Part 70
The apartment was quieter than usual that night.
The soft hum of the dishwasher. The muted thrum of the city outside. Maan at his desk in the corner of the living room, reviewing a last-minute document Sheetal had forwarded.
He wasn’t expecting anything from the kitchen. Not tonight.
Geet had been exhausted after the office visit—three hours of standing her ground in a wheelchair drained even the strongest among them.
So when he heard a small metallic clink, he didn’t look up immediately.
Another sound. Ceramic. A soft exhale.
He lifted his gaze.
Geet was in the kitchen.
Not sitting.
Not in the wheelchair.
Not asking for help.
She was standing—
balancing on her good leg, the carbon-fiber cast firmly grounded, her weight distributed with careful precision. One hand braced lightly on the counter. The other reaching for a chopping board.
His heart… genuinely skipped.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare interrupt.
It felt like witnessing someone testing new wings.
Geet brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes narrowing in concentration as she inspected a bunch of cilantro.
Her movements were slow, deliberate—not hesitant, but respectful of her own limits.
The overhead light cast a soft golden glow on her profile.
Her concentration was the same as when she debugged his decks: precise, focused, a little adorable.
He stood.
Quietly. Not wanting to break the moment.
“Geet.”
She startled slightly, then turned.
“Oh. Hi.” Her smile was small but real. The first tired-but-warm smile he’d seen after the office. “I thought you were busy.”
“I was.” He stepped closer. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to make dinner,” she said, as if this wasn’t the emotional equivalent of climbing Everest. “I got cleared for light standing, remember?”
“I remember,” he said softly. “Standing. Not… cooking.”
“Standing is standing.” She lifted the cutting board. “And chopping is basically data segmentation.”
He stared. “Did you just compare vegetables to a spreadsheet?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “I’m versatile now.”
Something loosened in his chest. Something warm and devastating and so far from the ruthless man he’d been at work earlier.
He turned the stove off—it was only lightly heating.
She raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t trust me with heat?”
“No,” Maan said. “I don’t trust the orthopedic surgeon with rage issues if I let you fall.”
She laughed. It was soft, and it hit him with a kind of quiet violence.
“I’m fine, Maan. Really.”
She lifted the knife—slow, stable, purposeful.
“I missed this. Being able to… do something for you. For us.”
That undid him.
“I’m not keeping score,” he said.
“I know.” She chopped one slow, careful slice. “But I am. With myself.”
He moved closer, just behind her—not touching, but near enough that she could lean into him if she needed balance.
She didn’t.
But she felt him, and that was enough.
“You took care of me when I was drowning,” she murmured.
“Fed me while I was sick and helpless. I just want to… contribute again.”
“Geet,” he said quietly, “you’ve been contributing more than anyone else in my life.”
She paused mid-chop.
“That’s just work.”
“No,” he said. “That’s partnership.”
Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
She resumed chopping—slow, steady. “Still. Let me do this. I want to do something ordinary.”
He exhaled. A low, warm sound—not frustration. Something nearer to reverence.
“Fine,” he said. “Then I’ll stand behind you.”
“That’s not helping.”
“I didn’t say I was helping,” he murmured. “I’m supervising.”
“Well your supervision is breathing on my neck.”
“Good.”
She rolled her eyes, cheeks warming.
Minutes later, the pan sizzled.
Cumin, garlic, a little ghee—she moved like a woman relearning a love language.
She tasted the dal with a spoon.
Her eyes softened.
“Perfect.”
Maan’s jaw tightened.
Not at the food.
At the sight of her reclaiming a version of herself he thought might have been lost—
the Geet who cooked when anxious, who fed people as an apology, who stirred pots while humming.
He had missed this woman.
Deeply. Quietly. Without naming it.
She offered him the spoon.
He leaned down instead of taking it.
Her fingers brushed his cheek by accident.
The silence between them warmed.
“Good,” he said softly. “Really good.”
“I know,” she grinned.
That smile—that small, victorious smile—hit something unstable inside him.
She turned to put the spoon in the sink.
Her balance faltered—just a fraction, a tiny shift in her stance.
Maan’s hand shot out instinctively, gripping her waist, steadying her before she even processed the wobble.
She froze.
He didn’t let go.
For a moment neither of them moved.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said.
“But I’m still holding on.”
Her chest rose, fell.
“Do you want me to stop cooking?”
“No.”
His voice was lower now.
“Keep cooking.”
A beat.
“But let me be here.”
She gave a tiny nod.
He didn’t step away.
+++
By the time the dal was ready and the rice was warming, Geet was flushed—not from exertion, but from the strange intimacy of doing something domestic with him hovering like a storm she welcomed.
She served quietly.
Maan watched quietly.
They ate quietly.
But the quiet wasn’t empty.
It was something else.
Something warm, ordinary, terrifyingly intimate.
Domesticity wasn’t supposed to feel like gravity.
Tonight, it did.
Halfway through dinner, he finally spoke.
“Geet.”
She looked up.
“This has been the best thing.”
She smiled. “The food?”
“No.”
His eyes held hers.
“Seeing you in that kitchen again.”
Her breath stilled.
He didn’t look away.
Didn’t hide how deeply it hit him.
“You’re coming back,” he said quietly.
And it wasn’t about work.
Or mobility.
Or deals.
“I never left,” she whispered.
He reached across the table and laced his fingers with hers.
This time, she didn’t look away either.
+++
The invitation sat on the dining table for three days before Geet said anything.
Heavy cardstock. Embossed gold. The Khurana Group Annual Charity Gala.
Not Khurana Enterprises. The Group.
She'd seen enough of Maan's files to understand the difference. Khurana Enterprises was his—the company he'd built, the one he ran. But the Khurana Group was the conglomerate. The family empire. Multiple companies across industries, extended family on every board, generations of wealth and power consolidated into an annual event where everyone who mattered showed up.
And he wanted her there.
As his plus one.
"I can't go to that," Geet said finally, one evening as they worked in parallel—her at the dining table, him on the sofa.
Maan didn't look up from his laptop. "You can."
"Your entire family will be there."
"Yes."
"The board. The press. Everyone."
"Yes."
"Maan." She set down her tablet. "I'll be in a cast. At a formal gala. Where everyone is—"
"Where everyone will see you with me," Maan finished, finally looking up. "That's the point."
Geet's hands twisted in her lap. "What if they think I'm... that you're just—"
"I don't care what they think," he said flatly. "You're coming."
"It's not that simple—"
"It is." He closed his laptop, stood, walked over to where she sat. "Geet. This isn't a request."
She looked up at him—this man who'd spent months watching her heal, who knew her medical schedule better than she did, who was now asking her to walk into the most public declaration possible.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I know." His hand came to rest on her shoulder—warm, steady. "Come anyway."
+++
Two days before the gala, the doorbell rang while Geet was still finishing her morning stretches. When she wheeled toward the entryway, a woman in a structured black blazer stood there with the kind of poise reserved for people who handled couture for a living.
“Ms. Kumar,” she smiled, hands folded. “I’m Veera from La Lumière Atelier. Mr. Khurana asked us to bring a few options for the gala.”
Geet blinked. “Options?”
Behind Veera stood two more attendants and three garment bags that looked like they belonged in a fashion documentary. They stepped in quietly, professionally, transforming the living room into a temporary private showroom without moving a single thing out of place.
Maan didn’t even look up from his laptop at the dining table. “Try whatever you like,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just summoned a couture atelier to their home at ten in the morning. “Pick the one you’re most comfortable in.”
Geet stared at him. “You just—called them?”
“I don’t have patience for online shopping,” he replied, typing something, not even pretending to justify it. “And you shouldn’t be walking around stores on that leg.”
Veera unzipped the first garment bag, revealing a swirl of ivory silk that caught the light. The second held emerald satin with a high neckline. The third — a cascade of yellow silk that immediately pulled Geet’s breath somewhere lower and warmer.
“We brought variations that can be altered for your mobility needs,” Veera explained, as if this were completely normal. “Our tailor is downstairs with portable equipment. Any adjustments can be made today.”
Geet looked at Maan again, speechless.
He finally glanced up, met her eyes, and said simply, “Choose whatever makes you feel like you.”
It wasn’t extravagance.
It wasn’t showing off.
It was him doing what he always did — removing obstacles before she even saw them, so she wouldn’t have to feel the limitation of her cast or the weight of her recovery when she stepped into his world.
She reached for the yellow dress without realizing it.
When Veera draped it carefully over her arm, the fabric slid like sunlight. Warm. Bold. Alive.
It felt like a choice.
Her choice.
Not safe black or navy. Not elegant cream. Yellow—bright, warm, impossible to ignore.
+++
The boutique had altered it specifically: long and flowing, with a high slit on one side that would hide the cast when she stood still but reveal it when she moved. Not hiding the injury, not apologizing for it. Just... existing with it.
The evening of the gala, Geet sat at the vanity doing her own makeup.
She'd turned down the stylist Maan had offered. Needed to see herself in the mirror, not some polished version created by someone else.
Simple. Clean lines. A little color on her lips. Hair loose and soft.
When she finally stood—carefully, weight on her good leg, the cast hidden beneath yellow silk—she looked at herself.
Not perfect. Not society-magazine flawless.
But real. Present. Here.
Maan appeared in the doorway. He'd been ready for twenty minutes but had given her space.
When he saw her, he went very still.
"What?" Geet asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he said quietly. Then: "You look like you're about to set something on fire."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good." His eyes held hers. "Very good."
+++
The Khurana estate was the kind of sprawling, historic property, the kind of property that had been in the family for generations. Gardens lit with thousands of tiny lights. A circular drive where luxury cars lined up. Photographers stationed at the entrance.
Geet felt her stomach drop as their car pulled through the gates.
"I can't do this," she whispered.
"Yes, you can," Maan said, not looking at her. He was watching the entrance, calculating. "They're going to stare. Let them."
"Maan—"
"You're with me," he said simply. "That's all that matters."
The car stopped. A valet opened Maan's door.
He stepped out into camera flashes—Maan Singh Khurana always drew attention—then turned, offering his hand back into the car.
Geet took it.
When she emerged—yellow silk, cast visible beneath the slit, head high despite her terror—the cameras went into overdrive.
Who is she?
Is that Maan Khurana's plus one?
What happened to her leg?
She had a cane—elegant, discreet—and Maan's arm steady at her waist. Not supporting her weight, just... present.
"Breathe," he murmured.
She did.
They walked up the path together—her pace slow but steady, him matching her exactly. The cameras followed every step.
At the entrance, his mother was receiving guests.
Savita Khurana stood in burgundy silk and diamonds, smile practiced and perfect. When she saw her son approach—with a date, in yellow, with a cane—something flickered across her face.
"Maan," she said smoothly. "You didn't mention a guest."
"Didn't I?" His tone was mild. "Mother, this is Geetanjali Kumar."
No explanation. No justification. Just her name.
Geet met Savita's eyes. "Mrs. Khurana. Thank you for having me."
Savita's gaze swept over her—assessing, cataloging. "How... bright."
"I thought the evening could use some color," Geet said quietly.
Something shifted in Savita's expression—not quite approval, but interest. "Indeed." She turned to Maan. "Your father is inside. He'll want to speak with you."
"Later," Maan said.
"Maan—"
"Later, Mother."
He guided Geet inside before Savita could respond.
"That went well," Geet murmured.
"That went exactly as expected," Maan said. "She's calculating whether you're a threat. Give her an hour."
Indian Premier League
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