Part 5
One evening, after yet another opulent party filled with shallow conversations and endless rounds of drinks, Maan found himself lingering near the bar again. The weight of the evening pressed heavily on him, and the noise of the remaining guests felt oppressive. Geet approached quietly, placing a fresh glass of water in front of him without meeting his eyes.
“Why do you do it?” he asked suddenly, his voice low but insistent.
She paused, her fingers still resting on the edge of the tray. “Do what?”
“Put up with… all of this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the room around them. “The way they treat you.”
Geet straightened, her calm gaze finally meeting his. “Because it’s not about them,” she said simply.
Her words, quiet and resolute, struck him harder than he expected. He nodded slowly, a flicker of understanding passing between them. For the first time in a long time, he felt the need to reflect instead of drink.
“What about you? Why do you put up with …all of this? ” she asks, keeping her voice light.
He turned to her, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“Because it’s expected of me,” he replied, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.
Geet’s heart ached at his words. “But you don’t have to fit their mold, Maan. You have the power to define your own narrative.”
He looked at her, surprise evident in his expression. “You talk about power like
it’s an easy thing to grasp. It’s complicated when everyone around you is trying to shape you into something you’re not.
He pauses then glances at her. “And what about you? Aren’t you just playing a part too? The sweet catering lady who’s just happy to be here?”
The challenge in his tone surprised her, but she stood firm. “I may be serving food, but that doesn’t define who I am or who I can be. I have my dreams, my goals, and I won’t let anyone take them away from me.”
For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension. Maan’s gaze searched hers, and in that instant, she felt an unspoken understanding blossom—a connection that transcended their disparate worlds. But just as quickly, the moment slipped away as the chaos of the party surged around them.
As the party wound down and Geet disappeared into the kitchen once more, Maan remained at the bar, turning her words over in his mind. In her silence, in her resilience, she had shown him a strength he hadn’t known he needed to see.
And though neither of them spoke of it, the thread connecting them grew stronger with each passing encounter, weaving a bond that neither fully understood yet.
Geet had grown used to the murmurs, the casual dismissals, and the superiority that wafted through the air at these parties. It wasn’t her world, and she didn’t pretend it was. She moved through the grand halls with practiced efficiency, carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, her expression calm and neutral.
++++++
The grand hotel hummed with laughter and chatter from the city's elite.
Geet moved gracefully through the throng, tray in hand, her eyes repeatedly drifting toward Maan, who sat at the bar, a fortress of drinks piled before him.
He leaned back against the counter, appearing relaxed, yet there was a heaviness in his gaze, as if he were miles away from the celebration. Mr. Sharma, his secretary navigated the crowd effortlessly, charming guests while subtly urging Maan to engage with potential clients.
As Geet delivered drinks to other patrons, she couldn't help but steal glances at
Maan, captivated by the way he sank deeper into his thoughts with every drink. She saw the weight of expectation pulling at his shoulders, the facade he wore almost tangible in the air between them.
“Hey, you Girl!!!” a boisterous man at the bar called out, waving his hand to get her attention. “Can I get another drink over here?”
Geet hesitated, torn between her duty and the magnetic pull of Maan’s presence. She felt a surge of warmth as Maan’s gaze flicked toward her, catching her in that moment of distraction. She shook her head subtly, her eyes locking with his, a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.
Just as she was about to move toward Maan, a snooty high-society lady bumped into her, drink in hand. Geet lost her balance, and the contents of her tray cascaded onto the lady's elegant gown.
“Watch where you’re going, you clumsy fool!” the lady exclaimed, her voice dripping with disdain. Without a second thought, she raised her hand and slapped Geet across the face.
Stunned, Geet froze, the sting of the slap radiating through her cheeks. She felt the eyes of the room turn toward her, whispers buzzing like bees. But she held her head high, refusing to let humiliation consume her. Instead, she offered a small, strained smile, her dignity intact.
Maan’s expression shifted instantly, fury igniting in his gaze as he shot up from his seat. “Is that how you treat someone who’s just trying to do their job?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the noise of the party. The lady’s eyes widened, momentarily taken aback.
Geet looked surprised, her eyes darting between Maan and the guest, clearly unsure of what to say.
Geet, recovering from the shock, turned to Maan. “It’s fine. I’m okay,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. She didn’t want Maan to fight her battles, though his concern was evident.
Maan’s jaw clenched as he glared at the woman. “You think you’re above everyone else because of your status? You’re no better than anyone here.”
The lady huffed, adjusting her gown and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “How dare you speak to me like that?” she retorted, indignation spilling from her every word.
Geet stepped between them, not wanting Maan to escalate the situation further. “I really am fine,” she insisted, forcing a smile. “Let’s just forget it.”
Maan’s eyes remained locked on the lady, but he turned to Geet, his expression softening. “You deserve respect, Geet. Don’t let her treat you like that.”
Before Geet could respond, Mr. Sharma appeared, sensing the tension. “Maan, let’s not make a scene. We have guests to impress,” he said, his voice low and steady, a reminder of the stakes at play.
As the lady huffed and strutted away, Geet felt Maan’s gaze on her, concern etched across his features. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly, the anger in his eyes replaced by genuine worry.
Geet watched Maan closely, surprise etched across her features. She hadn’t expected him to step in like that. There was a flicker of gratitude in her heart, quickly overshadowed by confusion. Why was he suddenly being protective?
“I’m fine,” she replied, brushing it off. “It happens. Just part of the job, right?” Her voice betrayed none of the pain she felt; she’d learned long ago to mask her hurt with grace.
Maan studied her for a moment, noting the slight tremor in her hands and the way her eyes flicked around the room, avoiding his gaze. He wanted to say more, to ask her how she really felt about all of this, but the words tangled in his throat.
“It shouldn’t happen,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one should be treated like that.”
In that moment, a small smile broke through Geet’s resolve. “Thank you for standing up for me. It means a lot,” she said softly, feeling warmth bloom in her chest.
With that, he stepped back, giving her space, but not before catching a glimpse of the surprise in her eyes. It was a small moment, but for Maan, it felt significant, like a crack in the wall he had built around himself.
As he walked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to protect her, to somehow make this world less cruel for her. It was a strange thought, one that lingered as he returned to the bar, his drink in hand but his mind filled with the image of Geet standing strong in the face of adversity.
As the night wore on, they returned to their unspoken rhythm, exchanging glances and small gestures—Geet counting Maan’s drinks, offering him water between rounds, and ensuring he ate something whenever she could. She bore the subtle jabs and sneers of high-society guests with silent resilience, maintaining her dignity despite the insults.
With each stolen glance, they communicated without words, and Geet felt a renewed sense of hope. Maybe amidst the noise and pretension, there was a chance for something real between them.
++++
At another event, Geet carried a tray of wine glasses through the crowd, weaving between clusters of guests. A group of young socialites, laughing too loudly, blocked her path.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, careful not to disturb their conversation.
One of the women turned to her, a glass of champagne in hand. “Oh, we’re in your way, are we?” she said mockingly, her tone dripping with condescension. “Sorry, didn’t realize this was your party.”
The others laughed, and Geet felt the heat rise to her cheeks. But she kept her voice steady. “Not at all, ma’am. Just trying to ensure everyone is served.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” the woman drawled, her smile more of a sneer. “Maybe next time, don’t look so eager. It’s a bit… desperate.”
Geet gave a small nod, her expression unchanging. “Noted, ma’am.”
As she moved past them, she could still hear their laughter, but she refused to let it linger in her mind. Instead, she focused on her work, reminding herself why she was here—why she endured.
++++
During another particularly grand affair, Geet was refilling glasses at the bar when a man in a tailored suit leaned in too close. His cologne was overpowering, and his voice carried an edge of entitlement.
“You’re quite good at this,” he said, gesturing to her hands as she worked. “You must do this all the time, right? Serving people like us? It suits you.”
Geet kept her focus on the glass she was filling, her fingers precise and steady. “Just doing my job, sir,” she replied evenly.
The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t be so modest. Not everyone has the patience for this kind of work. It’s a talent, really, to stay invisible.”
The words stung more than she cared to admit, but she forced herself to meet his gaze briefly. “Thank you,” she said simply, before turning her attention to another guest.
++++
Despite the constant barrage of subtle and overt insults, Geet never let her resolve falter. She carried herself with quiet grace, her composure unshaken even when the remarks grew crueler.
At one point, she was arranging desserts on a platter when a woman glanced at her and said loudly to her companion, “It’s amazing how people like her can just… blend into the background. It’s like they’re part of the furniture.”
Geet didn’t react. She didn’t let her posture change or her movements falter. Instead, she straightened the arrangement of the desserts with meticulous care, pretending she hadn’t heard a word.
From the corner of the room, Maan observed her, his grip tightening around his glass. He didn’t understand how she managed to stay so composed, so unaffected. Her silence was deafening, speaking volumes about her strength.
++++
One night, as Geet stood near the kitchen door, catching her breath between rounds, Maan approached her unexpectedly. His steps were uneven, his tie undone, but his expression was unusually serious.
“Why do you let them treat you like that?” he asked, his voice low but insistent.
She turned to him, her brows furrowing slightly. “It’s not about letting them,” she said softly. “It’s about knowing who I am, no matter what they say.”
Maan frowned, his gaze searching hers. “But doesn’t it get to you? The way they talk down to you like you’re… nothing?”
Geet’s lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “If I let their words define me, then I would be nothing. But I don’t. They don’t know me, and I don’t owe them my anger.”
Maan stared at her, a flicker of something akin to admiration passing through his expression. “You’re stronger than they are,” he said finally, almost to himself.
Geet didn’t respond, simply offering him a glass of water before returning to her work. And as Maan watched her walk away, he felt a pang of something unfamiliar—an ache, perhaps, for the quiet strength she carried and the burden she bore so gracefully.
The party was in full swing, its lavishness on full display as laughter and clinking glasses filled the grand hall. Geet moved carefully through the crowd, her server uniform pristine and crisp. She balanced a tray of champagne flutes with practiced precision, keeping her head down as she navigated the sea of opulence and indulgence.
“Hey, miss!” a man’s voice cut through the air, loud and boisterous. Geet turned toward the source, her polite mask firmly in place. A middle-aged man in a suit, his face red from drink, waved her over with exaggerated enthusiasm. His grin was wide and toothy, but there was something in his eyes that made her stomach turn.
As she stepped closer, the man reached for a glass from her tray, his hand deliberately tipping it. The cold liquid spilled down the front of her blouse, soaking through the white fabric instantly.
“Oh, clumsy me!” he exclaimed with mock innocence, though the sly curve of his lips betrayed his intent. His eyes lingered shamelessly on her now-transparent blouse, revealing her undergarments beneath.
Geet froze, her breath catching as a wave of humiliation washed over her. The men surrounding him burst into laughter, their gazes roaming over her as she stood there, helpless to cover herself while still holding the tray.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” the man added, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Adds a little sparkle to the evening, don’t you think?”
Geet’s ears burned red, and she quickly adjusted the tray in her hands to shield herself as best as she could. “I… I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured, her voice barely audible as she kept her head down. The room seemed to close in around her as the laughter of the men echoed in her ears, their leering gazes making her skin crawl.
From across the room, Maan Singh Khurana had been watching. His sharp eyes missed nothing—the deliberate spill, the predatory stares, and Geet’s silent endurance as she bore the humiliation without a word. His jaw tightened, and the usual glass of scotch in his hand remained untouched. His expression darkened, but there was also something else—a spark of dry amusement flickering behind the storm.
When Geet retreated to the kitchen, clearly trying to compose herself, Maan set his drink down and strode toward the group of men, his steps deliberate.
As he approached, the man who had spilled the drink turned to him with a grin. “Maan! You’re just in time. We were—”
“Performing for a circus?” Maan interrupted, his tone as dry as sandpaper. “I must have missed the memo. Do I need to clap or throw peanuts?”
The man blinked, his grin faltering. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you,” Maan said, pointing a finger at the man’s chest, “and whatever third-rate soap opera audition you think you’re doing here. Spilling drinks, leering like a creep—what is this, the annual ‘Who Can Be the Worst Human?’ competition?”
The laughter around the table faltered as Maan’s words sunk in. The man straightened, trying to regain his composure. “It was just a little fun. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”
“Ah, of course,” Maan said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Because nothing says ‘fun’ like humiliating someone who’s working hard while you stand there, pretending your trust fund gives you a personality.”
A few stifled chuckles rose from nearby guests who had started to notice the exchange, though the group of men Maan addressed grew visibly uncomfortable.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” the man muttered, his confidence draining.
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t,” Maan shot back, his smirk razor-sharp. “Just like a mosquito doesn’t mean to give you malaria—it’s just in its nature to be a pest.”
The man flushed red; his earlier bravado completely gone. “Look, I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” Maan cut in smoothly. “Didn’t think anyone would notice? Didn’t think anyone would care? Newsflash, my friend: your behavior’s about as classy as a toddler with finger paint.”
By now, the group had gone completely silent, their discomfort palpable. Maan’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer before he straightened, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve.
“Do me a favor,” he said, his voice light but dripping with venom. “The next time you feel the urge to embarrass someone for sport, don’t. Or better yet just go stare at a mirror until you realize how utterly forgettable you are.”
Without waiting for a response, Maan turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the group in stunned silence. As he passed the bar, he picked up his drink and took a slow sip, his smirk faint but satisfied.
Back in the kitchen, Geet was dabbing at her soaked blouse with a towel, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to regain her composure. She worried about the repercussions—would her manager scold her for the incident? Would she lose her pay for the night? The thought of returning to the floor in her current state filled her with dread.
When she finally stepped out again, her head lowered, she noticed something unusual. The men who had laughed at her earlier were subdued, their boisterousness replaced by awkward glances and shuffling feet.
And Maan—he stood near the bar, his drink in hand, his usual smirk firmly in place. He caught her eye briefly, his gaze steady but unreadable. Geet frowned slightly, unsure of what had transpired, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She returned to her duties; her shoulders squared despite the lingering humiliation.
Unbeknownst to her, Maan’s eyes followed her for the rest of the evening, his expression softening slightly. He didn’t say a word to her, didn’t offer her any pity or gestures of comfort. But as he watched her navigate the room with quiet dignity, a flicker of admiration shone in his otherwise impassive gaze.
Maan returned to the bar, irritation simmering beneath the surface as he watched the guests mingle, their laughter now grating against his ears. The earlier mockery directed at Geet lingered in his mind like a foul taste. He took a long sip of his drink, seeking solace in the familiar burn of alcohol but finding little comfort.
The party continued to swirl around him, but his thoughts were fixed on Geet. Why had she chosen to work in this environment, subjected to such ridicule? He had seen her resilience—how she bore the weight of their insults with her head held high, despite the pain etched across her features. Yet tonight had been different; she had looked truly hurt.
A fleeting image of her face flashed in his mind, flushed with embarrassment, her eyes downcast. Something about it unsettled him, tugging at an emotion he didn’t care to acknowledge. He had spent years cultivating an image of indifference, avoiding attachments and connections, but she was breaking through that wall with a surprising ease.
++++++
The humiliation and helplessness ached her heart, exhausted her soul but she did not have luxury of choice.
The grand ballroom is dimly lit, with soft classical music playing in the background. Crystal chandeliers shimmer, casting a glow on the elegantly dressed guests. Waitstaff weave through the crowd, carrying trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.
Geet is still serving, her face flushed with embarrassment of her recent blouse incident and her heart and pride stings due to memory of the slap.
Geet walks past the bar, her tray heavy with drinks. Her steps falter as she hears a low voice behind her.
Maan (leaning casually against the bar, holding a glass of whiskey): "That’s quite a show you’re putting on. Never seen someone serve shame with such poise."
Geet freezes, her jaw clenched. She turns slowly, her eyes meeting Maan's, his dark, mocking smile sends a wave of frustration through her. It’s almost like a betrayal, she thought ….she assumed they had a connection…at least someone who understood.
She’s too tired, too angry, to stay polite this time.
Geet (voice low, barely masking her rage): "You think this is funny? Watching people like you humiliate the ones serving you?"
Maan's grin widens. He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyeing her carefully.
Maan: "Humiliate? No. You do that well enough on your own. But… the way you take it on the chin and keep going. That's... amusing."
Geet’s fists tighten around the tray. The tension is palpable, and for a moment, she considers throwing the tray in his face. Instead, she takes a breath, trying to hold her ground.
Geet: "You wouldn’t last a day in my shoes. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You hide behind your money, your arrogance, thinking you're untouchable.
Must be nice."
Maan’s eyes glint, a flash of interest crossing his face at her defiance. His smile falters, just for a second, but then returns even darker.
Maan: "Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re just angry because you think you deserve better but can’t crawl your way out of this pit on your own."
Geet’s face flushes deeper, but this time it’s not from embarrassment—it’s fury. She’s had enough. Her voice shakes as she responds, barely keeping herself composed.
Geet: "What do you want from me? To laugh at me some more? Or are you just another rich man who gets off on making life harder for people like me?"
Maan leans forward slightly, the humor fading from his expression, replaced with something more serious, more dangerous.
Maan: "Maybe I am. But let’s say I’m offering you a chance to walk away from this circus. Work for me. No games. You won’t have to serve these people ever again."
Geet (hesitantly) : “You’re… offering me a job?”
Maan (with a mocking smile, his voice low): “I am offering you a challenge. Let’s see if your tolerance can withstand the corporate world.”
Geet’s eyes widen slightly, the implications sinking in. There’s something challenging in his gaze, almost as if he’s daring her to take up his offer, testing her resilience even further.
She stares at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She doesn’t trust him, but the temptation to escape her degrading job is overwhelming. She knows that staying here will only mean more humiliation, and the prospect of going back home to a life she hates is suffocating.
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