Page 88 of Okay Boss
“Divya! How does it feel to have trapped India’s most eligible bachelor?”
The question froze her mid-step. She turned despite herself, facing a slender woman with calculating eyes and a microphone thrust forward through the gate’s bars. The journalist’s smile was professionally bright, toxically sweet.
“Excuse me?” The words came out smaller than Divya intended.
“Your fairy tale,” the journalist pressed, smile never wavering. “From assistant to Mrs. Khanna overnight. Was it planned? Did you set your sights on him from the beginning, or was it just lucky timing with the photo scandal?”
Heat crawled up Divya’s neck, sharper, more painful than the afternoon sun. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.
A hand settled at her waist. Warm. Steady. Claiming.
“Would you like to rephrase that question?”
Vikram materialized beside her as if conjured by her distress. His voice was pleasant, pitched to carry without seeming aggressive. His smile remained in place, camera-ready, perfected over years. But his eyes had gone cold, obsidian dark.
The journalist’s smile faltered. “Mr. Khanna! I was just asking your wife about your whirlwind romance...”
“No.” The single word sliced through her backpedaling. “You were implying my wife manipulated me. That’s not a question. That’s an accusation disguised as journalism.”
His fingers splayed possessively across the small of her back. The touch anchored her as the world seemed to tilt.
“I didn’t mean to suggest...” the journalist tried again.
“Yes, you did.” His tone remained conversational, but the temperature around them seemed to drop. “So I’ll give you the chance to rephrase. Once.”
The journalist’s throat worked visibly. Her microphone lowered an inch. “I apologize if my wording was inappropriate. I was simply curious about how your relationship developed.”
“Our relationship developed privately,” Vikram replied, his smile never reaching his eyes. “And will remain that way.”
He turned to the security guard. “No more press at the gates. New studio policy.” Then, to Divya, so softly only she could hear. “Let’s go.”
His hand guided her back toward the interior of the studio, gentle pressure at her waist steering her away from the journalists who continued calling questions that faded with distance.
Only once they were inside the vanity van did his hand drop away. The sudden absence of contact left her skin cooling in the air-conditioned space.
“Thank you,” she said, clutching the package tighter. “I wasn’t expecting them to...”
“Why were you at the gate?” His question cut across her gratitude.
She blinked, taken aback by the sharp edge in his tone. “There was a delivery for you. The courier needed an authorized signature.”
“You could have sent someone else.”
“It needed someone with authority to sign.” She attempted a small smile.
His expression didn’t soften. “That’s not how this works anymore, Divya. You’re my wife, not my assistant fetching deliveries.”
My wife.
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than they should have been for an arrangement with an ending already planned.
A heavy silence fell. She studied his face, trying to read what lay beneath the tension in his jaw. Was he angry at the journalist? At her? At the situation that had forced them into this arrangement in the first place?
“I understand,” she said quietly. “I’ll be more careful.”
Something flickered in his eyes, frustration, perhaps, or something deeper she couldn’t name. But before he could respond, he was called away for a scene. The conversation suspended itself, hovering like smoke in a closed room.
Hours later, they sat in the back of his car as the driver navigated Mumbai’s evening traffic. Divya stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The package rested on the seat between them.
