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And she’d gone over a million scenarios about what—and particularly who—he might have been doing during the week that he’d been gone. But she wasn’t going to ask, Zara reminded herself fiercely. She wasn’t going to act the part of a clingy, insecure fiancée, even though that was exactly who she seemed to be channeling these days.
This morning, however, Virat had been in an even worse mood than usual. He’d already bitten the camera crew’s head off for some faulty angle, yelled at the makeup artist’s assistant and was now laying into the one man the entire team had assumed was untouchable by their demanding director.
His brother, Vikram.
Vikram and Zara had been running the same scene over and over, all morning, with Virat’s criticism spiraling. Pleading the beginnings of a headache, which was a full-on, real thing now, she’d gulped down a glass of fresh mango juice.
The overly sweet juice had only ended up aggravating her headache.
She’d been rifling through her scene notes and chatting with Richard Iyer, the British Indian actor whose mistress she was supposed to be playing on-screen.
The man was full of flirtatious charm and a dry wit that even Zara couldn’t resist. His interesting background on stage paired with his clever questions about hers meant she’d been distracted instead of paying attention to Virat’s comments after her last scene.
Honestly, she’d welcomed the distraction of the Brit’s attention. The last thing she wanted to focus on were the complex emotions swirling through her since that evening. Or the quick spurt of joy that had filled her when Virat had asked the team to assemble a week earlier at the luxury resort for more rehearsals.
All the time wondering where he’d disappeared to only made her admit that the evening had been a highlight in her lonely life. She wanted that excitement again. She wanted that feeling of being wanted. By him. She wanted him. As a lover. As a friend. For more than just a few hours.
The realization terrified Zara on a soul-racking level.
No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t even think in this direction. Couldn’t continue indulging in that kind of silly daydream. Not about Virat, of all men.
Maybe she was simply exhausted.
Yes, that had to be it. She was weaving where she stood from lack of sleep in over a week. For the first time in her life, there was a restlessness inching under her skin. There was this disturbing feeling of having missed out on something more meaningful. This role, the most prestigious and meaty of her entire career, should have been consuming her. She should have been channeling the badass prostitute spy heroine juggling three men during India’s independence movement, instead of moping around like a schoolgirl whose first crush had dumped her.
If nothing else, the four hours of dance practice with her kathak master at 4:00 a.m.—because of course at the last rehearsal Virat had called her performance awkward and clumsy—and then two hours getting into her elaborate makeup and costume on shoot days, in addition to six hours on the set, should have had her so tired at the end of the day that she should have passed out in sheer exhaustion the minute her head touched the pillow.
Maybe it was the fact that she was thirty-five now.
Maybe it was all the talk of marriage and love and the aching subject of loneliness she’d had with her mother two days ago.
Her mother only had a very vague idea of all that had transpired during Zara’s first marriage. But she did know her daughter very well. Within moments of Zara calling her—for the third time in a week when she was usually so busy—she had quietly put a stop to all the incessant chatter Zara had been spouting and asked her if she was simply lonely.
Her soft whisper saying that it was okay to admit that. To do something about it. That one’s career, however hard one had worked to build it, could not be everything. “Be strong where it matters, Zara,” she had said when Zara had fallen silent on the line.
“What does that mean, Mama?”
“You fund shelters, you help women get back on their feet, you take on the big, bad men of the industry to fight for women’s rights, but do you take risks with your own heart, Zara?” A lump in her throat, Zara had to swallow hard to not break into tears. And she wasn’t a pretty crier. “Strength doesn’t lie in caging one’s heart, darling. I’d hate for you to miss out on happiness because you’re afraid.”
As always, her wise English teacher mother had given her a lot to think about.
Was that it? Was seeing her best friend, Vikram, leaping happily into matrimony after all these years of companionship affecting her more than she’d realized? Was it her stupid biological clock that was blaring suddenly? Or was this pining in her heart for only one particular man who challenged her with his wicked smiles and perceptive questions?
The answer was there for Zara to read, but instead she was playing hide-and-seek with it. Whoever said ignorance was bliss was a genius.
Virat blew out a breath and pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, in a gesture she was fast recognizing indicated an oncoming explosion. Or was that when he was praying for patience? She could live a thousand years and this man would fascinate her endlessly.
“You said you’d prep for this during your time off,” he demanded of his brother, who’d come to stand by Zara.
The Raawal brothers together on the set was in itself a monumental moment. Their frequent arguments about the direction of Raawal House were infamous throughout the industry and had led to them never doing a project together until now.
But to see Virat cut the uncrowned king of Bollywood down to size had the entire staff freezing in their spots. Every one waited on tenterhooks for the explosion from Vikram. To everyone’s amazement, he pushed a hand through his hair, his grin sheepish as he grinned at his new wife standing next to Virat’s chair.
“That was before you cut short my honeymoon,” Vikram said softly, with what seemed to Zara to be an almost entreating voice.
Her riotous curls framing her fiercely blushing face, Naina stiffened at Virat’s impatient stare and then smiled at her husband’s clearly adoring expression.
“If you don’t stop mooning at Naina, I’m going to have her thrown off the set. I will send her back to Mumbai,” Virat growled.
