Page 7 of Okay Boss
He placed the phone down and returned her card.
“Wait here.”
Divya stood still, fingers wrapped tightly around her bag, repeating her achievements in her head like a quiet mantra.
Second-rank in Mass Communication.
Editor of the college magazine for two consecutive years.
Internship atMumbai Mirrorduring graduation.
Recommendation from Mrs. Usha Menon.
Mrs. Menon, who taught their Celebrity Management module and had been Vikram Khanna’s PR Manager for eight years before joining academia.
Two days ago, her professor had removed her glasses, looked straight at Divya, and said, “You don’t get intimidated easily.That’s rare. He needs someone who won’t freeze when he enters a room.”
Divya had nodded then.
The security guard’s phone rang. He listened, pressed a button, and the gates began to slide open with a smooth mechanical hum.
“Go straight. Main house,” he said.
Divya murmured a thank you and stepped inside.
The gates closed behind her with a final metallic sound that felt louder than it should have.
The driveway stretched long and wide, paved in smooth stone. Gardens lined both sides, trimmed so perfectly they looked unreal. Fowers climbed up stone walls, weaving around bursts of pink bougainvillea. A fountain sparkled at the centre of a circular lawn, water rising and falling in steady rhythm.
Divya kept walking.
Each step felt measured. Counted.
Her parents had never once complained about money. Not when fees increased. Not when she needed a new laptop for editing assignments. But she had seen the numbers.
Her father at the dining table with his reading glasses low on his nose. Columns of figures on ruled paper. Pension in one column. Fees in another. Household expenses squeezed into what remained.
Her mother quietly choosing not to buy a new saree that year. Saying she didn’t need one.
Divya knew what this job meant. It wasn’t ambition alone. It was relief. Stability. Return on sacrifice.
The mansion rose in front of her in full view now. It wasn’t loud or flashy. Everything about it spoke of quiet power.
A man trimming the hedges glanced up and gave her a small, polite nod.
Divya nodded back automatically.
She forced herself to walk at a steady pace. Even though her heart was racing ahead of her.
Her kurta suddenly felt too simple. It was her best one. Faded blue cotton, freshly ironed. White plazo pants. Kohlapuri sandals polished carefully the previous night. Professional. Decent. Not attention-seeking.
Mrs. Menon had been clear. “Dress like you belong, not like you’re trying to impress.”
Standing in front of this house, Divya wondered if “not trying” had been a mistake.
She did what she always did when anxiety threatened to take over. She organised facts.
Fact: Vikram Khanna was a person. A famous person, yes. A wealthy person, obviously. An extremely good-looking person, unfortunately. But still human.
