MG SS - ||Incensed Passions|| CH1-10 Pg 1

*A Maan & Geet Love Story*

INCENSED PASSIONS

*Chapter One: The Tempest Within*

---

The night air hung heavy over the Khurana Haveli, thick with the scent of mogra and something far less floral—tension. The grand chandelier in the hallway cast flickering golden shadows, making even the marble pillars look like they were holding their breath.

Maan Singh Khurana stood in the center of their bedroom, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line sharp enough to slice steel. His gaze was locked on the woman before him—his wife, his madness, his miracle—and tonight, the epicenter of his fury.

“Geet,” he said, his voice as smooth and cold as polished granite, “what exactly were you thinking?”

She looked up from her perch on the sofa, one perfectly arched brow rising like a cheeky sunrise. Her anklets tinkled as she crossed her legs, totally unfazed by the hurricane standing before her.

“I was thinking,” she said slowly, “that the mandir closes at 6, and if I waited for your Mr. Khurana–level security arrangements, my prayers would be left on read by the gods.”

His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I didn’t laugh,” she said, popping a kaju into her mouth. “You did.”

Maan stalked forward, every step deliberate, dangerous. “Geet. You went out. Alone. No driver. No phone. You didn’t even tell Nakul. What if something had happened to you? What if—?”

“I’m not made of glass, Maan.” Her voice softened. “And I’m not your prisoner.”

That landed like a slap.

Maan’s breath caught. She saw it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. She regretted the words instantly, but Geet had always had the sort of fire that lit up even her missteps.

“You think that’s what I’m doing?” he said slowly, dangerously calm. “Caging you? Protecting you is love, not control.”

“But love shouldn’t suffocate, should it?” Her voice trembled just enough to twist his heart.

He turned away, hands fisting at his sides.

And that’s when she did it. She rose, walked up to him, and said, like she was confessing a sin and a secret all at once—

**“Hayee… You look even more handsome when you’re angry.”**

His back stiffened.

**“Aur gussa kijiye na,”** she added sweetly. “Aap bohot pyaare lagte ho jab daant rahe hote ho.”

He turned slowly, face half in shadow, and blinked. “You’re trying to flirt your way out of this.”

“I’m not flirting,” she said, eyes wide and innocent. “I’m just admiring my angry husband. The way your eyes go all stormy, the way your voice turns gravelly—uff, it’s like falling in love all over again.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek.

“Geet.” His tone was dangerous now. “This is serious.”

“So is my heart rate,” she whispered, stepping closer. “And it spikes every time you shout.”

Her fingertips grazed his shirt buttons. That was the thing about Geet—she wielded seduction like magic, and he was helpless against both. She didn’t need lipstick or high heels—her courage, her smile, her chaos was enough to ruin him completely.

“You scare me sometimes,” Maan said finally. “You act like the world is a storybook. But it’s not. It’s full of people who don’t know how to love something fragile and fierce the way I love you.”

“And you scare me,” she said, “because sometimes you forget I’m not just your responsibility. I’m your equal. Your partner. Your biggest fan.”

His silence was louder than any scream. It folded the distance between them until she was pressed to his chest, arms rising slowly around his back.

“And your most hopeless admirer,” she added with a grin. “Seriously. Gussa aur thoda kijiye na. Aap mein koi dard-e-dil poet ki aatma ghus gayi lagti hai jab aap naraz hote ho.”

A sound escaped his throat—half laugh, half groan—and he buried his face in her hair.

“You’re insane,” he murmured.

She smiled against his chest. “Your kind of insane.”

He tilted her chin up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the gentleness of someone holding a flame. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

She smirked. “Frequently.”

Their lips met—not in a hurried, hungry way—but like two people who had just found their way back to each other through the fog of misunderstanding. His fingers curled around her waist, hers tangled in his collar.

Somewhere outside, thunder rolled.

Inside, the only storm that mattered had passed—leaving behind the scent of rain and rosewater, forgiveness and fire.

---

Chapter 2

---

### **Maan & Geet: The Art of Staying Angry (And Failing Miserably)**

Maan tried—really, he *tried*—to retreat from her embrace, to recapture the righteous fury that had stormed through his veins just minutes ago. But it was difficult to summon rage when your wife looked like that—hair tousled from the wind, cheeks flushed from mischief, and eyes glinting like they held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m not finished being angry, Geet,” he muttered, turning his back to her again.

“Of course not,” she said sweetly, strolling over to the sideboard and plucking a strawberry from the fruit bowl like a temptress in a fairytale. “You’re very dedicated. Very intense. *Very* sexy when you’re brooding.”

He spun around. “Geet!”

She popped the strawberry in her mouth and made a low, delighted sound. “Mmm. Juicy. Sweet. Almost as sweet as my *angry husband*.”

He closed his eyes and counted to five. It didn’t help.

“Do you *ever* take anything seriously?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Geet strolled toward him with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly the effect she had on him. “Oh, I do,” she said, pressing a finger gently to his chest. “I take *you* seriously. Especially when you’re lecturing me with that low voice... and those flared nostrils… and that sexy vein that pops on your neck when you're really mad.” She ran a finger slowly along his jaw. “Tell me, Maan… do you practise looking this dangerous, or does it come naturally?”

He caught her wrist, but even his grip was betraying him—firm, yes, but his thumb was stroking her skin without him even realizing it. She was undoing him. Piece by maddening piece.

“You think you can flirt your way out of this?” he asked, voice rough.

“I’m not flirting,” she whispered, eyes wide with faux innocence. “I’m *worshipping*.”

His jaw ticked.

Geet leaned in close, so close that her breath tickled his ear. “I could write *sonnets* about how irresistible you are when you’re angry. Shakespeare would weep. Mirza Ghalib would come back to life and say, ‘*Beta, yeh toh kamaal hai*.’”

He let go of her wrist and took a step back, as if distance would save him.

She followed.

“I’m still upset,” he said firmly, folding his arms.

“I know,” she sighed dramatically, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Poor you. Married to a stunningly beautiful woman who flirts outrageously and distracts you from your righteous anger.”

She batted her lashes. “*It must be exhausting.*”

Maan stared at her for a long second.

And then—finally—he let out a breathless, helpless laugh.

“I swear,” he said, voice low and dangerous in a *completely* different way now, “you drive me absolutely insane.”

She grinned triumphantly. “Mission accomplished.”

In a flash, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. She squealed and laughed as he spun her once, then pinned her gently against the nearest wall.

“You wanted me to stay mad?” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear. “Too bad.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair and smiled wickedly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Khurana… I have other ways of *provoking* you.”

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, the room filled not with anger, but with laughter, sighs, and the quiet, heady magic of two people wildly, dangerously, outrageously in love.

## **Chapter 3 The Predator Wakes**

The night had fallen fully now, blanketing the mansion in velvet blue. The chandelier above threw pools of soft gold over the hardwood floors, but Geet—still breathless from her victorious flirtation—could sense something shifting.

Maan was quiet. Too quiet.

He sat on the edge of their bed now, long fingers undoing the cuffs of his shirt slowly, methodically, his expression unreadable. His anger had melted—but what replaced it was far more dangerous.

Geet stood frozen near the dresser, fiddling with her earring, suddenly uncertain.

“Maan?” she said cautiously. “You’re not... mad anymore, right?”

He didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“You forgave me?” she asked sweetly.

“Oh, I *forgave* you,” he said with that low, lethal calm that made her knees wobble. “But now it’s my turn.”

He looked up, and Geet’s breath caught.

Gone was the Maan she could tease into laughter. This was **Maan Singh Khurana**—predator, husband, lover—and the storm in his eyes had found a new direction.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

“Oh yes,” he stood, shirt open, sleeves rolled up, and began to walk toward her with the grace of a panther. “You thought you could drive me crazy all evening and walk away untouched?”

“I wasn’t trying to seduce you—”

“You were doing it on *purpose*,” he said, stopping inches from her. “Every bat of your lashes. Every word out of that wicked mouth of yours. You wanted me to break.”

“I… may have enjoyed the power,” she admitted sheepishly.

His lips curled into a slow, devastating smile. “Now you’ll learn what happens when you awaken the beast.”

She turned to run—laughing—but he caught her by the wrist effortlessly and spun her around, pressing her back to his chest. His lips brushed her neck as he whispered, “Run again. I *dare* you.”

Goosebumps erupted down her spine.

“You’re not fighting fair,” she whispered.

“I never said I would.”

---

The moonlight poured into their bedroom like silver silk, casting shadows that danced as the curtains swayed gently in the warm breeze.

Geet lay tangled in the sheets, her hair spread like spilled ink on the pillows. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing uneven, and her eyes—those big, expressive eyes—were watching him with a mixture of reverence and delicious mischief.

Maan stood at the foot of the bed, slowly rolling up his sleeves again. “You’re not going to flirt now?”

Geet tilted her head, biting her lip. “I’m *thinking* about it.”

He crawled over her like a lion reclaiming his territory. “You’re thinking too much.”

“Maan…” she whispered, voice laced with both warning and invitation.

“Yes?”

“You’re being very… intense.”

He dipped his head, brushing his lips across hers like a whisper. “And whose fault is that?”

She gasped as his fingers skimmed her waist, firm but gentle, like he was memorizing every inch of her. The kiss deepened—slow, consuming, full of unspoken apologies and unrestrained desire. No teasing now. Just the language of skin and sighs and hearts beating in sync.

He paused, inches from her lips. “Still think I’m cuter when I’m angry?”

She cupped his jaw with one hand, eyes locked with his. “No. Right now, you’re not cute. You’re *lethal*.”

He chuckled darkly. “Good.”

Their lips met again, but this time, it wasn’t playful. It was reverent. Raw. Every heartbeat between them was a promise: of forgiveness, of passion, of love that refused to be ordinary.

The moon watched in silence as two wild hearts collided again and again—laughing, teasing, devouring, healing.

---

## **Chapter 4: Breakfast & Bedlam**

Sunlight poured into the Khurana mansion, warm and golden, creeping across the polished floors like a lazy cat. Birds chirped outside the balcony, and the scent of fresh coriander and ginger wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the distinct sound of pots clattering and someone humming off-key.

Which was odd.

Because the Khurana household had chefs.

Professional ones.

Yet there was **Geet**, in the middle of the marble-clad kitchen, flour on her cheek, one slipper missing, wearing Maan’s oversized white shirt—**and absolutely nothing else.**

She was at war with the paratha dough.

“Stupid sticky thing!” she muttered, trying to roll it flat but ending up with a shape that looked suspiciously like Africa. “Why are you not round?! You were born to be a circle!”

Maan leaned on the kitchen doorway, arms folded, freshly showered, in black slacks and a crisp white shirt—his tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked like a Calvin Klein ad that had just walked off the runway and paused to watch domestic disaster unfold.

And oh, he was **very amused**.

“Do we *want* to eat that, or frame it as modern art?” he asked casually.

Geet jumped, spinning around, her hair flying like a halo of chaos. “Maan! You're not supposed to sneak up on me!”

“You’re making breakfast half-naked in my shirt. I think the rules of ‘sneaking’ stopped applying twenty minutes ago.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Careful. You mock the chef, you starve.”

Maan walked in slowly, like a lion strolling into a forest fire. “Bold of you to assume what you made qualifies as food.”

Geet held up the paratha with tongs. It flopped. Sadly.

“Okay,” she admitted, “this one died in the line of duty.”

He snorted. “That poor thing never stood a chance.”

She shoved him gently with her hip. “For your information, *mister sarcasm*, I was making you breakfast to say sorry again.”

Maan arched an eyebrow. “You said sorry last night… several times, in fact.”

Her face turned the colour of tomato chutney. “*Shut up!*”

“I'm just saying,” he teased, stepping behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, “you have a very effective apology method. Should I be mad more often?”

“You wouldn’t survive it,” she replied smugly, leaning into him. “You get all flustered when I flirt.”

“Flustered?” He nuzzled her neck. “Is that what you call what I did to you last night?”

She squeaked. “You’re impossible!”

“I know.” He spun her around to face him and dipped his forehead to hers. “But you love me anyway.”

“I do,” she whispered, grinning. “Especially when you’re annoying.”

Just then—**CRASH!**

The forgotten pan on the stove tipped over, sending oil splashing and smoke puffing up in dramatic clouds.

Geet shrieked. “OH NO! MAAN, THE PARATHA!”

Maan groaned, grabbing a towel. “The paratha is dead. Let it go.”

“It was our child!”

“It was your *doughy* child.”

They burst into laughter, the kind that curled your toes and settled in your bones, the kind that only comes from loving someone through both fire and flour.

Eventually, they sat on the kitchen counter, feet swinging, eating toast and fruit straight out of the fridge, his tie still undone, her hair a mess, and the air filled with sunlight and joy.

“I may not be able to cook,” she said, licking jam off her finger.

“But you keep life interesting,” Maan replied, kissing her sticky fingertip. “And that’s better than any paratha.”

---

## **Chapter 5: Dadima, Disaster & Dignity (What’s Left of It)**

“Geet,” Maan whispered, still licking strawberry jam off her fingers, “I’m starting to think we should *never* have kids.”

“Why?” she giggled, spooning Nutella onto a banana like it was a Michelin-star meal.

“Because if this is how we behave *unsupervised*, our children would run wild, burn the house down, and dance in the ashes.”

She grinned, half on his lap, legs dangling off the counter. “They’ll be adorable little chaos muffins.”

“More like terrorist cupcakes.”

And then—

**Click. Click. Click.**

The unmistakable sound of slow, stately heels approaching across the marble hallway.

Maan froze. Geet blinked.

A regal voice floated in:

“**Maan Singh Khurana!**”

His soul left his body.

Geet gasped, clutching his shirt collar like a life jacket. “D-Dadima?!”

Maan scrambled off the counter. “NO—she wasn’t supposed to be back till tomorrow!”

Geet tried to jump down too fast, forgot she was barefoot and wearing only his shirt, slipped, and landed straight in Maan’s arms—

**Just as Dadima entered the kitchen.**

The scene she walked into was as follows:

* Her *grandson*, shirt open, looking like he’d just lost a battle with temptation.

* Her *granddaughter-in-law*, flushed, disheveled, half-dressed, holding a spoonful of Nutella mid-air.

* A paratha burning sadly in the corner.

* A counter that had clearly hosted... things.

There was a full five seconds of silence.

Followed by a dignified cough.

Followed by **utter mayhem**.

“Dadima!” Geet squeaked, pulling Maan’s shirt down over her thighs. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Maan groaned. “Geet, don’t *say* that. That makes it sound *exactly* like what it looks like.”

Dadima raised a brow, her silk saree rustling like judgement itself. “Oh really? Then what *does* it look like?”

Geet opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“…we were making breakfast?”

Dadima looked at the burnt paratha, the Nutella-banana monstrosity, the open fridge, and the flour on the floor.

She nodded gravely. “*Of course.*”

Maan, abandoning all dignity, stepped forward. “Dadima, please, we—she just wanted to cook. For me.”

“Clearly,” Dadima said, folding her arms. “But instead of food, she served me grandchildren.”

Geet gasped. “DADIMA!”

Maan choked on air.

Dadima looked utterly unbothered. “I’m old, not blind. And frankly, after all these months, I was beginning to worry. Now I see all is... *very* healthy.”

Geet turned the colour of a strawberry milkshake. “I need to disappear. Vanish. Evaporate. Maan, get me a portal.”

Dadima turned to leave. “I’ll have breakfast sent up to your room.”

“We can eat here!” Geet tried.

Dadima raised a hand without turning. “You’ve *done enough* in the kitchen for one day.”

And then she was gone—graceful, deadly, and proud.

A long silence followed.

Maan stared at Geet.

Geet stared at Maan.

Then both burst into laughter so hard they couldn’t breathe, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“I can’t believe she said that!” Geet howled. “She called me a fertility goddess in her *own way!*”

Maan gasped between laughs. “And you said *‘it’s not what it looks like’!* Woman, it looked like *a deleted scene from a movie!*”

Still laughing, they collapsed into each other’s arms on the floor, surrounded by flour, jam, and the smell of one extremely burnt paratha.

---

## **Chapter 6: Wisdom, Whispers & Warmth**

Later that evening, the sun melted into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of saffron and rose. A soft breeze rustled through the garden as **Dadima** sat in her favourite chair, sipping masala chai with the poise of a queen. Her pearls glimmered faintly in the dying light.

Geet hesitated at the doorway to the veranda, holding a tray of fresh samosas she hadn’t made (thankfully), biting her lip nervously.

Dadima looked up, eyes warm behind her stern façade. “Ah, the *Kitchen Goddess* arrives.”

Geet winced. “I deserve that.”

Dadima gestured to the seat beside her. “Come, beti. Sit. I won’t throw you in the tandoor.”

Geet laughed softly and sat, placing the tray down. “I wanted to say sorry for… the scene this morning.”

“I wasn’t offended,” Dadima said. “Just... *visually assaulted*.”

Geet covered her face. “Dadima!”

“But,” Dadima said, smiling now, “it made me happy. Not the half-naked Nutella bit—that was scarring—but the joy. The mess. The life.”

Geet peeked out between her fingers.

“You’ve brought something into this house, Geet,” Dadima continued. “Something I worried Maan had lost. Laughter. Lightness. Love. I don’t need perfect. I need *real*. And you… are deliciously real.”

Geet’s throat tightened. “I mess everything up. The cooking. The formal dinners. The—”

“Beta,” Dadima interrupted gently, placing a hand over hers. “A perfect paratha cannot raise a perfect family. But a messy girl who loves fiercely, fights boldly, and dares to burn the dough for the man she loves?” She smiled. “That’s the heart of a home.”

Tears welled up in Geet’s eyes as she whispered, “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Dadima said, wiping her cheek. “Besides... if you *did* learn to cook, what would we all laugh about for the next ten years?”

They both laughed, and in that moment, Geet felt like she’d truly earned her place in the Khurana legacy—not by fitting into it, but by turning it upside down with love.

---

Later that night, back in their bedroom, Maan was already in bed, glasses on, laptop open. Geet walked in wearing her bunny-print pajamas and plopped down dramatically beside him.

“I’ve made a decision,” she announced.

“Should I be worried?” he asked without looking up.

“We are *never cooking again.* Ever.”

He nodded solemnly. “Agreed. Not even toast.”

“Nope. We’ll outsource everything. Or survive on air and love.”

“And maybe mangoes,” he added. “You’re terrifying with a knife but adorable with a mango.”

She snorted. “And yet...”

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet?”

She looked toward the kitchen.

Maan followed her gaze, slowly lowering his laptop. “No.”

“But just *once*—”

“No.”

“Banana pancakes. Just three. For fun.”

“Geet, last time you tried pancakes, you made edible frisbees.”

“They bounced,” she admitted. “But maybe this time...”

They stared at each other.

Then ran for the kitchen.

---

### **Twenty Minutes Later…**

Smoke. Alarms. Batter on the ceiling. A suspiciously pancake-shaped *thing* stuck to the wall. Maan standing on a stool with a fire extinguisher. Geet covered in flour, laughing so hard she was crying.

“I TOLD YOU PANCAKES WERE TREACHEROUS!” Maan yelled over the smoke alarm.

Geet wheezed, holding her stomach. “BUT YOU FLIPPED IT LIKE A FRISBEE!”

“YOU SAID ‘WITH CONFIDENCE!’”

“I DIDN’T MEAN WITH *THAT* MUCH FORCE!”

As the staff rushed in with fire extinguishers, and Dadima stood at the doorway muttering something about enrolling them in cooking school *or prison*, Maan and Geet collapsed into each other’s arms, still laughing.

And somewhere, buried under smoke, batter, and chaos—was a love that could survive *anything*.

Even Breakfast

## **Chapter 7: Jealousy Is a Dangerous Game (And Geet Loves Playing It)**

The Khurana ballroom glittered like a galaxy had spilled its stars across marble and glass.

Crystal chandeliers twinkled above, soft jazz drifted through the air, and Delhi’s elite moved through the party in a haze of designer perfume and forced laughter. Maan stood near the bar, regal and unreadable in a black tux, sipping whiskey, scanning the crowd.

He wasn’t particularly interested in the event.

Until **he saw her.**

And everything in him went *very still*.

**Geet.**

Wearing a backless red gown that clung to her like a second skin. Hair curled and pinned, neck bare except for a delicate gold chain, eyes kohl-rimmed and wickedly alive.

She was standing with a man—a tall, too-charming-for-his-own-good industrialist named Arjun Mehta—who was laughing far too loudly at something she said.

And Geet?

She was *flirting*.

Oh, she was subtle—batting her lashes, tilting her head, smiling that *I-don’t-even-know-how-irresistible-I-am* smile—but **Maan knew better**.

She was *doing it on purpose.*

His jaw clenched. Whiskey forgotten.

Arjun leaned in. *Too close.*

Geet laughed. *Too sweetly.*

Maan’s eyes darkened to something that could shatter glass.

Across the room, Geet *felt* his gaze like heat licking down her spine. She didn’t even need to turn—she *knew* he was watching.

And she smiled.

Because *this* was her favourite game.

She leaned a little closer to Arjun and touched his arm lightly. “Oh, Mr. Mehta, you’re *so* funny.”

Arjun grinned like a man who had just won a jackpot.

And then—**Maan moved.**

Not walked.

*Stalked.*

Like a wolf slicing through a sea of sheep, storm bottled behind every step. He reached them in seconds.

Geet turned innocently. “Oh, Maan! You remember Arjun, don’t you?”

“I do,” Maan said, voice calm—but it was the calm before lightning. “And I believe he remembers that *you’re married*.”

Geet tilted her head, all sugar. “I was just being polite.”

“To him?” Maan’s eyes locked with hers, burning. “Or to your *own firestarter tendencies*?”

Arjun, wisely sensing death, coughed awkwardly. “I—uh—I’ll just go refresh my drink—”

“You do that,” Maan said without even looking at him.

As Arjun vanished, Geet smirked. “Jealousy suits you.”

Maan took her by the elbow and led her through the crowd, silent, intense. People stepped aside instinctively. No one challenged the storm.

Once they were in a secluded hallway, he pinned her gently but firmly against the wall, caging her in with his arms.

“Enjoyed yourself?” he asked softly.

Geet batted her lashes. “Immensely.”

His eyes dropped to her lips. “You’re playing with fire, Geet.”

## **Chapter 8: The Study, the Silence, and the Storm Beneath**

The Khurana mansion was quiet now. The party long over. The music silenced. The halls bathed in soft lamplight.

But the storm hadn’t passed.

Not entirely.

Maan hadn’t said a word during the drive home. Not when the staff wished them goodnight. Not even when Geet slipped off her heels and offered a sheepish, “You’re still mad, huh?”

He didn’t look at her.

Just walked past her, unbuttoning his cufflinks with precision that screamed restraint, and turned toward the **study**.

**Click.**

The door closed.

Geet stood there in the corridor, barefoot, still wearing her red gown, hair falling in soft waves, heart pounding with that slow, sinking ache.

**She’d gone too far.**

She had wanted to *provoke* him, yes. But she hadn’t meant to *hurt* him.

And Maan... he wasn’t sulking.

He was *wounded*.

So, she followed.

Because that’s what you do when love goes silent.

---

### **Inside the Study**

Maan sat on the leather couch, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, collar open. The dim amber light caught the edges of his face—his sharp jaw, his furrowed brow, his tightly clenched fists.

He didn’t look up when the door opened.

Geet stepped in quietly, shutting it behind her.

He exhaled slowly. “Geet, not now.”

But she came closer anyway.

“You’re *really* sleeping in the study?”

“I *need* space.”

“And I need you to look at me,” she said softly.

He finally turned his head, eyes locking with hers. And she saw it. Beneath the calm fury—the flash of pain.

“You made me feel like I didn’t matter,” he said simply. “Like I was just another man in the crowd.”

Her throat tightened. “Maan...”

“I know you were playing. I know you wanted to see me jealous. But there’s a difference between teasing and tearing. You know I don’t share. Not even in jest.”

She knelt beside him now, hands on his knees, voice trembling with sincerity. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I just... I love the way you love me. The way you burn for me. I got carried away.”

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, resting her cheek gently on his thigh. “It wasn’t funny anymore the moment I saw your face.”

He stared at her.

This wild, infuriating woman who could set him ablaze with a glance, who could break him with a smile, who could bring him to his knees without lifting a finger.

She was **his weakness**, and the fire he’d never escape.

Maan reached down slowly, cupping her face, lifting it to his.

“You’re not forgiven yet,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she breathed.

“But you’re not sleeping alone tonight either.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean—”

Before she could finish, he pulled her onto his lap in one motion—firm, rough, unapologetic. His arms wrapped around her waist, anchoring her to him like she belonged nowhere else.

“You’ll sleep right here,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her face. “In my arms. Where no one else can *look* at you. Where I don’t have to imagine another man making you laugh.”

“I only laugh for you,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “And I only burn for you.”

He closed his eyes.

And kissed her.

Soft at first.

Then deeper. Raw. Redemptive.

She licked her lips slowly.

“You want me to get angry?”

“I want you to *lose control*.”

He exhaled, dangerously close now. “Do you even know what you’re asking for?”

Geet whispered, lips brushing his, “Show me.”

And Maan did.

With one hand at her waist and the other tangled in her hair, he kissed her hard—hungry, possessive, devouring. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. The kind that *claimed.*

Her breath hitched, spine arching against him. “You’re so hot when you’re mad,” she murmured.

“You’re *infuriating* when you know it,” he growled, his lips on her neck now. “You *want* to make me crazy.”

“I *love* when you’re crazy for me.”

“Geet,” he whispered against her collarbone, voice dark and low, “You belong to me.”

“Then prove it,” she challenged, tilting her head back, offering everything.

And Maan, ever the conqueror, obliged.

,----

Later that night

Geet, wrapped in a robe and a very smug smile:

“So... still mad?”

Maan, shirtless, nursing a second whiskey:

“Oh, I’m *livid.* And you’re not sleeping tonight.”

Geet: *grinning like she won the lottery*

“Excellent. I wasn’t planning to.”

They didn’t speak again for a long time.

Eventually, Geet curled up against his chest, her fingers tangled with his, his chin resting lightly on her head. The storm had passed. But the thunder between them... never truly faded.

---

## **Chapter 9: The Tangled Morning After**

Geet stirred slowly, the world around her warm and drowsy, like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided to begin.

Something was tickling her cheek.

Maan’s breath. His face was nestled in the curve of her neck, arms wrapped around her like she might float away if he let go. The early light from the windows slanted across the study, painting golden trails across books, leather furniture… and their still-entwined bodies.

Her gown from the night before was now acting as more of a blanket than a dress, and Maan’s shirt hung loosely on her shoulders, completely buttonless. His tie? Draped over a lamp.

The couch creaked as she shifted slightly, trying not to wake him.

He only held her tighter.

“Maan,” she whispered, smiling sleepily. “We’re in the study.”

“Hmmm.” His voice was husky, rough with sleep. “Don’t care.”

“Someone could walk in.”

“Then let them learn what *happiness* looks like.”

She snorted softly. “You’re very poetic for someone who nearly threw Arjun Mehta out a window yesterday.”

He opened one eye. “Say his name again and I’ll throw *you*—”

She giggled, cupping his cheek. “Okay okay, sorry. I belong to you, remember?”

He grunted approvingly and nuzzled into her again.

And then...

**Knock knock.**

**“Sir? Madam?”**

Geet froze.

Maan blinked.

**“Breakfast is ready—”**

**“NAKUL, NO!”** Maan barked.

But it was too late.

The door creaked open, and in stepped poor, faithful Nakul with a silver tray… and the misfortune of seeing **his employers** curled up on the study couch, clothes askew, hair wild, limbs tangled in a *definitely non-boardroom-approved* configuration.

Nakul blinked.

Then looked at the ceiling.

Then at the floor.

Then firmly at the **tray**.

“I—uh—brought tea,” he said quickly, voice an octave higher than usual.

Geet let out a strangled squeak and dove behind Maan, who was now sitting up, hair tousled and very much **not in CEO mode**.

“Nakul,” Maan said, holding back a sigh, “You may place the tray and erase everything you’ve seen from your memory.”

“Yes, sir,” Nakul said solemnly, setting it down and walking backwards out the door like a man in a historical drama who’d just witnessed royal scandal.

**Click.**

The door closed.

Silence.

Then—

Geet burst into laughter, burying her face in Maan’s shoulder.

Maan groaned. “He’s never going to make eye contact with me again.”

“I can’t breathe,” she wheezed. “His *face!*”

“You’re not helping.”

“Oh come on,” she grinned, pulling him back down beside her. “You’re the one who said, *‘Let them see happiness.’*”

“I meant metaphorically, not in my shirt with your leg over my waist.”

They both collapsed into giggles, laughter dissolving into quiet smiles as they curled up again on the couch, sipping tea and watching the morning unfold together.

No regrets.

Just love.

And maybe... a new lock for the study door.

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## **Chapter 10: Study Sessions & Spilled Secrets**

The Khurana dining room was its usual regal self—long teak table, chandeliers glowing like miniature suns, white-gloved servers moving gracefully.

But tonight?

The vibe was *anything* but formal.

Geet sat between Maan and Vicky, trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment. Dadima sat at the head of the table, sipping soup with elegance, eyes sparkling like she *knew things*. Which, unfortunately, she absolutely did.

“So,” Dadima began casually, as she stirred her dal, “how is the... study these days?”

Maan stiffened.

Geet choked on her roti.

Vicky, already smirking, leaned in like a wolf scenting blood. “Ah yes, the *study*. Must be a great place for intellectual growth.”

Geet coughed violently, grabbing her water. “I—what—uh—yes! Books. So many books.”

Maan glared at Vicky. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re deflecting,” Vicky replied cheerfully. “Tell me, *Bhai*, do all your board meetings involve that much... noise?”

“VICKY!” Geet hissed, cheeks turning cherry red.

“Oh relax, Bhabhi,” he grinned. “You guys practically redecorated the study with your... scholarly enthusiasm. Even Nakul needed therapy.”

Dadima calmly wiped her lips with a napkin. “Poor boy dropped the tray. And his innocence.”

Geet covered her face with both hands.

Maan took a deep breath. “Remind me again why we eat with family?”

“Because we love each other,” Dadima replied serenely. “And because your *expressionless face* when you’re embarrassed is my new favourite entertainment.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Maan muttered.

“Oh, my dear boy,” she said, patting his hand, “you were found wrapped around your wife in a half-buttoned shirt, surrounded by paperwork and one very traumatised butler.”

Geet peeked out through her fingers. “For the record, I tried to tell him not to open the door!”

“You also tried to cook,” Vicky said. “Let’s not bring your judgement into this.”

She threw a napkin at him.

He ducked.

Dadima cleared her throat dramatically. “In my day, study rooms were for books, and bedrooms were for—well, never mind.”

Maan looked like he was silently writing a resignation letter from the family.

Geet leaned closer to him and whispered, “You’re handling this with so much grace.”

“I’m plotting their exile,” he muttered back.

She smiled sweetly. “I love you, Mr. Khurana.”

He gave her a warning glance. “Say it louder and they’ll write another sonnet about our ‘study skills’.”

Too late.

Vicky began to sing, dramatically off-key:

🎵 “Hum tum , ek study mei band ho,

Aur Nakul aa jaye…” 🎵

Maan stood up with his wine glass. “That’s it. I’m done.”

“Sit down, Shakespeare,” Dadima ordered. “Finish your sabzi.”

Everyone burst into laughter—including Maan, despite himself.

And just like that, in the middle of roasted papad, relentless teasing, and a chorus of off-key poetry, the Khurana house felt fuller, brighter, and a little more chaotic.

Just as it should be.

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