Page 89 of Okay Boss
“Next time, ask someone else,” Vikram’s voice broke the silence, continuing their interrupted conversation as if no time had passed.
She nodded, fingers twisting in her lap. “I’m sorry. I should have thought...”
“Don’t apologize.” His response came quick, almost sharp. “Just don’t put yourself in that position again. Those people…” He stopped, jaw working. “They’re looking for any angle to exploit. You’re Divya Vikram Khanna now. That makes you a target.”
Divya Vikram Khanna.
The name settled over her like weight. She felt something she didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Okay,” she said softly.
The car continued through Mumbai’s crowded streets. Vikram unlocked his phone, stared at the screen, then made a call.
“Rahul. I need you to arrange something.” His voice shifted to business mode. “A photoshoot. Magazine spread. Something high-profile. And I want Divya included, not just mentioned, fully featured.”
A pause.
“Yes, together. Make it about us.”
A pause.
“Because I’m telling you to. The best photographer, the best publication. Make it happen within the week.”
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Divya watched him from the corner of her eye.
“Another cover story?” she asked quietly.
“Something like that.”
The car pulled up to Khanna Sadan. As they walked inside, his hand found her back again, that touch that was becoming a habit.
Divya told herself it was all part of the act.
She was getting worse at believing it.
Two Days Later
Divya found herself in a styling chair for what Rahul had arranged, a cover shoot for Filmfare’s “Love in the Spotlight” special issue. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“You have amazing skin,” the lead makeup artist said, tilting Divya’s chin up with cool fingers. “Such a natural glow. We won’t need much foundation.”
Divya forced a small smile. Her skin was just skin, unremarkable, nothing that had ever warranted comment before the Khanna name attached itself to hers.
“We’ll start with your eyes,” the artist continued, removing Divya’s glasses gently. The world immediately blurred. “We’ve brought contacts for you.”
The transformation happened in layers.
First the contacts, strange and uncomfortable, making her blink rapidly.
Then light makeup played across her cheekbones. Her eyes expanded, defined by subtle smoky hues. Her lips became fuller, tinted to match her skin tone.
Next, her hair, released from its practical braid, washed, styled into soft waves that cascaded past her shoulders.
“Why do you always pull it back so tightly?” the stylist asked.
“It’s practical,” she answered. The real answer, that beauty wasn’t a currency she’d ever believed was hers to trade in, remained unspoken.
Ninety minutes later, they brought the outfit. Midnight blue fabric that shimmered with subtle beadwork. Cut to follow curves she usually disguised under practical kurtas.
