Page 41 of Okay Boss
And in the middle of the revived set, Divya had already stepped away. Back to her corner. Notebook open.
As if she hadn’t just saved the day’s shoot, and a small fortune, with one quiet idea.
Vikram didn’t move.
He watched it happen in real time. The shift.
Heads turning toward her. Technicians nodding with grudging respect. The assistant director asking her something with a tone that bordered on admiration. Even Farhan giving her that rare, approving tilt of the chin.
Something coiled tight inside Vikram’s chest.
He had been watching her like this for months. Watching the quiet efficiency, the solutions delivered without drama, the way she saw cracks before they widened.
That had been his observation. His discovery.
Now the entire set was seeing it.
He didn’t like it.
The clarity of that thought unsettled him.
He didn’t like the screenwriter lingering too long when he thanked her. Didn’t like the way the assistant director asked for her input as if suddenly realizing her value. Didn’t like that her competence was suddenly public property.
She washisassistant.
The problem-solver who made his days smoother. The one who anticipated before he asked. The one whose notebook held his chaos in neat columns.
And now they were all looking at her as if they’d just uncovered treasure that had been sitting in plain sight.
When she glanced up and met his eyes across the set, he didn’t break the connection.
He held it.
Not a smile. Not a nod.
Something steadier. A silent exchange that felt charged without being obvious.
Recognition.
She gave him that small, almost-smile in return, the restrained one that never reached full brightness on set. The one that felt private.
Then she looked down, already writing something.
Back to work.
Vikram turned away, disturbed by his own reaction. By the heat lingering in his chest. By how much it had mattered that her smile had been directed at him alone, despite all the praise surrounding her.
The possessiveness made no sense.
She wasn’t his. She was his employee.
But the distinction felt increasingly meaningless.
Later That Afternoon
Farhan’s “office” was a corner carved out of chaos.
An old desk scarred with cigarette burns. A leather chair patched with duct tape. Three mismatched folding chairs. The walls were a collage of storyboards and taped photographs. A half-empty whiskey bottle stood guard beside worn scripts.
