It was beginning to bother him.
Most new assistants either panicked or performed. They laughed too loudly at his jokes. Asked personal questions disguised as professional curiosity. Stole glances when they thought he wouldn’t notice.
Divya did none of that.
Her expression remained the same every day. Alert. Focused. Slightly distant. Posture straight. And every day, exactly once, she asked a single question.
Day one: “Do you prefer the schedule printed or digital?”
Day two: “Would you like me to coordinate with wardrobe regarding interview outfits?”
Day three: “Should I inform the director you’ll be fifteen minutes late due to traffic?”
Each question precise. Useful. Not a word wasted.
Today was day four.
And to his mild irritation, he realised he was waiting for question number four.
He leaned casually against the lighting rig, arms crossed, watching her organise call sheets into neatly colour-coded folders. Blue for interviews. Yellow for rehearsals. Pink for PR coordination.
Her hands moved quickly. No fumbling. No desperate glances his way to check if he was watching. No trying to impress.
She behaved as if he were simply… her boss. Which he was. And yet. Most people in this industry reacted to him first and worked second.
Divya worked first. For the first time in a long while, Vikram felt something unfamiliar.
It bothered him.
It bothered him that it bothered him.
Time for a real test.
“Divya.” He stepped away from the lighting rig and walked toward her. The crew parted slightly without thinking. She looked up at once, pen hovering above her notebook.
“Yes, Boss?”
That tone again. Not sweet. Not sarcastic. Just practical. Like he was simply a weather condition she needed to take account of.
“I need to meet Kapoor, Mehra and Singhania today,” he said casually, naming three producers who rarely shared oxygen, let alone time slots. “They all want two to four. None of them are flexible.”
Her forehead creased faintly. One small line. Then smooth again. “And they can’t be moved because…?”
“Because Kapoor flies to London tonight. Mehra has surgery tomorrow. And Singhania is only in Mumbai for the day.” He folded his arms. “Make it work.”
Most assistants would panic. Or make excuses. Or immediately start calling to beg for schedule changes.
Divya simply nodded. “Okay, Boss.”
She walked away, phone already at her ear. Vikram watched her go, waiting for the frantic backward glance that didn’t come.
Seven minutes.
That’s how long he’d give her before stepping in to solve his own manufactured problem.
He opened Instagram. Liked two comments from known critics. Replied to his mother’s message about dinner. Checked a notification from his PR team.
Six minutes.
