Divya blinked, genuinely confused. “I don’t know how,” she answered honestly.
The stylist laughed, assuming it was modesty. But Divya meant it.
From just behind her came a slight intake of breath. She turned to find Vikram standing there, close enough to have overheard.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes had filled with something that looked almost like pain.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. Instead, he simply offered his hand to help her down from the platform.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and steady. But when she looked up to thank him, he was already looking away, jaw tight.
“Ready to go home?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded, gathering her things.
As they walked to the car, his hand found her back again.
And Divya told herself, for what felt like the hundredth time, that it was all just performance.
Except the words didn’t work anymore. Didn’t erase the way her skin still felt warm where he’d touched her. Didn’t explain theway he’d looked at her, like she was something precious he was afraid to break. Didn’t justify the tremor in his hands or the tension in his jaw or the hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with cameras.
She was running out of ways to lie to herself.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Chapter 21
Divya sat in the study, trying to focus on notes that refused to make sense. Her mind kept drifting back to yesterday, the photoshoot, the way Vikram had held her, the darkness in his eyes that had looked nothing like acting.
When they’d returned home, he’d disappeared immediately. “I need to practice some scenes,” he’d said, voice rough. “I’ll be in the study.”
This morning, he’d surprised her. Appeared at breakfast looking tired but determined, announced he’d canceled today’s shoot. “I need to sleep,” he’d said simply, then disappeared upstairs.
So she’d moved to the study to give him the bedroom. Except now she was surrounded by his things, his scripts, his reading glasses, the faint scent of his cologne, and her concentration was nonexistent.
She stared at the same paragraph for the fifth time, seeing nothing but the memory of his thumb brushing across her lower lip.
That’s when someone knocked.
The door swung open to reveal Ishani balancing a large vanity kit in one hand and several shopping bags in the other. She kicked the door shut with practiced grace, grinning.
“Emergency intervention,” Ishani announced, dropping the bags on the desk. “Actually, overdue sister bonding.”
Divya stared at the bags, recognizing logos from stores she’d never entered. “What’s all this?”
“Options.” Ishani sat on the desk, kicking off her heels. “And before you protest, this isn’t because you need fixing. This is because you’re family now, and I get to corrupt you properly.”
She pulled out a professionally printed booklet, spiral-bound, with “Style Guide: Divya Khanna (But Make It Fun)” embossed on the cover.
“You made me a manual?”
“I made you a cheat sheet.” Ishani unzipped the vanity kit. “Because imagining you navigate Mom’s social calendar in wire-rimmed glasses and a single braid is like watching someone go to war with a butter knife. Effective, sure. But unnecessarily difficult.”
Divya smiled despite herself. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“That’s literally why I’m here. First rule: this is supposed to be enjoyable. If it’s not fun, we stop. Deal?”
“Deal.”
