The word hung between them, loaded with implications.
“You’re impossible,” she managed.
“So you keep saying.” His smile widened. “Drink your water. You look like you need to cool down.”
Before she could respond, he moved.
Quick and deliberate, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her against him. Not roughly. Firmly. Her body pressed against his, close enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt.
She tried to step back. “What are you...”
“Don’t move.” His voice stayed low, but his expression shifted to something warmer, public, perfect for anyone watching. “The crew’s looking. If you pull away now, they’ll wonder why.”
She went still. He was right. She could feel eyes on them. The boom operator. The script supervisor. Half the crew pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.
“Better,” he murmured.
Then, while they watched, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead.
Soft. Gentle. Lingering.
The kind of gesture that looked impossibly tender from a distance.
Divya’s eyes closed involuntarily. The kiss was chaste, nothing scandalous. But the intimacy of it, the public nature of it, the way his hand splayed across her lower back holding her close… Her heart hammered so hard she was sure he could feel it.
When he pulled back, his eyes met hers. Something in them that looked almost like satisfaction.
“There,” he said quietly. “Now everyone knows I’m completely gone for you.”
Then he stepped away, casual as anything, moving toward Farhan to discuss the next setup like he hadn’t shattered her composure in front of forty witnesses.
Divya stood frozen, the ghost of his lips still warm on her forehead.
Around her, the set had resumed its rhythm, crew members moving equipment, adjusting lights, calling out technical instructions. But underneath the professional bustle, she caught the looks. The knowing smiles. The exchanged glances.
The makeup artist leaned toward her colleague, whispering something behind her hand. The camera operator grinned at the boom operator. The script supervisor’s mouth curved as she made a note on her clipboard.
They believed it. All of it.
“Great work, ma’am.”
She turned. A production assistant was passing by, nodding at her with respectful acknowledgment. “Really helped Vikram Sir nail that scene.”
Ma’am.
Not “excuse me” or the barely-there recognition she’d gotten used to as an assistant.Ma’am.With eye contact. With respect.
She blinked, watching the PA walk away.
When had that started?
She noticed it then, really noticed it. The way the lighting technician had stepped aside to let her pass earlier instead of expecting her to move. The way the assistant director had asked her opinion about a scheduling conflict this morning instead of simply informing her. The way the makeup artist smiled at her now like an equal.
The sound guy had asked if she wanted anything from the craft services run. The costume designer had shown her fabricswatches for Vikram’s next outfit, genuinely interested in her thoughts.
She wasn’t the assistant anymore.
She was Vikram Khanna’s wife.