Page 47 of Okay Boss
The small fire beside her gave off steady heat through the thin cotton of her kurta.
She was just helping with blocking.
Just standing in.
Just... Vikram was staring at her.
Not the way he looked at crew members or stand-ins or the dozens of people who passed through his orbit daily. This was different. Unguarded. Like he’d forgotten how to arrange his face into something professional.
Something flickered behind his eyes and vanished before she could name it.
“Just follow my lead.” His voice came out rough.
Farhan settled into his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Simple blocking. Vikram enters, takes her hand, delivers the declaration, and applies the sindoor. We’ll do the pheras when Anika arrives.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Focus on emotional authenticity. Not perfection.”
The photographer moved quietly to a better angle, camera ready. Documenting for continuity. Nothing unusual.
Divya stood frozen at the center of the mandap. The dupatta made her hyperaware of her body, her shoulders, her throat, the way the fabric framed her face. She usually moved through sets like a ghost. Invisible. Efficient.
Now she felt exposed. Seen.
"Ready?" Farhan called.
Vikram nodded, moving to his mark. He rolled his shoulders like a boxer preparing for a fight. His eyes found hers across the mandap. Something unspoken passed between them.
‘This is just blocking,’ she told herself. ‘Just positions. Just...’
"Begin," Farhan said softly.
Vikram stepped into the mandap.
The air changed.
She'd watched him transform a hundred times before. That micro-shift from Vikram to character. But this time the lines didn't just blur, they bled.
He crossed to her in nine steps that carried both the script’s hesitation and something raw, unplanned. Something that made her pulse kick hard against her throat.
Then he was there. Near enough that she could smell sandalwood, smell him. Near enough that the firelight caught the tension in his jaw.
He reached for her hand.
His fingers closed around hers, not gentle but urgent, desperate, like a drowning man finding ground. His hand engulfed hers completely, warm and slightly rough, and heat shot up her arm so fast it stole her breath.
This isn’t blocking.
“I know I’m too late.” His voice came lower than usual, rougher. “I know I don’t deserve to even ask this of you.”
She’d heard this dialogue more times than she could count. Wrote it herself during script revisions. But hearing it now, directed at her face, his eyes locked on hers, made the words feel new.
Made them feel true.
“I’ve spent years hiding behind work, behind success, behind everything except the truth.” His thumb moved across the back of her hand. Slow. Unconscious. Devastating. “And the truth is I’ve been scared. Scared of wanting something I can’t control. Scared of wanting you.”
She couldn’t look away. The lights carved shadows under his cheekbones, catching the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed.
“I’ve built an empire. I have more money than I could spend in three lifetimes. Respect. Power. Everything I thought I wanted.” His fingers tightened. “And none of it matters without you.”
The line was meant for Anika’s character. For cameras and audiences months from now. Not for Divya Mathur in wire-rimmed glasses and a borrowed dupatta.
