Page 58 of Okay Boss
“They wanted details. About you. About… arrangements. I walked away. They followed for two blocks, taking photos.”
The air left her lungs. “That’s why you didn’t go today.”
He nodded. “Better to avoid attention.”
Her father. , who hadn’t missed a morning walk in eleven years. Who measured his days by that routine. Who’d walked through illness and monsoons without fail.
Now afraid to leave his own building.
“I’ll fix this,” she whispered.
He turned to her, eyes tired but steady. “Some things cannot be fixed, beta. They can only be endured.”
Below, neighbors glanced up and quickly looked away.
Inside, her mother’s phone buzzed again.
Blood pressure pills hidden behind tea tins. Abandoned lunch on the kitchen counter. Friends stepping back. Morning walks stolen by strangers with cameras.
The scandal was no longer about headlines. It was about the quiet pieces of their ordinary life breaking, one by one. And no amount of PR strategy could put them back together.
Day Three
Vikram’s thumb pressed refresh for the forty-seventh time. No new messages. No schedule. No “Okay, Boss” text.
Six AM. The time Divya usually appeared, laying out his day in perfect color-coded blocks.
His finger hovered over her contact. He pressed call.
“The number you are trying to reach is currently switched off.”
Sixty-five hours since he’d seen her. Since he’d drawn that red line and changed both their worlds. He scrolled through headlines instead.
“Middle-Class Girl Trapped in Khanna Scandal”
“Neighborhood Watch: Reporters Swarm Mathur Residence”
The last included a photo of her apartment building. Reporters clustered at the entrance. Neighbors gawking from windows. Her family trapped inside.
Before he could stop himself, he dialed Mrs. Menon.
“Vikram.” Her voice was cool, professional, edged with something he’d never heard before. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Her phone is off. Her mother said she wasn’t available.”
“I need to reach her. To fix this.”
“Fix this?” Mrs. Menon’s tone sharpened. “For you, this is a headline. An inconvenience. A PR challenge. For her, it’s her reputation. Her family’s standing. Her future employment. Everything.”
His fingers curled into his palm.
“You’re Vikram Khanna. In two weeks, you’ll be on another film set. The press will move on.” Her voice softened slightly. “But Divya is a middle-class girl whose name is now tied to yours forever. Her neighbors are watching. Her relatives are calling. Her father can’t walk down the street without being followed.”
The image hit with physical force.
“For her, this is a social death sentence.”
