Part 66
It started with a pulse.
Somewhere deep inside the plaster, behind the rigid white shell that had become part of her body, her leg had started to throb. Not the dull ache she’d grown used to. This was sharper, more insistent — like her bones were remembering what it meant to be broken.
Geet tried to ignore it.
She shifted slightly in bed, adjusted the pillow beneath her cast, clenched her jaw. She’d read somewhere that pain comes in waves — if you ride out the first crest, the rest will pass softer.
But this wasn’t a wave.
It was a tide. Relentless. Swelling higher.
The room was dark except for the sliver of city light slipping through the blackout blinds. Maan’s soft, rhythmic breathing filled the silence, steady and close beside her. He was sleeping on the right side of the bed — always the side facing the door, like a man instinctively placing himself between her and the world.
She didn’t want to wake him.
She didn’t want him to see her like this — curled up and shivering, clawing at a pain she couldn’t soothe.
Geet pressed the heel of her good foot against the mattress and tried to push herself higher onto the pillow, but even that movement sent a jolt up her spine. Her fractured wrist twinged under the weight of the attempt, and a sob caught in her throat before she could swallow it.
She buried her face into the pillow.
But the pain didn’t stop. It bloomed. It seared. It mocked every optimistic thought she’d had about recovery.
She couldn’t breathe through it anymore.
She sobbed. Quietly, desperately.
A single sharp intake broke beside her.
Then: “Geet?”
She didn’t respond.
She couldn’t. Her throat had closed. Her teeth were chattering from the sheer effort of not screaming.
Maan was up in an instant. No groggy confusion. No sluggishness. Just instinct.
He turned on the soft bedside lamp, the dim amber light pooling across her face.
His breath caught.
She was folded in on herself like a wounded animal, her lips trembling, sweat beading along her forehead despite the cool room. Her uninjured hand was clawing the sheets near her thigh, eyes squeezed shut as if willing the world away.
“Hey—hey, hey,” he murmured, crouching by her side so he was eye-level, one hand hovering helplessly before landing lightly on her hair. “Tell me where it hurts. Is it the ribs? The arm? Geet—what is it?”
She couldn’t answer.
A tear slipped down the side of her cheek. Then another. Her breath came in hitches now.
Maan’s face changed. From concern to helplessness to something far more dangerous — rage, but not at her. Rage at the fact that he couldn’t touch the pain and take it.
He brushed the damp hair off her face with reverent gentleness.
“I’m right here. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone.”
His voice was low, firm, sacred.
Still, she didn’t speak.
He stayed with her like that for hours.
Pacing, fetching warm compresses, adjusting pillows, checking the position of the cast. At one point, he slid into bed beside her again, curling his body protectively around her, one hand bracing her shoulder and the other gently massaging the skin just above the cast line — as if trying to transfer his calm into her bloodstream.
Eventually, the pain dulled.
Not from medicine. Not from sleep.
Just from the unbearable exhaustion of hurting.
She fell asleep just before dawn, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
He didn’t sleep.
Not a minute.
+++
When Geet woke up, the bed felt like an empty continent.
The sheets on the right side were still rumpled, holding onto the ghost of his heat, but the heavy, grounding presence of Maan was gone. For a heartbeat, the "Priyanka poison" from the day before surged back into her throat. He’s seen the breakdown. He’s seen the wincing, weeping version of me that doesn't fit into a boardroom, and he’s finally realized I am a liability.
She lay there, staring at her heavy plaster leg, feeling like a glitch in his perfect, high-speed life.
Then, the private elevator chimed.
Ten minutes later, Maan walked into the bedroom. He looked like a man who had just fought a war and hadn't bothered to sign the peace treaty. He was windblown, unshaven, and still wearing yesterday’s black shirt—now rumpled at the sleeves and smelling of jet fuel and cold morning air. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes burning with a focus that was terrifyingly absolute.
In his hands was a matte black case. It wasn't a box; it was a reinforced protective case, the kind used for high-end prototypes or surgical lasers. He didn't say good morning. He didn't ask how she felt. He walked past her and knelt at the ottoman, his fingers flying over the heavy-duty latches.
“Maan?” Geet’s voice was small, scratchy from a night of crying. “Where were you?”
He didn’t answer until the locks clicked open with a metallic snap.
Inside, resting on a bed of custom-cut foam, was something that looked like it belonged in a museum of modern engineering. It was a custom orthopedic cast—ergonomic, sleek, and molded in a cool, dove-grey composite with subtle lavender undertones. It didn't look like medical equipment; it looked like a piece of high-performance armor.
“What is that?” she whispered.
Maan’s voice was quiet, a low, gravelly rasp. “You’re not wearing that concrete sarcophagus another day.”
“You ordered this?”
“I called in a favor,” he said, his fingers tracing the reinforced heel suspension. “A specialized lab in Munich. I sent them your latest 3D-scans at four this morning. They fabricated the composite and routed the delivery through Zurich to catch the sunrise charter.”
Geet gawked. The sheer scale of the effort—the international coordination, the private flights, the millions he must have spent to shave hours off a delivery time just because she had whimpered in her sleep—was staggering.
“Maan... this must have cost a fortune.”
He didn't look up. “I mortgaged your kidney,” he said flatly. “Don’t worry, you’ve got two. You’re fine.”
Geet blinked, a tiny, startled laugh escaping her. The tension in her chest cracked. “That’s not a real answer.”
He looked up then, the corner of his mouth twitching with a shadow of his dark humor. “No. But it’s a better answer than ‘Shut up and let me make you comfortable.’”
The room was suddenly very small, occupied entirely by the weight of his attention.
There was a sharp knock at the door—the private nurse. Maan stood up, his aura shifting back to the impenetrable CEO. He opened the door without preamble.
“Cut it off,” he commanded.
“Sir?” the nurse hesitated.
“The cast. She’s not wearing it another minute.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur of the clinical and the personal. As the saw buzzed, slicing through the heavy, hot plaster that had been her prison, Geet flinched at the vibration. Instantly, Maan’s hand was on her shoulder. He didn't say anything, but the pressure of his palm was a tether, keeping her from drifting into a panic.
When the old cast was finally removed, her leg looked pale, thin, and terrifyingly fragile in the open air. Geet felt a surge of shame, but Maan didn't look away. He knelt back down, taking her heel in his hand with a touch so light it was almost a caress.
He slid the new, German-engineered cast beneath her leg himself. It wasn't a doctor's movement; it was a ritual.
The fit was eerie. It hugged the contours of her healing femur without pressure, bracing the bone while allowing her skin to finally breathe. The throbbing, rhythmic heat that had kept her crying all night simply... stopped.
“You did this,” Geet whispered, her eyes stinging as the relief washed over her like cool water.
“I didn’t make it,” Maan replied gruffly, focusing on the tension dials of the carbon-fiber straps. “I just didn’t sleep until it got here.”
His thumb brushed her ankle. It was an absent, focused gesture—completely reverent. In that touch, Geet saw everything he refused to say. He didn't see a "rag doll." He didn't see a "charitable project." He saw his life, and he was rebuilding it, one millimeter of carbon fiber at a time.
“Maan…”
He finally looked at her. The "locked" expression broke for a split second, showing the raw, unwashed exhaustion underneath.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
It wasn’t a soft, romantic peck. It was fierce. A hard, lingering press of his lips against her skin. It was a promise, a claim, and a protection all at once.
Then, without another word, he climbed into the bed beside her. He didn't take off his shoes. He didn't change out of his rumpled shirt. He just slid under the duvet and pulled her against him, his large body molding around her new, high-tech cast as if they were two pieces of a single, complex machine.
“No, wait—what are you—Maan!” she whispered, half-gasping as the corner of his shoe nudged the pristine white duvet. “Shoes. On the bed. Eww. That’s—no—germ central!”
Maan didn’t flinch. Didn’t even open his eyes.
“Don’t care,” he murmured, dragging her gently into the crook of his arm. “You cried. I fixed it. Now I’m sleeping.”
Geet gawked at him, offended on behalf of beds everywhere. “This is how plagues start.”
He exhaled once — a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh — and muttered, “Sue me later.”
But his arm tightened just slightly, anchoring her in. His warmth bled through the sheets, even through the crumpled shirt and scandalous footwear. And despite the germ horror, despite herself—Geet let her head drop to his chest.
Geet curled into the crook of his arm, the cool grey composite of her new cast resting comfortably against the sheets.
She closed her eyes, and as Maan’s breathing finally slowed into sleep, she realized that Priyanka was right about one thing: Maan did have intense needs.
He needed her to be okay. And he would set the world on fire to make sure she was.
Anupamaa
Health and Fitness
The 50
816