This was where Farhan built his films.
Divya stood just inside the entrance, hands loosely clasped.
A production assistant had simply said, “Farhan wants to see you,” and vanished. No explanation.
Farhan finished writing something, then looked up.
“That was smart today,” he said without preamble. “The glass partition.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “I’m glad it worked.”
“It wasn’t luck.” He leaned back, chair squeaking. “You’ve been doing it all week. Wardrobe mix-up at the restaurant shoot. The rain lighting issue. That scheduling mess with the supporting actress.”
She blinked, surprised he’d been keeping count.
“I just try to notice things early,” she said.
“That’s producing.” He tapped his pen once against the desk. “You see the whole set. Not just your corner of it. You understand how changes ripple.”
He studied her with assessment that felt different from the usual set dynamics. More serious. More considering.
“When you finish your degree, consider producing.”
The word landed heavily.
Producer.
Her posture shifted before she could stop it, shoulders lifting slightly, spine straightening.
“I want to work in media production,” she admitted, unable to hide the brightness in her voice. “That’s what I’ve been studying. Documentary work, production management...”
“You’d be good at it.” No exaggeration. Just certainty. “This industry is full of people who inherited access. You have competence. That’s rarer. Access can be built.”
Something warm bloomed in her chest. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“Thank you, sir. I... thank you.”
“Keep watching. Keep learning.” He nodded once, dismissing her with the efficiency of someone who’d said what he meant to say. “I’ll be noticing.”
She turned toward the exit, mind racing, heart lifting in a way it hadn’t since before the scandal.
Producer.Someone thought she could be aproducer.
She walked straight into solid heat.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. The world tilted, then hands closed around her waist.
Firm. Certain.
Vikram.
His fingers curved instinctively at her sides, anchoring her before she could fall back. The cotton of her kurta bunched slightly beneath his grip. His palms were warm, too warm. The heat seeped through fabric, branding her skin beneath.
She looked up.
And up.
His chest was inches from hers. The scent of him, clean, sandalwood, unmistakably male, wrapped around her. The narrow doorway trapped them in a space that felt suddenly, overwhelmingly intimate.
