A door opened somewhere deeper inside the house.
Two male voices carried through the hallway. One steady and commanding. The other answering with quiet respect. Footsteps followed. Measured. Unhurried.
Divya’s back straightened before she even realised she was doing it.
And then he walked in.
Chapter 3
Vikram Khanna did not simply enter a room. He shifted its centre of gravity.
He wore a black T-shirt darkened with sweat, clinging to his chest and shoulders that looked larger in real life than on any screen. Grey track pants sat low on his hips. His hair was damp, pushed back carelessly, and a shadow of stubble lined his jaw.
He looked less polished than he had on the red carpet last night.
He looked more dangerous.
Without pausing, he reached for a glass of fresh orange juice from a tray that appeared beside him almost instantly.
Divya stood up so fast her knee nearly hit the coffee table.
Her brain malfunctioned.
She had studied his interviews for assignments. Written notes on his media training style. Critiqued his film choices. None of that had prepared her for this.
In person, he was… overwhelming.
Taller than she had imagined. Broader. Solid in a way that made him seem less like a celebrity and more like something carved out of certainty.
The room felt smaller around him. He smelled faintly of sweat and citrus and sandalwood. Clean. Warm. Alive.
Divya’s carefully arranged facts scattered like loose papers in a strong wind.
Fact: He is human.
Her heart disagreed.
She realized she’d been staring when his dark eyes met hers directly. She straightened her spine, forcing oxygen back into her lungs.
“Good morning, sir,” she managed, proud that her voice sounded almost normal.
Vikram didn’t respond immediately. He drank his juice in three long swallows, his gaze never leaving her face. Then he handed the empty glass to the waiting servant without looking.
Up close, she noticed something she hadn’t expected. Faint shadows under his eyes. A thin line of fatigue around them. The premiere had ended late. The after-party ran probably later. And yet here he was at six in the morning, already awake, already in control.
His eyes moved over her in a single sweep—taking in her wire-rimmed glasses, her simple blue kurta, her practical braid, and her perfect posture. His expression revealed nothing, but his assessment was thorough.
Divya resisted the urge to push her glasses up again. She refused to shrink. She refused to blush. She filed her body’s reaction under a mental label: Handle professionally. Do not revisit.
“You’re early,” he finally said. His voice was deeper in person. Rougher.
“Yes, sir. Fifteen minutes.”
“Good. I hate waiting.”
He moved to the sofa opposite hers and sat with casual grace, stretching one arm along the back. The position pulled his t-shirt tighter across his chest, which Divya absolutely did not notice because she was a professional who had come here to work, not to observe how his workout had apparently been effective.
“Sit,” he said. It was not a suggestion.
