Page 90 of Okay Boss
“It matches his suit exactly,” the wardrobe consultant explained. “The photographer wants cohesion.”
When they finally turned her toward the mirror, Divya froze.
The woman staring back wasn’t her. This woman had clear eyes that didn’t hide behind smudged glasses. This woman’s features looked sculpted, refined, striking in ways Divya had never associated with her own reflection, not even when she was readied as a bride.
“That’s... me?” The question slipped out.
The makeup artist smiled. “That’s all you. We just enhanced what was already there.”
Divya’s hand lifted, touching her cheek as if to verify the reflection moved when she did.
“They’re ready for you on set,” an assistant called.
???
The photography set sprawled across the studio’s main floor. Simple but elegant, cream backdrops, minimalist furniture, soft lighting.
Vikram stood with the photographer, deep in conversation about angles. His back was to her as she approached.
He wore a suit in the same midnight blue as her dress, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. Even from behind, he exuded easy confidence.
“Ah, here she is,” the photographer said, looking past Vikram toward Divya.
Vikram turned.
His reaction happened in stages, visible in the heartbeat before his professional mask could slide back into place.
First, his eyes widened. His lips parted on an indrawn breath. His entire body went still, like someone had pressed pause mid-film.
For three seconds, she counted them, Vikram Khanna looked at her without filters, without performance, without careful control. Raw. Stunned.
Then, like a curtain falling, he recovered. His expression shifted back to pleasant professionalism, but something lingered in his eyes, darker, more intense.
He closed the distance between them.
“You look beautiful,” he said, the words simple but delivered with such quiet certainty they felt like truth, not politeness.
“Thank you,” she managed, voice smaller than intended.
“Shall we?” the photographer called, gesturing toward the set.
The photographer positioned them together in carefully calculated poses. Professional. Artistic. Intimate in a way that was supposed to be all for show.
Except something had shifted.
The first pose was simple, standing together, Vikram’s arm around her waist. But the moment his hand settled against her, the contact felt charged. Different. Like he was suddenly conscious of every point where their bodies connected.
“Closer,” the photographer directed. “Vikram, pull her in.”
Vikram’s arm tightened, drawing her flush against his body. She felt the heat of him through the thin fabric of her dress, felt the rapid beat of his heart.
“Good,” the photographer said. “Now, Vikram, look at her like she’s the only person in the room.”
When Vikram’s eyes met hers, something in his gaze made her forget how to breathe. Intent. Focused. Possessive in a way that had nothing to do with cameras.
“Beautiful,” the photographer murmured, camera clicking rapidly. “Don’t move.”
But Vikram did move. His hand slid from her waist to the curve of her hip. His other hand came up to cup her face, tilting it toward his.
