Romance FF
Deal or No Deal Season 2 (Sign Up Open)
Free Palestine - Priyanka Chopra Expressions
MATCH MAKING 16.3
Sarke Chunar Teri - Nora Fatehi New Song Controversy
Where is Abhir sharma/goenka??
SUHAAGAN KI NISHAAN 16.3
Battle Of Galwan Changed To Maatrubhumi
Salmans New Film Will Have Chinese Song ? 🎶
69
amazing update
as geet request maan took her to office to meet her friends
every one happy to see geet is becoming normal
priyanka try to insult geet but geet answer her in correct words which anger her but in maan's presence she have to quit n leave the place
geet confess to maan that she find herself with this visit in office
Part 70
well Geet decided to cook
Maan's concern was reasonable
of cos Geet justified her actions
enjoyed their banter
Geet clearly wanted do something for them
Maan's response was anticipated
can understand her view
great that Maan assured Geet
he raised good points
so Maan was supervising
Maan just adored Geet
Geet's thoughts were understandable
agree with Geet that she never left
not surprised that Maan wants Geet to accompany him as his plus one at the Khurana Group annual charity gala
Geet naturally refused citing her reasons
as expected Maan does not care what people think
he just wants Geet by his side
her fears were justified
liked that Maan arranged for couture atelier to bring dresses for Geet
Geet was indeed overwhelmed
loved her choice
Maan was certainly mesmerised seeing Geet
she was simply and elegantly dressed
Maan's mom was surprised seeing Geet
admire how Maan handled the situation
update soon
Part 71
Inside, the ballroom was so beautiful it almost offended her.
Not because beauty was new to her. The city ran on beauty—rented, bought, painted on, surgically corrected, starved into existence, lit from the right angles and sold back to people as aspiration. But this was not that kind of beauty. This was older. Colder. More dangerous.
Crystal chandeliers threw warm light across marble floors that had probably seen three generations of Khuranas hosting ministers, industrialists, movie stars, foreign investors, and everyone power preferred to drink beside. Waiters moved around champagne towers and floral arrangements so expensive they had stopped looking decorative and started looking like a warning. An orchestra played with exactly the right amount of restraint, and everywhere she looked there were people who seemed to belong in rooms like this the way other people belonged to weather.
This was not Khurana Enterprises.
This was the Group. The empire.
And every person who mattered inside it had, sooner or later, looked at her.
Not all at once. This room was too trained for that. But attention moved in quiet stages—one head lifting, then another, then a murmur folding itself neatly back into conversation.
Maan Singh Khurana had arrived with a woman.
A woman in yellow.
A woman with a cane.
A woman he had never, by the look of half the room, brought anywhere before.
Geet became abruptly aware of her own body—the cane in her hand, the ache in her leg, the silk against her skin, the fact that she was visible in a way that felt almost violent. For one humiliating second she wanted, fiercely, to turn around and leave before anyone could decide what she was.
Then she felt Maan’s hand at her waist.
“Breathe,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
She did. Slowly. Deep enough that the tightness in her ribs eased.
“I hate when you’re right,” she muttered.
He did not look at her. His gaze was moving across the room in that cold, unnerving way he had when he was already three moves ahead of everyone else. “That’s not a useful emotion. Try gratitude.”
She almost laughed despite herself. “You brought me into a corporate monarchy with cameras.”
“And somehow I’m still the villain.”
“You’re at least shortlisted.”
That, finally, made him glance down at her. Dry amusement flickered in his eyes—the exact expression that used to infuriate her when she first met him and now, absurdly, steadied her.
“Good,” he said. “You sound like yourself. I was beginning to worry the gown had replaced your personality.”
“It tried. The gown also has opinions. None of them humane.”
“I selected a boutique, not a torture device.”
“You summoned a boutique to the penthouse.”
“Yes.”
“That sentence should disturb you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
He guided her forward, not by force but by instinct—altering course before the crowd closed in, shifting them through openings before she had to ask. A waiter passed with water and champagne. Maan took one of each, handed her the water, and kept the champagne.
Geet glanced at the glass. “You’ve become alarmingly efficient at denying me things before I ask.”
“You’re welcome.”
“That was not gratitude.”
“It should have been.”
She looked up at him. “You’re very pleased with yourself tonight.”
“I brought you into a room full of predators in yellow silk and you’re still insulting me. Of course I am.”
An older man with silver hair and eyes like sharpened coins detached himself from a group near the center and approached. He had the sort of smile that existed only from the mouth down.
“Maan.” He offered his hand. “You’ve caused a stir.”
“Then the room needs stronger fundamentals,” Maan said, shaking it.
The man’s gaze shifted to Geet. “Arun Mehta. Textile board.”
“Geetanjali Kumar.”
His brows lifted very slightly at the full name. “What brings you to our little family spectacle, Miss Kumar?”
Before she could answer, Maan said, “I invited her.”
It was smooth. Final. The kind of line that sounded casual only if you did not understand him.
Mehta did.
“Of course,” he said. “Enjoy the evening.”
As he walked away, he bent toward another director and murmured something. Both men glanced back. Geet saw it. Maan saw her see it.
“Don’t audit the auditors,” he said under his breath.
“They started it.”
“They’re board members. Starting things is how they justify attendance.”
She exhaled through her nose. “I liked you better when your family was theoretical.”
He moved her toward a table near the windows, where there was space for her leg and fewer bodies angling too close. Before she sat, he shifted the chair slightly so the cast cleared the edge comfortably.
It was such a familiar gesture now that she almost missed what it looked like here.
Not chivalry. Not pity.
Habit.
That was, in this room, somehow more intimate.
He remained standing beside her while three different people approached in succession: a director from energy, a family adviser, and one of Savita’s sisters, who wore pearls with the quiet menace of a woman who had never once in her life heard no without billing interest.
“Maan, darling,” she said, kissing the air beside his cheek. “You’ve been successfully avoiding us for months.”
“You make that sound intentional,” he said.
“It always is.” Her gaze moved to Geet with surgical efficiency—dress, cane, posture, composure, all of it measured in a breath. “And this must be the reason.”
Geet smiled politely. “I hope not. That would be a lot of pressure for a Tuesday.”
The older woman’s mouth curved. “Oh, I see. She’s quick.”
“She has to be,” Maan said. “She spends time with me.”
The woman’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Your mother wants both of you at the family table before the speeches.”
“That sounds ominous,” Geet said.
“It is,” the woman said cheerfully. “Come prepared.”
When she moved away, Maan sat at last.
“You look delighted,” Geet murmured.
“I’m considering setting fire to the family table and seeing who survives.”
“That’s a poor conflict-resolution strategy.”
“It’s efficient.”
“You really were raised by these people.”
He took a sip of champagne and looked at her over the rim of the glass. “You say that like it isn’t your problem tonight too.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then gave him a look that made the corner of his mouth shift.
There it was again—that almost-smile he gave away only when he forgot he was in public.
He noticed she had seen it and looked away. Which only made her want to laugh more.
The next half hour moved quickly, but with weight. Maan did not leave her stranded even once. If he stepped away for a greeting, it was only after making sure she was settled. When a board member from shipping asked too directly about her recovery, Maan answered before the question could turn clinical.
“She’s ahead of schedule,” he said calmly. “The doctors resent it.”
“That sounds like you,” Geet said.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
The board member laughed, though he was clearly still watching the two of them as if trying to reprice some internal calculation.
By the time Savita’s summons could no longer be politely delayed, Geet felt as if she had already been examined without ever seeing the paper.
Maan held out his hand.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re still capable of self-assessment.”
“Your comfort has become intolerable.”
“That’s affection,” he said. “Don’t panic.”
She should not have smiled. She did anyway and let him help her up.
The family table sat in a semi-private alcove separated from the main ballroom by carved screens and floral arrangements that created the illusion of intimacy without granting any real privacy. Of course it would be visible. This family had not spent generations cultivating power just to hide it behind curtains.
Savita sat at one end in burgundy silk and diamonds, composed as ever. Beside her stood Rajveer Khurana, who somehow managed to look both more distant and more attentive than everyone else in the room. One uncle—Mahendra—occupied the opposite side of the table with the dangerous ease of a man who preferred to be underestimated. Two cousins lingered nearby, close enough to listen, far enough to deny it if required.
As they approached, Maan pulled out Geet’s chair before taking his own. His hand rested briefly behind her seat once she had settled, and Geet felt—not saw—the change at the table.
Savita folded her hands. “So. We finally meet properly.”
“Properly sounds like a risk,” Maan said.
Rajveer ignored him. “Miss Kumar.”
“Mr. Khurana.”
“Tonight,” Savita said smoothly, “that seems a little formal.”
Geet inclined her head. “Mrs. Khurana.”
Savita’s gaze remained steady. “Tell us something, Geetanjali. How exactly did you and Maan meet?”
There it was. Polite knife, polished handle.
“At a party,” Geet said.
One cousin’s brows rose.
Mahendra leaned back. “That sounds like the beginning of either a scandal or a bad investment.”
“In our case,” Geet said, “possibly both.”
A younger cousin laughed under his breath. Rajveer did not. Savita did not. But neither looked displeased.
“And after the party?” Savita asked.
Geet glanced at Maan once, then back at his mother. “He saw through my performance.”
“Your performance?” Mahendra asked.
“I was trying to network,” she said. “Badly.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Maan said, “You weren’t bad at it. You were just transparent.”
She turned to him. “That is an insult.”
“It’s an observation.”
“It sounded rude.”
“It was affectionate.”
Savita’s eyes narrowed a fraction—not with disapproval. With interest.
Because this easy sparring, this lack of ceremony between them, said more than a careful answer would have.
Geet shifted her attention back to the table. “I saw through his walls.”
That landed.
Not because the line itself was dramatic. Because it was true enough to still the table.
Maan did not look away when he said, quietly, “She’s the only one who ever has.”
No one rushed to fill the silence.
Geet became suddenly, painfully aware of her own pulse. Of Savita’s stillness. Of Rajveer’s gaze. Of the weight of what had just been said aloud in a family built on power and concealment. She wanted, for one reckless second, to look down and break the spell.
She didn’t.
Rajveer spoke next. “You resigned.”
It was not phrased as a question. The question was inside it.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
This was the test.
Geet could feel it in the table’s attention, in the slight stillness of Maan beside her, in the fact that nobody interrupted. She took one breath too quickly, caught herself, then answered.
“Because the situation became complicated,” she said carefully. “Professional boundaries became unclear. I chose to leave rather than compromise either my integrity or his.”
Mahendra’s mouth tilted. “Expensive principle.”
“Yes,” Geet said. “It was.”
“And yet here you are,” Savita said.
“No,” Geet replied. “Here we are.”
Maan turned slightly toward her.
Rajveer watched that movement, then said, “The board has noticed an improvement in deal closures recently. Particularly Chennai.”
So they knew about that. Of course they did.
“The team has worked hard,” Geet said.
“Don’t be modest,” Rajveer said. “We know you restructured the valuation model. Maan doesn’t delegate that level of work casually.”
Maan spoke, tone flat and clean. “She has better instincts than half my senior analysts.”
Mahendra’s gaze sharpened. “Which raises a separate concern.”
“Such as?” Maan asked.
“Such as whether this is sustainable,” Mahendra said. “The Group needs stability. Not experiments.”
The word sat there, polished and ugly.
Something old and familiar moved through Geet’s spine—the same sensation she’d known in audition rooms, in casting offices, in every space where powerful men looked at her and decided her real life was a negotiable variable.
“With respect,” she said quietly, “I’m not an experiment. I’m a person who has proven capable of the work. Whether that work continues is a question of choice, not stability.”
“Bold,” Savita murmured.
But there was something in her tone that was not criticism.
Maan’s voice cut through before anyone else could respond. “Stability without vision is stagnation. Geet brings both.”
Calm. Absolute. Finished.
Mahendra opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Rajveer leaned back, studying his son rather than her now. “You’ve never brought anyone to this event. Not once in ten years.”
“No,” Maan said.
“So either you’re making a point,” Rajveer said, “or she matters.”
“She matters,” Maan said.
Savita and Rajveer exchanged a look—some compact between two people who had spent decades ruling rooms together.
Then Rajveer nodded once. “Good. Then we should know her properly.”
The interrogation that followed was subtle, strategic—not hostile, but thorough. They asked about her family, her upbringing, and her path to the big city.
Geet answered honestly—her conservative background, her escape to the city, her struggles in modeling, her time at Khurana Enterprise. She didn’t embellish. Didn’t perform. Just told them what had happened with the same straightforward clarity she used when analyzing financial models.
When one of the directors asked, not unkindly, how serious the accident had actually been, she met his gaze and said, “Seventeen fractures.”
The table stilled.
“And you’re here,” he said.
“I’m ahead of schedule.”
No self-pity. No drama. No fragile smile asking to be admired for bravery.
Just fact.
Something shifted after that. Not sentiment. Respect.
Twenty minutes in, Geet’s leg was throbbing badly enough that the edge of the table blurred for a second when she moved. She corrected too fast, annoyed with herself for nearly showing it.
Maan noticed immediately.
“Excuse us,” he said, already standing. “We should circulate.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a statement delivered with enough finality that no one questioned it.
He offered his hand. She took it, letting him pull her up, steadying herself with the cane.
As they walked away, Savita’s voice carried softly behind them: “She’s stronger than she looks.”
“Yes,” Rajveer agreed. “She’ll need to be.”
Geet didn’t turn around. But she carried the words with her.
Away from the family table, Maan guided her to a quieter corner—away from the main crowd, near floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the gardens.
“Sit,” he said, finding her a chair that had been abandoned by someone who’d gone to dance.
“I’m fine—”
“Sit, Geet.”
His tone left no room for argument. She sat.
He crouched in front of her, not making a spectacle of concern, not calling attention to it—just lowering himself with the immediate focus of someone who had stopped pretending not to notice pain hours ago.
“How bad?”
“It’s manageable.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She exhaled slowly. “It hurts.”
His jaw tightened. “We can leave.”
“No.” Her hand covered his wrist. “Not yet. I want to stay. I want them to see that I can.”
He studied her face for a long moment—reading something there she wasn’t sure she was ready to name.
“One more hour,” he said finally. “Then we’re done whether you want to be or not.”
“Deal.”
He stood, but didn’t move away. Just positioned himself slightly to her side—close enough that anyone approaching would have to acknowledge him first, far enough that she didn’t look guarded.
The next thirty minutes passed in that same strange blur. More board members. More investors. More family friends, all politely curious, all assessing her against some invisible standard.
But Maan’s presence remained constant. Not excessive. Not theatrical. Just present enough that no one forgot she was not standing there alone.
Then Rajveer appeared beside her.
Maan had been pulled into conversation with board members fifteen feet away—close enough that she could see him, far enough that this was clearly intentional.
Rajveer’s appearance here, now, while Maan was occupied, was not coincidence.
“Miss Kumar,” he said. “Would you join me for a moment?”
It was phrased as a courtesy. It was not one.
Geet set down her glass and stood carefully, cane in hand. She did not glance toward Maan. If Rajveer was doing this here, in public, at his own gala, then whatever conversation he wanted was one he expected her to be capable of handling alone.
That realization steadied her more than the cane did.
He led her only as far as the side terrace, where the noise from the ballroom softened into distance and the gardens below glowed under carefully hidden lights. He did not begin speaking immediately. Men like him understood timing as a weapon.
“I’ve been looking into your earlier work,” he said at last.
Geet turned toward him. “My earlier work?”
“The commercials. The campaigns. The screen presence.” He studied her with the kind of detached precision that reminded her uncomfortably of his son. “You had something.”
She said nothing.
“One of our associated studios is financing a major production next year,” he continued. “A lead role is still uncast. It would shoot in London. Substantial budget. Serious visibility.”
There it was.
Not hostility. Not even dismissal.
An opportunity.
That was what made it elegant. That was what made it insulting.
He was not asking whether she loved Maan. Men like Rajveer did not test sentiment first. He was testing whether she could be redirected. Bought away, if not cheaply, then beautifully. Offered a future glittering enough to excuse its real purpose.
And the oldest fury in her body rose so quietly she almost mistook it for calm.
This again.
A powerful man telling her what path made sense for her. A powerful man offering a version of success that conveniently required her to go where he wanted, not where she chose. The same old patriarchal architecture with better tailoring and diction.
When she spoke, her voice was level enough to make the words sharper.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Khurana.”
He waited.
“But I’m no longer interested in careers that require me to be somewhere I don’t choose to be.”
A beat.
She did not mention Maan. Deliberately. She would not make herself legible through romance just to satisfy a patriarch.
Rajveer looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
“Good answer,” he said.
That was all.
And somehow that simple approval held more weight than a speech would have.
“For what it’s worth,” he added, turning back toward the ballroom, “I didn’t expect you to take it. But I needed to know if you understood why I was offering.”
“I did.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”
When they returned to the ballroom, Geet felt different. Not changed. Clarified. As though some invisible threshold had been crossed while no one was looking.
Maan glanced toward them almost immediately from where he stood with the board members. The fact that his conversation did not visibly break only told her how closely he had been tracking the whole exchange anyway.
His eyes found hers across the room.
She gave him the smallest nod.
I’m fine. I handled it.
Something in his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.
He excused himself from the board members and crossed to her with that same unhurried certainty.
“What did he want?” he asked quietly.
“No hello?”
“You look too calm for hello.”
She gave him a look. “Your father offered me a lead acting role in London.”
Maan went so still she almost regretted enjoying it.
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Why?”
That he would ask—not because he doubted her, but because he wanted to hear how she would name it—almost made her smile.
“Because I’m not interested in futures arranged by powerful men who think opportunity excuses control.”
His gaze sharpened, then darkened with something that looked like satisfaction.
“And,” she added, “because London seems inconvenient if I’m expected to keep insulting you in person.”
There it was—the flicker at the edge of his mouth, the one he kept trying and failing to suppress.
“Terrible reason,” he said.
“Tragic, I know.”
“I was hoping for something devastatingly romantic. You continue to disappoint.”
“Your tolerance for disappointment appears unusually high.”
“It isn’t. I’ve just invested badly.”
She laughed under her breath, and the sound made something in his expression soften.
Dance section
The orchestra shifted then, slipping from formal background music into something softer, slower, designed to coax the evening toward dance without ever appearing to ask.
Maan stood.
Geet looked up at him suspiciously. “No.”
He held out his hand.
“Maan.”
“We’re not dancing.”
“Your current posture suggests fraud.”
“We’re standing. Possibly swaying. With very low standards.”
“I have a cast.”
“I financed part of it. I know.”
That startled a laugh out of her.
He kept his hand extended.
“Come here.”
The thing about him—one of the many terrible things—was that by the time he chose directness, refusal felt faintly absurd. She put her hand in his and let him pull her up.
He did not take her to the center of the floor. He brought her only to the edge, where the crowd blurred and the light softened. His arm settled around her waist, careful enough that none of the injured side carried strain. Their joined hands lifted only slightly. They did not dance so much as move together in the shape of one.
“You are ridiculous,” she murmured.
“You came anyway.”
“You blackmailed me emotionally.”
“I encouraged you with efficiency.”
“That is not a phrase.”
“It is in my house.”
She shook her head. “You really think I’m moving into your house permanently just because you’ve decided language has no rules.”
“I already decided that weeks ago.”
The line was so casually spoken that it took her a second to process it. When she did, she looked up sharply.
He was smiling.
Not the knife-thin public version. Not the rare dark half-smirk he used to survive rooms like this. A real smile. Warm enough to make something inside her chest pull tight.
For one second she forgot the room entirely. Forgot the cane. Forgot the pressure in her leg. Forgot everyone.
Then she became aware of them all at once again—the family, the board, the weight of eyes, the fact that she was standing at the edge of the Khurana ballroom in yellow silk and injury and certainty, with Maan’s arm around her waist.
The exposure hit hard enough to make her breath catch.
His hand tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly.
That was all.
No soothing word. No check-in. Just the pressure of his hand saying I know.
It steadied her more than reassurance would have.
“Everyone’s still watching,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“Your parents are watching.”
“I’m aware.”
“Maan—”
“I don’t care who’s watching,” he said quietly. His hand at her waist shifted slightly, drawing her infinitesimally closer. “I just wanted to hold you.”
Her breath caught.
The music continued around them. Other couples danced with actual skill, actual movement. They just swayed in place, barely moving, entirely still in all the ways that mattered.
Across the room, Savita noticed first.
She’d been in conversation with the wife of a board member, nodding at appropriate intervals while tracking her son with the peripheral awareness mothers develop over decades of managing brilliant, difficult children.
But this made her stop mid-sentence.
Rajveer followed her line of sight a moment later.
Neither of them spoke for several beats.
Then Savita, without looking away from the dance floor, said quietly, “I have never seen him smile like that.”
Rajveer’s answer came low and matter-of-fact. “Neither have I.”
Across the ballroom, half-hidden behind a group of investors, Priyanka watched.
She had been invited—still technically connected to the foundation board, still positioned close enough socially that her absence would have been noted. But she’d stayed at the edges all evening. Watching.
She’d watched Maan adjust Geet’s chair before she sat.
Watched his hand rest on the back of her seat during conversations.
Watched the family table interrogation from a distance.
Watched Rajveer pull Geet aside for what was clearly a test.
And now this. The dance.
Not really a dance. Just swaying, barely moving, Maan holding Geet like she was made of something irreplaceable.
Priyanka had seen him at dozens of these galas over the years. Had positioned herself near him, tried to catch his attention, imagined what it would be like to be the woman he brought.
He’d never brought anyone. Not once.
Until tonight.
Until her.
The woman in yellow with a cane, who somehow made a cast look like armor instead of weakness.
Priyanka watched Maan smile—really smile, the kind of expression she’d spent years trying to earn and never once received—and felt something fundamental crack apart inside her.
Not hope. She’d lost that weeks ago when she’d seen him at the hospital, when she’d watched him sit vigil beside Geet like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
Delusion.
The belief that if she just waited long enough, positioned herself correctly, proved herself valuable enough, he would eventually see her.
He’d never seen her. Not really. Not the way he saw Geet.
She set down her champagne glass—it had gone warm anyway—and collected her clutch.
No one noticed when she left.
Why would they? The room had already reorganized itself around the woman in yellow and the man who could not seem to stay more than a few feet away from her.
Priyanka walked to the exit with practiced composure, the same mask she’d worn for years.
She did not approach them. Did not create a scene. Did not have the power for one anymore.
She just left quietly, and the delusion she’d nursed for years dissolved behind her like smoke.
By the time the song ended, Geet’s leg had begun its slow, familiar protest. She tried to hide it. Shifted once. Rebalanced. Kept her face neutral.
It did not work.
“We’re leaving,” Maan said.
“There are still speeches.”
“I don’t care.”
“This is your family’s gala.”
He bent, retrieved her cane, and handed it to her with that infuriatingly calm face that meant he had already decided.
“I don’t care,” he repeated.
She looked at him for one beat and saw there was no moving him once he dropped into that tone.
“Bossy,” she muttered.
“You’re limping.”
“That was observationally cruel.”
“That was tactful. I had alternatives.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Your dark humor is inappropriate.”
“It’s one of my more stable qualities.”
He helped her navigate through the crowd without making it look like assistance, which somehow made it more intimate. Heads turned again as they left—not curious now, not speculative.
Knowing.
At the entrance, Savita appeared.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked, but her eyes were on Geet’s pale face, the way she was leaning slightly on Maan despite trying not to.
“Her leg,” Maan said simply.
Savita nodded. “Of course. Get her home. We’ll handle the speeches.”
Something settled there—between mother and son, and then, by extension, around Geet too.
Then Maan was guiding Geet down the steps toward the waiting car.
The press outside had not thinned enough.
The flashes started immediately when the doors opened and they stepped into the night air. One photographer called Maan’s name. Another asked if he would confirm the identity of his guest. A third was already snapping photographs fast enough to catch every angle—yellow silk, cane, his hand at her waist, his body turned just enough to shield her from the cluster without ever appearing to.
He answered none of them.
He matched her pace all the way down the steps, arm solid around her, patient and unhurried.
In the car, once the doors had shut and the noise of the estate was sealed outside, Geet let her head fall back against the leather seat and exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.
“I think your entire empire just evaluated me,” she said.
Maan reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together in the darkness.
“And?”
She looked at their joined hands, at the way his thumb moved once over her knuckles.
“I think I passed.”
He studied her face for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried that quiet seriousness that always hit hardest from him.
“You did more than pass.”
“What then?”
“You terrified them.”
That made her laugh—soft, tired, relieved.
His arm came around her shoulders a second later, drawing her carefully against him.
She went willingly, settling against his side with a sigh that was equal parts exhaustion and something deeper.
“Tomorrow morning,” Maan said quietly, “this will be in every business publication and society column. Your face will be everywhere. They’ll have questions.”
“I know.”
“It won’t be easy.”
She looked up at him. “Nothing about this has been easy.”
She felt his chest move once with silent laughter.
Outside, the lights of the Khurana estate receded into the city. Inside the car, in the dark, there was finally no room left for pretending.
He had brought her into the center of his world.
And she had stayed.
His hand tightened on hers in the darkness.
“You know what this means,” he said quietly.
“That I’m stuck with you?”
“That everyone knows you’re stuck with me.”
She tilted her head to look up at him in the dim light. “Is there a difference?”
“Yes,” he said. “In my world, once something becomes public, it hardens.”
She was quiet for a moment, processing that.
Then: “Good.”
His expression shifted—something raw and unguarded crossing his face before he could stop it.
“Good?” he repeated.
“Good,” she confirmed. Her hand found his in the darkness. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulled her closer, and pressed his lips to her temple.
That was all.
But it was enough.
Geet closed her eyes, exhaustion finally catching up with her, and let herself relax against him completely.
Tomorrow would bring questions. Pressure. Scrutiny.
But tonight, for the first time, she did not think about the room, the board, his family, Priyanka, or the headlines. She thought only of the steadiness of his hand around hers and the quiet, nearly frightening certainty that neither of them was pretending anymore.
Hello everyone i know i already written many stories whi complete nhi ho paa rhi hai and i start one more actually, i written this for OS...
Dhundlae aks Koi dhundla sa ek aks meri aankhon mein rehta hai, Koi bechan khawabon mein rehti hai, Ek manoos si awaz mujhe sone nahi deti, Koi...
A/N: This is loosely based on a true and personal story close to me however the ending for this SS will be different than the one we’d endured...
Hello my dear readers, 🤗 To anyone who is still interested in this FF, I am grateful to you more than you can imagine. Thank you to my special...
Prologue “Where are you, Sameera?” I yelled unable to hold myself back. “I’m not coming, Maan”. “It is our wedding day. You know what my...
Cricket
939