Something About Us- MG || (Part 56|Page 57) - Page 57

Part 55

Fabulous Update

Maan is working on making Brij's life hell

for all that he has done to Geet

wow Maan gets so worried just knowing that Geet went alone

to the bathroom

but I'm enjoying their banter and laughs

Part 55

of cos Maan ensured that Geet was comfortable

liked his care for Geet

Maan's thoughts were reasonable

Geet indeed changed him

as expected Maan is determined to pay Brij pay and destroy him

he clearly does not want Geet to know anything

admire Geet's tenacity

pleased that she managed to get the bathroom alone

not surprised that Maan was there

well he confronted Geet

Geet's response was understandable

his concern was justified

Geet's questions were anticipated

she did have good points

enjoyed the banter

update soon

Part 56

The first thing Geet registered was the faint click of a door.

The next—a slant of pale morning light cutting across the room, warming the sheets where her casted arm rested.

She kept her eyes closed.

The meds had left her sluggish, her limbs stiff. But the bed was warm. The pillow smelled like sandalwood and something sharper—him.

Then came the sound of drawers opening.

Soft. Precise. Familiar.

Not rushed. Just deliberate.

She heard movement again—fabric shifting, the rustle of a belt. A hanger being pulled.

She opened her eyes just a sliver.

Maan stood across the room, back turned, near the walk-in closet.

Shirtless.

And Geet—very much awake now—forgot to breathe.

The light from the tall windows stretched across his bare shoulders, gilding the sharp cut of his back in soft gold. Each movement—pulling a drawer, rolling his neck, slipping one arm into a shirt—made the muscles shift, stretch, and settle again like poetry carved in skin.

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

No, this wasn’t a dream.

His pants rode low on his hips, the waistband slung with casual ease, and she suddenly understood the phrase male form as weapon.

She had never seen him like this before.

Not at work. Not in the hospital. Not even in the hazy memories of pain and half-consciousness that followed.

This was new.

This was—

Illegal.

She almost turned away on instinct.

But then he moved again—slow, unaware, folding the white shirt over one forearm as he looked through something on the closet shelf—and Geet’s entire bloodstream mutinied.

She shut her eyes quickly. Too quickly.

Nope.

Did not happen.

Go back to sleep before your ribs explode.

Her pulse thudded somewhere beneath her bandages.

She turned slightly under the blanket, trying to make the motion look natural, casual, asleep.

On the other side of the room, the belt clicked shut.

The bed dipped gently.

Geet kept her breathing even. Or tried to.

Maan had returned from the closet—dressed now, at least partially. The white shirt was unbuttoned at the cuffs, falling open slightly as he sat at the edge of the bed and reached for his smartwatch.

She could feel it.

His presence. The faint shift of the mattress. The scent of that damn cologne—clean, grounded, with that spice note that lingered like trouble.

He tapped something on the screen.

A soft chime. Then—

“Yeah, I’m online. Start without me, I’ll join audio-only.”

A pause.

“No, just adjusting setup. Back in five.”

He clicked the mic off and sighed. Rubbed a hand through his hair. His shirt pulled tighter across his chest with the motion—she didn’t need to open her eyes to know. She heard it.

Then came the sound of buttons. Each one sliding into place with quiet finality.

Geet internally screamed into a pillow.

She wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this. Not about him. Not now. Not while bandaged and bruised and still unable to twist her spine without making pain faces.

This was Maan.

The man who had watched over her in a hospital room for weeks.

The man who changed her IV dressing instructions when she couldn’t speak.

The man who fluffed her pillow twice in the middle of the night because he thought she looked uncomfortable.

And now?

Now her brain was giving her unwelcome visuals of his back muscles.

This is your caregiver, she told herself.

This man tracked your medicine schedule down to the minute and made sure your food had the exact salt content.

You are not allowed to objectify your caregiver.

She turned her face slightly toward the window, faking a little sigh for realism.

Behind her, Maan stood again.

She heard his footfalls moving toward the coffee table across the room. Then a clink—mug meeting coaster. A second later, his phone vibrated.

“Shit—forgot the—” he muttered, walking back toward the closet.

Geet’s eyes snapped open just in time to see him pull the shirt off again.

OH COME ON.

He had a blue tie in his hand now, and apparently, putting it on properly required removing his shirt altogether.

Geet stared at the ceiling, frozen, horrified, betrayed by the laws of proximity and heat and flesh.

A muscle in her jaw ticked.

“God gives his hardest battles to his most injured soldiers,” she whispered under her breath.

Geet closed her eyes again.

Tighter this time.

Which didn’t help. Because now her brain had no visuals to override what she had just seen. Just shadows. Muscle outlines. The slow slide of a tie against bare skin.

Maybe you’re hallucinating, she told herself.
Maybe it’s the pain meds.
Maybe he’s not real and none of this is real and you’re still in the hospital on a morphine drip—

A soft throat-clearing snapped her out of it.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Maan stood a few feet from the bed now, fully dressed in the navy-blue suit he must’ve pulled from the closet. Crisp shirt, tie finally knotted, sleeves buttoned, watch set.
Hair wet and slightly mussed from the quick shower he must’ve taken in the guest bathroom earlier.

He looked like a boardroom just made love to a movie poster.

And he was holding a mug of tea.

Staring directly at her.

“How long,” he asked dryly, “have you been awake?”

Geet froze.

There were options here.

• Deny.
  
  

• Pretend to be confused.
  
  

• Fake a medical emergency.
  
  

• Jump off the balcony.
  
  

“Just now,” she said quickly.

Too quickly.

His brow lifted.

“Right.”

He didn’t move. Just sipped his tea slowly, like he had all the time in the world.

She sat up slightly—winced—then cleared her throat. “I—uh—just woke up. Heard movement. Didn’t see anything.”

“Mm.”

“At all.”

“Of course not.”

“Because I was asleep.”

“Deeply, no doubt.”

She nodded, refusing to meet his eyes.

He set the mug down on the nightstand beside her, leaned in just slightly, and murmured—

“Just a heads-up. You sigh like a war widow when you’re faking sleep.”

Geet gasped. “I—!”

“Also,” he added helpfully, “your pupils dilate when you’re trying not to stare.”

She smacked the pillow beside her with her uninjured arm. “That’s not even a real thing!”

“It is when the observer is close enough.”

Her face burned.

“You’re annoying,” she muttered.

“You’re busted.”

He was smirking now, full-blown. The kind of smirk that made her want to throw something soft but heavy.

“Stop looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know things.”

“I do know things.”

“Shut up.”

He stood again, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket.

“I have meetings till lunch,” he said smoothly. “Don’t fall out of bed trying to escape my hotness.”

“Go to hell.”

“You already live with me.”

+++

Exactly fifteen minutes after Maan left the bedroom with his mug and that stupid smirk, there was a polite knock on the half-open door.

Geet looked up from the glass of water she was trying to sip one-handed.

“Hi, Geet,” came a cheerful, modulated voice. “Good morning. I’m Parul — your physiotherapist. May I come in?”

The woman stepped in with a clipboard, white sneakers, and the kind of neat ponytail that could survive a hurricane. Her black leggings were paired with a breathable grey tunic, and a lanyard hung around her neck with an ID that read CuraElite: Mobility Rehabilitation at Home.

Geet blinked.

“Uh—sure. Yes. Please.”

Parul smiled, walking in with the relaxed confidence of someone used to millionaires and tight recovery schedules.

Behind her, a junior assistant wheeled in a slim collapsible stand with some resistance bands, a therapy ball, and a neatly folded towel kit that looked more spa than hospital.

Geet stared at it all.

Parul set the clipboard down, perched on a low stool near the edge of the bed, and gave Geet a friendly but direct look.

“I understand you’ve been through a lot physically—fractured wrist, cracked rib, general inflammation, and post-surgical stiffness. So our goal today is very gentle mobility. Minimal stress. Maximal comfort.”

Geet nodded, swallowing. “Sounds... ideal.”

“We’ll do just a few minutes of assisted stretching, one simple transfer out of bed using the handrail, and seated breathing exercises to build stamina. No floor work. No weight-bearing.”

Geet blinked again. “This feels... very fancy.”

Parul grinned. “That’s because your ‘caregiver’ is a lunatic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Khurana.”

“Oh god.”

Parul laughed. “I mean that in the nicest way. He’s been micromanaging your recovery plan like it’s a launch presentation. We got a six-slide email from him yesterday with your diet, pain med cycle, sleep logs, emotional triggers, and personal preferences.”

“Emotional triggers?!”

“Apparently, loud air conditioner noises make you flinch in your sleep.”

Geet groaned and covered her face.

Parul chuckled and stood up.

The junior assistant rolled a small stool over and Parul patted it.

“Let’s start with some guided shoulder mobility. I’ll help you sit up. You let me know if anything feels off.”

Geet hesitated. “You mean now?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather be sedated and shipped to a Swiss rehab spa. We offer that too.”

Geet gave a weak laugh, then braced her uninjured arm. Parul was already there, sliding one hand under Geet’s shoulder blade and guiding her up with clinical precision. Still, the movement pulled at her ribs, and Geet winced.

“That’s normal,” Parul said calmly. “Deep breath in... and out.”

They settled into the rhythm.

Slow stretches.

Light pressure.

A resistance band looped gently around her forearm.

Geet’s body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. Her ego, meanwhile, was trying not to break under the sheer indignity of flinching while trying to rotate her shoulder twenty degrees.

“I feel like a stiff vegetable,” she muttered.

Parul smiled. “You’re doing better than most. And your vitals have been stable all week.”

“Is that also in a spreadsheet?”

“Of course. It’s Maan Singh Khurana.”

Geet sighed. “Of course.”

+++

“…and hold it there—five, four, three, two—perfect.”

Parul gently released Geet’s wrist, the soft elastic band slipping away from her hand. Geet let out a shaky breath, her muscles trembling slightly, but not from pain anymore.

From exhaustion. And something else she couldn’t name.

Parul smiled, tapping notes into her tablet. “That was the last one. You’ve done well, especially for someone on limited rest.”

Geet gave a faint nod. “Still feel like I got hit by a bus.”

“Good,” Parul said brightly. “Means we’re making progress.”

Geet offered the smallest smile. Her shoulders were sore. Her back ached. Her wrist was wrapped. And her hair was half falling from the loose braid Parul had helped retie earlier.

She still felt… okay.

Until the door clicked.

A soft sound. Controlled. But unmistakable.

Geet’s breath hitched — and before she turned, she already knew who it was.

Maan.

He stood just inside the threshold now — in his house shoes, dark blue pants, pale shirt clinging in all the wrong places. His eyes swept the room once, then stilled on her.

Not on the therapist. Not on the equipment.

Just her.

She straightened instinctively. Or tried to.

Parul rose to her feet. “Just wrapped up,” she said. “She’s got better mobility than I expected. Good posture retention, especially for someone healing through the rib cage.”

Geet wished the earth would open.

Maan didn’t respond right away. His gaze flicked to the half-empty glass of water on the bedside. Then the towel folded near her thigh. Then the light flush rising along her throat.

He tilted his head slightly.

“You’re warm,” he said quietly.

Geet blinked. “…It’s called circulation.”

His expression didn’t change. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Her fingers curled into the blanket. “If you have something to say—”

Parul cleared her throat pointedly.

“I’ll leave you both to… stretch in peace,” she said, not unkindly, as she closed her tablet and gave Geet a nod. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Geet said tightly, ignoring Maan’s hovering presence entirely.

Parul stepped out. The door shut behind her.

Maan didn’t move from the doorway.

She didn’t look at him.

He leaned slightly against the frame, one arm folding across his chest, the other bracing casually at the wood. He said nothing for a long beat.

Then—

“You whimper when your shoulder locks.”

Geet’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a sound,” he said mildly, like discussing the weather. “Kind of like a kitten trying not to admit it’s in pain.”

Geet narrowed her eyes.

He shrugged, unbothered. “You don’t deny the sound.”

Geet flushed.

He caught it.

Didn’t smile.

Just watched her, like he always did — with that unreadable, contained gaze that didn’t need to raise its voice to say everything.

Her heart beat a little faster.

“…You’re not funny,” she muttered.

“No,” he said softly. “But you laugh anyway.”

He turned before she could answer, leaving behind the faintest trace of his cologne in the air.

+++

The elevator doors shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Maan didn’t press any buttons.

He stood still, fingers tapping once against the cuff of his sleeve — then pulling out his phone. A swipe. Two taps. Encrypted login. Retinal unlock.

By the time the lift reached the private mezzanine floor of his duplex, the system was already online.

Not the home system.

The one that didn’t officially exist.

He stepped into the back office — a soundproof space few people had ever seen. Not his assistants. Not even his CTO. Only him.

A single widescreen curved across the entire wall, black until his presence activated the sensors.

Lines of command flooded the screen.

Not colorful interfaces. Not dashboards.

Raw code.

He didn’t sit.

He stood as the system booted fully.

And when the image loaded — a still frame from CCTV footage, low-res, timestamped from a ration store in a Tier 3 town two states away — his jaw clenched.

Her brother.

Gaunter now. Greasier. Clutching a cloth bag and speaking to someone behind the counter, his eyes darting toward the door every few seconds like a man waiting for a blow that never lands.

Good.

He’s scared.

Maan leaned forward slightly, his hand dragging across the trackpad. Several files opened — a series of data points.

• Five prepaid SIM cards purchased in the last two weeks.
  
  

• Two rejected job applications under fake names.
  
  

• An attempted online loan of ₹12,000 blocked due to failed Aadhaar verification.
  
  

• And one panicked call to an estranged uncle asking for money — declined.
  
  

Maan exhaled.

Slow.

This wasn’t brute-force revenge.

This was rot. Quiet, systematic rot.

He wasn’t going to ruin the man.

He was going to make the man ruin himself.

He clicked into the next layer.

The trail Geet's brother hadn’t realized he was leaving:
A new phone number registered under a long-dead shop license.
A failed PAN update where he'd uploaded a forged ID.
An inquiry to sell ancestral land he didn’t legally own.

Maan was tracking it all.

Not intervening.

Yet.

No, the trick wasn’t to stop him.

The trick was to let him believe he was still free.

Still moving.

Let him build a tiny fantasy of survival — then cut every exit at once.

Maan’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. Two new scripts ran in parallel. One flagged every telecom provider in the region to ping his location hourly. The other sent anonymous whistleblower tips to a set of local journalists about "financial fraud from a known repeat offender operating under false documents."

No name.

Just enough to start whispers.

Just enough to make Geet's brother turn around at every sound.

To check every mirror twice.

Because Maan didn’t need to touch him.

He just needed him paranoid.

Cornered.

Small.

The kind of small Geet had once felt when she'd clutched her bleeding arm and whispered, “He didn’t even flinch.”

The image of her, in that hospital bed, struggling to sit upright just to drink water — it flashed again.

Maan’s jaw tightened.

He clicked once more.

A final command.

A silent financial block placed on every debit card linked to the brother’s Aadhaar. Not enough to trigger a red flag.

But enough to make the next meal impossible.

Maan closed the screen.

Walked to the espresso machine.

Let the bitterness flood the cup, sharp and dark, just like the thoughts still simmering behind his calm.

He would hold Geet's hand through therapy with the same fingers that just wrote digital ruin.

He would warm her soup, adjust her pillows, keep her world steady.

And he would gut the man who had shattered hers.

Quietly.

Without expression.

Without a single drop of blood.

Because revenge didn’t have to roar.

It could breathe softly.

Just like him.

She is allowed to objectify this caregiver. If he knew, he would be pleased.

Ha. He knew she was up. Did he know she was watching him? Did he put on a show for her?

He hatched the perfect revenge plan. Slow and steady. The man will never know what hit him. But he will suffer.