her protest. “But you’ve been standing here for an hour coordinating with three different departments. You need to eat.”
Around them, the crew had gone conspicuously busy, everyone suddenly very focused on their equipment, their scripts, anything except the newlyweds having this very domestic exchange in the middle of a professional set.
She glanced at the plate. Veg Sandwich. Not grilled. One of the things she actually liked from craft services.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. This was for show. He was being the attentive husband for the cameras, for the crew, for the narrative they were selling.
“Don’t thank me. Just eat.” His hand came to rest at the small of her back, warm, possessive, deliberate. “And drink the juice. You look dehydrated.”
“I’m fine, B...” She caught herself just in time. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrowed at the almost-slip. “Divya.”
“Sorry. Habit.”
“Break it,” he said quietly, but there was heat beneath the words. Not anger. Something else. Something that made her skin prickle with awareness.