Chapter Thirty: The Shape of No
By ten-thirty, Khurana House had finally begun to empty itself of noise.
Not silence — the house was too large, too inhabited, too accustomed to carrying several generations at once for silence to mean very much. Somewhere upstairs a cupboard shut. A burst of laughter travelled briefly down one of the galleries before dissolving. A member of staff crossed the corridor outside the den carrying a tray of glasses left over from dinner. From farther away came the muted rise and fall of two people still arguing about some arrangement for the coming days.
But the day had exhausted most of them. The preparations had been running since morning — lists, deliveries, calls, people arriving to confirm things already confirmed, people changing things that had been approved two days earlier. By dinner even Kavita had begun answering questions with the expression of a woman considering homicide as a time-management strategy.
The younger generation had eventually escaped to the den. Nobody had formally suggested a film; one had simply appeared on the television while everyone was too tired to object. Samar occupied one end of the large sofa with a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach. Rhea sat near his feet because she claimed the bowl was safest under supervision. Tara had curled into an armchair beneath a throw, insisting she was awake despite asking twice why a character who had died half an hour earlier had returned.
"That's his brother," Neil said.
Tara narrowed her eyes at the television. "He has a brother?"
"He has had a brother for the entire film."
"That was not communicated properly."
"It was communicated several times."
"To you."
"To everybody."
Geet laughed from the other end of the sofa. The laugh came easily enough that she noticed. That itself felt like progress. The last few days had left too much sitting behind her eyes — Maan, the terrace, Reema, the word she still disliked because it had managed to attach itself to Khurana House with frightening ease. On loan. And Neil. Especially Neil.
Since the conversation in the room full of return-gift boxes, he had behaved almost aggressively normally. Geet knew the word aggressively was unfair — nothing in Neil's manner had actually been aggressive. That was the point. He had not sulked. Had not avoided her. Had not sent long messages afterward. Had not found some excuse to pull her into a corner and ask whether she had reconsidered. He had simply returned to being Neil. He had asked how the New York presentation went. Made fun of one of Tara's lists. Sent Geet a photograph of an appalling centerpiece someone had suggested and written, If I approve this, will you testify that I was under duress?
She had laughed. Answered. Felt relieved.
Perhaps this was simply what adults did. One person wanted something. The other did not. It hurt. Then the friendship survived the embarrassment and found its old shape again. Geet wanted that version badly enough to help it along. So she stayed downstairs when the film continued. She did not retreat to her room simply because Neil was there. She was not going to turn five years of friendship into something sinister because one conversation had gone badly.
Across the room, Maan sat in a deep armchair near the windows with his laptop open across one thigh. He had been there from the beginning — everyone knew he was there. He had wandered in not long after the film started, exchanged some insult with Samar, declined popcorn, opened his laptop and apparently decided that doing Dubai work in the middle of a noisy family room was more efficient than trying to find somewhere quiet in a house currently incapable of producing it.
Geet had registered him immediately. Of course she had. That irritated her. Nothing about Maan's position had anything to do with her. He was not sitting beside her. Not opposite her. Not even particularly involved in the film. Half the time his attention was on whatever spreadsheet or email occupied his screen. Still, Geet knew where he was without looking. She knew when he shifted in the chair. When his fingers stopped moving over the keyboard. When Samar said something absurd enough to make one corner of his mouth move. Her body had apparently decided to become observant in ways she had not authorized.
The terrace had made looking at him complicated again. Before that, distance had been useful — Maan could occupy the same breakfast table and remain simply another person in the room if Geet concentrated hard enough. Now one glance could return her to stone beneath his shoulders and the heat of a body she had almost touched. So she did not glance. Much.
The film continued. Tara lasted another twenty minutes, then yawned so widely Rhea looked over.
"Bed."
"I'm awake."
"You just asked why the villain is helping them."
"He changed sides."
"He is the detective."
Tara stared at the television. "Fine."
Samar stood and stretched. "Come on."
"Why is everyone against me?"
"Because tomorrow you'll complain that your neck hurts."
"It will hurt."
"Yes."
"And then all of you will hear about it."
"That is exactly the problem."
Tara looked at Geet. "You staying?"
Geet glanced at the screen. "How much is left?"
Neil checked. "Thirty-five minutes."
"That's nothing."
Rhea pointed at her. "You're encouraging this."
"Thirty-five minutes is not a commitment."
Samar made a grave face. "That is how sequels begin."
Rhea pushed him toward the door. The room slowly emptied. One cousin who had been sitting on the rug disappeared with them; another had left ten minutes earlier without anyone noticing. Tara's blanket remained abandoned over the armchair.
For a while, four people stayed behind: Geet, Neil, Maan, and Rhea, who lasted another five minutes before her phone rang and Samar shouted her name from somewhere beyond the corridor. She closed her eyes. "I married badly."
"You chose him," Neil reminded her.
"A youthful error."
"You were thirty."
"Still young."
She left. The room settled again. Three people now.
Geet became aware of this and immediately resented herself for becoming aware. There had been hundreds of conversations over five years in which she and Neil were effectively alone — calls that crossed time zones, messages sent at odd hours, moments when one of them worked while the other talked. She had never counted people in a room before. She was not going to start now.
Neil was still at the other end of the sofa. Maan was still working. Nothing was happening. Good. Geet focused on the film.
For several minutes the only sounds were dialogue from the television and the soft irregular tapping of Maan's keyboard. Neil made a comment about the plot. Geet disagreed.
"You're objectively wrong," he said.
"That phrase should disqualify you from discussing interpretation."
"I'm comfortable with that."
"You shouldn't be."
He smiled. Normal. Easy. That was what she wanted.
Another ten minutes passed. Geet yawned. Neil looked over.
"That was alarming."
She covered her mouth. "Sorry."
"Your jaw nearly detached."
"Very dramatic."
"Go to bed."
"I want to see the end."
"I can tell you what happens."
"I don't trust you."
"You've trusted me with significantly more important things than a mediocre film."
The line was light — so light that Geet almost missed the tiny tightening inside her. Almost. Neil did not appear to notice. He shifted slightly on the sofa, then patted his shoulder. "Come here."
Geet looked at him.
"You're falling asleep upright. Put your head here."
The suggestion was ordinary enough that, for one second, she nearly treated it as ordinary. Then something inside her resisted.
"No, I'm fine." She turned her attention back to the television. Complete answer. She intended it that way.
Neil chuckled. "You always say you're fine."
"I am."
"You've watched the last five minutes through your eyelashes."
"That still counts as watching."
"Come on."
Neil smiled, as though she were being predictably stubborn. He shifted closer before she could answer, slid an arm around her shoulders, and drew her toward him.
Geet's body locked.
"Neil—"
He kept her there — not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough that moving away meant pushing against the cushion and deliberately taking the space back. Her palm pressed flat against it, bracing.
"No. I'm fine." Quieter this time. Geet hated that immediately. Why quieter? Because a louder no would make the moment visible? Would make it serious? Would turn an ordinary gesture into a problem?
Neil looked down at her. "Relax."
Geet did not.
"I'm not proposing because you yawned during a movie."
"I know."
"Then?"
His arm remained around her. Warm. Familiar in the abstract. Wrong in practice. Geet could feel the weight of his hand over her shoulder. She could also feel something much more irritating: the beginning of guilt. He was being kind — that was what Neil did. People put arms around friends. Cousins leaned against each other. She had known him for five years. He had answered when she called from New York, overwhelmed and unable to get the words out, whatever time it happened to be here. Was she really going to behave as though one arm around her shoulders had become a moral event?
Except — she had said no. The thought came cleanly.
Geet shifted away. Neil's hand moved slightly with her.
"Neil." Something in her voice changed. Not louder. Clearer. "Let go."
For a second, something unreadable moved across his face. Then the arm loosened. "Okay." He let her go.
Geet straightened. The space between them reopened. Relief came too quickly. That frightened her more than the touch itself.
Across the room, Maan's keyboard had gone quiet. Geet did not look at him. She did not need to. She knew he had noticed. That knowledge made heat crawl unpleasantly up the back of her neck.
Neil leaned away, giving her space. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he exhaled — not quite a laugh. "Seriously?"
Geet looked over. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Neil."
He looked away, jaw tightening. "It's just interesting."
"What is?"
"Five years, and I put an arm around you, and you react like I've crossed some enormous line."
Geet frowned. "That's not—"
"You're suddenly so careful around me."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I said I didn't want to lean on you."
"And I moved." His jaw tightened slightly. "After you said what again?"
Geet stared at him. "That I didn't want to."
"You said you were fine."
"Neil."
"I'm serious. You didn't say don't touch me. You said you were fine."
The words landed harder than she expected. "I shouldn't have to spell it out like a contract."
"I'm not asking you to. I'm telling you what I heard."
Neil's expression changed. Only slightly. Geet immediately regretted the sharpness. There it was — that familiar reflex.
Neil looked away. "Okay."
"Neil."
"No. It's fine." It wasn't. The phrase always meant the opposite when delivered like that.
Geet exhaled. "I'm not accusing you of anything."
"I know."
"You're acting like I am."
He looked back at her. "What am I supposed to think?"
"That I didn't want to lean on you."
"That's all?"
"Yes."
Neil held her gaze. Then laughed softly. "Five years, Geet."
Her stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means five years." He gestured vaguely between them. "You called me when you were overwhelmed and couldn't get the words out. I picked up. Every time, whatever time it was here. And now I put my arm around you and suddenly I feel like I need written permission."
Geet's chest went tight. "That isn't fair."
"Maybe." He looked away again. "I knew this would happen."
"What would?"
"This." He motioned between them. "I tell you how I feel once and suddenly every ordinary thing between us gets inspected."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?"
"No."
Neil studied her. Geet heard the defensiveness in her own voice and disliked it.
He sighed. "I don't want to lose my friend because I was stupid enough to be honest with her."
"You're not going to lose me." The reassurance left her immediately. Too immediately. Geet heard it after the fact. Could not call it back.
Neil's face softened. "You mean that?"
"Yes." She did. Of course she did. Five years mattered. Not romantically. But they mattered. He had mattered. She did not want to punish him for feeling more.
Neil nodded. "Good." A beat. Then, quieter, "Because I'm not asking you for anything."
Geet looked at him.
Neil smiled faintly. "Not tonight."
Something in her stomach turned. He saw her expression and added quickly, "Or tomorrow. That isn't what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
"That I'm not asking you to decide anything."
"I already told you what I think."
"I know." There it was again — the same word, the same strange ability to say I know while leaving the thing he supposedly knew unresolved.
Geet's mouth tightened. Neil caught it. "I said I'm not starting this conversation."
"You're starting it."
He laughed softly. "Fine." He lifted both hands in surrender. "Movie."
"Movie."
They turned back to the screen. Neither knew what was happening.
Geet lasted perhaps four minutes. Then she reached for her phone. "I'm going to sleep."
She stood.
"You're leaving now?"
Not threateningly. Just enough that she stopped.
"You wanted to see the ending."
"I've decided I can live without it."
His disappointment appeared before he controlled it. Small. Human. Geet felt guilty again.
Neil smiled. "All right."
He did not stop her. That helped.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Geet had taken two steps when he said her name. Her shoulders tightened. She hated that too. She turned. Neil remained sitting — no movement toward her, no hand extended. His expression was soft. Almost sad.
"I'm still me."
The sentence should have reassured her. Instead something in Geet went very still. She made herself smile. "I know." Then she left.
Maan had intended to keep working. That had been the point of sitting there in the first place — noise around him, family around him, a normal evening in a house where he was trying, with mixed success, to behave like a normal son rather than a man whose estranged wife had nearly fisted his shirt against a terrace wall two nights earlier.
Then Geet had said, "No, I'm fine."
Maan's fingers stopped over the keyboard. Jealousy had made him suspicious of himself where Neil was concerned, and he knew it. Still, he looked up.
Neil smiled at something Geet said, shifted closer, and put his arm around her.
Maan's attention went completely still.
Then Geet said, "Let go."
Neil's arm was around her. Geet's hand was braced against the sofa cushion. Her spine was rigid. Neil let her go. Maan looked back at his screen. That should have been the end of his attention. It wasn't — not because he wanted to listen, but because the room was small enough that nobody had to listen deliberately.
You're suddenly so careful around me.
Five years, Geet.
I don't want to lose my friend because I was stupid enough to be honest with her.
Then Geet — You're not going to lose me.
Maan's jaw tightened. There it was again. A boundary. Then Neil's hurt. Then Geet repairing the hurt. He disliked that he recognized the movement. Disliked even more that he had once benefited from the same instinct in her.
Maan shut the laptop. Not loudly. No dramatic gesture. He stood.
Neil glanced over. "Done?"
"For tonight."
Maan picked up the laptop. Geet looked at him then. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. He gave nothing away. Neither did she.
"Night," Maan said, to both of them.
Neil nodded. "Night."
Geet said nothing.
Maan left. He did not wait outside the door. Did not slow in the corridor. Did not decide what Geet needed done about something she had already handled herself. He went to the kitchen because he wanted coffee and because Dubai had ruined his ability to consider ten-thirty particularly late.
He was standing at the island waiting for the machine when Geet walked in several minutes later. She stopped. So did he. Neither had sought the other out. That mattered.
Geet looked at the cup beneath the machine. "Coffee?"
"Bad decision."
"At this hour?"
"Worse decision."
She walked to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. Maan looked back toward the machine. He was not going to say anything. He had already decided that.
Geet unscrewed the cap. Drank. Then: "You saw."
Maan's hand stopped beside the cup. He turned. Geet stood several feet away. Not angry yet. Wary.
"Yes."
Her mouth tightened. "Don't."
"I wasn't going to."
That clearly surprised her. "You weren't?"
"No."
A beat. "You have an opinion."
Maan's mouth moved. "I generally do."
Geet almost rolled her eyes. "Of course."
He lifted the coffee. She watched him. He watched her realize he genuinely intended to leave it there. That somehow irritated her more.
"So?"
Maan frowned. "So?"
"Say it."
"I thought you said don't."
"I said don't interfere."
"I'm not."
"Maan."
He exhaled. Geet stared at him.
"Say whatever you're thinking."
He hesitated — not because he did not know, but because he knew too much and trusted very little of it. Finally he said, "You said no."
Geet went still. Nothing about Neil. Nothing about motive. Just that.
Maan continued. "You said you were fine before he touched you."
"He was being nice."
"Maybe."
Her brows lifted. "He wasn't trying to hurt me."
"I know."
Another pause. "He let go."
"Yes."
Geet frowned. "You saw that."
"Yes."
"Then what exactly is your problem?"
Maan looked at her. "That you had to say it again."
Silence. Geet folded her arms. "He wasn't forcing me."
"I didn't say he was."
"You're making it sound—"
"I'm telling you what I saw."
"You don't know what he meant."
"No." That stopped her.
Maan set the coffee down. "You're right." Geet stared. He continued before she could recover. "I don't know what he thought he was doing." His jaw shifted. "I know what you said." Something changed in her face. "You said no."
Geet looked away. Maan let the silence remain. She reached immediately for the weakness in his position.
"You're jealous."
He looked at her. "Yes."
Geet's eyes came back to him. There was a beat in which she appeared to wait for the correction. It did not come.
"Yes?"
"Yes."
"You're jealous of Neil."
"Very."
That one surprised even her. Maan regretted the adverb approximately half a second after saying it. Geet stared. His expression remained composed mostly through effort.
She recovered first. "So you're hardly objective."
"No." Another immediate admission. Geet blinked.
"You're just agreeing with everything."
"Not everything."
"You just admitted you're jealous."
"I am."
"And biased."
"Probably."
"Probably?"
Maan leaned one hip against the island. "Jealousy makes me notice him more than I otherwise would." The directness unsettled her. He saw it. "Which is why you should not trust every conclusion I have about him."
Geet's expression changed again. That clearly was not where she expected him to go.
Maan held her gaze. "But you don't need my conclusion." A pause. "You were there." Her breath changed. "You know what you said."
Geet's arms tightened across herself. "He thought I was being weird because of the other conversation."
"Maybe."
"Maan."
"What?"
"Stop saying maybe."
"Why?"
"Because you clearly think something."
"I do."
"Then say it."
Old instinct surged. Explain. Lay out the pattern. Show her the line from one incident to another. Make the argument airtight. Maan knew exactly how to do that. He had helped destroy his marriage because he had once been far too comfortable believing that if his reasoning was sound enough, he could decide which truths mattered when.
So he stopped.
"No," he said.
Geet frowned. "No?"
"I don't know what he intended." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm trying very hard not to pretend I do."
That silenced her.
Maan's voice lowered. "I know that you said no." A beat. "And I know he treated it like something that could be negotiated."
Geet's face hardened. "He let go."
"Yes."
"You keep agreeing with that."
"Because it happened."
"Then what are we arguing about?"
"We aren't."
That irritated her visibly. Maan almost smiled. Did not.
Geet took another drink of water. "He was hurt."
"I know."
"He's allowed to be."
"Yes."
Her eyes flashed. Maan waited. She understood before he continued.
"Being hurt doesn't make what you said disappear."
Geet looked away. There — the fact she did not want. Maan should have stopped. Probably. Instead he said, "You told him you didn't want to lean on him." Nothing. "A few minutes later, you were reassuring him that he wasn't going to lose your friendship."
Geet's jaw tightened. "That was my choice."
"Yes."
"I meant it."
"I believe you."
She turned back sharply. "Then?"
Maan looked at her for a long second. "I noticed the direction the conversation moved."
Her expression closed. "You sound like you're keeping score."
Something uncomfortable went through him. "I'm trying not to." The answer visibly wrong-footed her. Maan looked down at his untouched coffee. Then back. "But I noticed."
Geet stared at him. For several seconds there was nothing except the low hum of the refrigerator and distant sounds from the rest of the house. Then she said, "So what do you want me to do?"
"Nothing."
Her head came up. "Nothing."
"Yes."
"You have no warning?"
"No."
"No 'be careful'?"
"No."
"No 'don't be alone with him'?"
Maan's jaw tightened. "No."
"You're not going to talk to him?"
"You told me not to."
"And you just…" She stopped.
Maan waited. Geet's voice came quieter. "You just agree."
The sentence landed strangely. Not grateful. Not relieved. Something else.
Maan looked at her. "On that? Yes."
"You don't even argue."
"I'm not sure what you want me to argue about."
"That easy?"
"No." The answer left him before caution could reach it. Geet stopped. Maan's eyes stayed on hers. "It isn't easy."
Something shifted between them. Small. Dangerous in a completely different way.
"Agreeing with you and finding it easy are not the same thing."
Geet said nothing. Maan picked up the coffee again. Five years ago she would have given almost anything for him to understand this distinction. His certainty did not give him the right to decide for her. Now he seemed to understand that. Apparently understanding it and finding it easy were two entirely different things. He could see something almost like irritation in her face when he gave her exactly that. He did not trust himself enough to interpret it.
Geet recovered first. "You admitted the jealousy very easily."
He almost laughed. "No."
"You did."
"I admitted it quickly."
"What's the difference?"
"A lot."
Geet watched him. Maan exhaled. "I don't particularly enjoy another man putting his arm around my wife."
The word escaped naturally. Too naturally. Both of them heard it. Geet's expression changed. Maan did not take it back. Legally true. Emotionally radioactive.
He continued before the silence could become something else. "That is my problem." Her eyes stayed on his. "My jealousy belongs to me."
Geet swallowed. "It does not change your answer."
She looked down at the water bottle in her hand. Maan's voice softened despite himself. "And it doesn't make his intentions worse just because I want them to be."
That brought her eyes up again. "But?"
"No but."
"Maan."
He gave the smallest shrug — that old one-shouldered movement. Geet recognized it immediately and looked annoyed. "There is always a but with that shrug."
"Fine." He set the cup down again. "But when you say no, he has to take it seriously." A beat. "So do I." Her brows drew together. "So do you." Maan held her gaze. "It isn't a suggestion. It's a decision." Another pause. "Nobody gets to coax you out of it. Not him." His jaw tightened slightly. "Not me."
The words sat there. Geet had nothing immediate to throw at them.
Maan added, "You shouldn't have needed to say it twice."
There. Nothing else.
He pushed away from the island. Geet watched him. "You're really not going to tell me what to do."
"No."
"You're not going to interfere."
"No."
"Because I told you not to."
"Yes."
Again that faint crease between her brows. Maan saw it. Could not understand it. He stepped around the island.
"Geet."
She looked at him.
"I'm not pretending this is easy." The words came quieter now. "I'm just trying not to make difficulty the same thing as entitlement."
For one second her expression opened completely. Then closed. Maan regretted saying more.
"Goodnight." He moved past her.
Geet turned. "Maan."
He stopped.
"You really are jealous?"
Maan looked back at her. "Did we not adequately establish this?"
Something almost amused touched her mouth and vanished. "How jealous?"
Maan stared. That was a terrible question. Geet seemed to realize it only after asking. Neither withdrew.
Maan finally said, "Enough that seeing him touch you made me want to walk across that room."
Her breath caught. He saw it. Continued anyway.
"And enough to know that wanting to do that did not give me the right to."
Geet went very still. The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet. Maan held her gaze another moment. Then, because there were limits to how much honesty one man should inflict on himself in a single night: "Goodnight, Geet."
This time he left. Geet did not stop him.
Her room felt different when she entered it. Not visibly — the same lamp beside the bed, the same scarf over the chair, her laptop still open where she had left it earlier. The room had no knowledge of sofas or hands or men who said I know while hearing something else.
Geet closed the door. Changed. Washed her face. Removed her earrings. Ordinary things.
She was halfway to the bed when Neil's voice returned.
Come here.
Then: Relax.
Then: Five years, Geet.
And finally: I don't want to lose my friend because I was stupid enough to be honest.
Her stomach tightened. Geet sat on the edge of the bed.
Nothing terrible had happened. That mattered. Neil had not threatened her. Had not trapped her. Had not grabbed her. He had put an arm around her. Pulled her a little closer. She had said no. He had heard it differently. She had said it again. He still hadn't moved. Then she had told him to let go, and he had. And somehow, minutes later, she had been assuring him that he was not going to lose her.
Geet rubbed her palms over her face. Maan was right about that. The admission was profoundly irritating.
She lay back. Then sat up again. Her gaze landed on the bedroom door. Closed. Nothing unusual. Geet looked away. Then back. The small brass bolt sat above the handle. Her eyes stayed on it.
She had not used it since coming back. Not once. Not even after the terrace. That thought arrived before she invited it. The night she had returned to this room shaking hard enough that she could not open the clasp of her watch, Maan had been somewhere under the same roof. Possibly only a corridor away. Geet had cried herself to sleep. The door had been closed. Not bolted.
She frowned. Another memory followed.
Five years earlier. The month before New York. The ugliest period their marriage had ever survived, if survived was even the right word for something already dead. Maan had still been in Delhi then. So had she. Two people occupying the same enormous house while trying not to exist in each other's path. Geet had hated accidental breakfasts. Hated hearing his voice in another room. Hated wondering whether footsteps outside the corridor meant he had decided to explain one more thing she did not want explained.
The first night after everything broke, she had bolted her bedroom door. Once. She remembered the action clearly now. Hand shaking. Metal sliding into place. The need to have one barrier in a life where every other boundary had apparently been negotiable without her knowledge.
She never bolted it again after that. The second night, the door was simply shut. The third too. Then every night afterward until she left for New York. Not because she had forgiven him — she had barely been able to look at him. Not because she trusted his judgment — his judgment was precisely what had destroyed them. But somewhere underneath the rage, she had trusted one simple thing. A closed door had always been enough.
Geet stared at the bolt now.
This was ridiculous. Neil was not coming to her room. Why would he? His room was elsewhere. He had said goodnight. The house was full of people. Nothing was going to happen.
She turned toward the bed. Made two steps. Stopped. Her body knew before she did.
Geet looked back at the door. Some small, wordless unease had already made the decision. She walked over. Rested her fingers on the brass.
Nothing dangerous had happened tonight. That was true. Neil had touched her shoulder. That was all. A gentle arm. A small pull. Then hurt feelings. Smaller than what Maan had once done to her by every rational measure available. Maan had deceived her inside a marriage. Taken away an informed choice. Broken the person she trusted most. Neil had done nothing remotely comparable.
And still —
Geet turned the bolt.
Click.
The sound was tiny. Her whole body went still. For several seconds she remained with her fingers resting against the metal. Then something unexpected moved through her. Relief. Immediate. Physical.
Geet swallowed. That was worse. Fear she could argue with — fear could be unreasonable, dramatic, a product of stress. But relief meant some part of her had wanted the barrier before her conscious mind was willing to admit it.
She slowly removed her hand. She could unlock it again. Nothing was stopping her. Geet stood there considering exactly that. Turn it back. Prove she was being ridiculous. To whom? Neil would never know. Maan would never know. Nobody would. Only Geet.
Her hand remained at her side. The bolt stayed turned.
She walked back to bed and switched off the lamp. The room disappeared into darkness. For a while she listened to Khurana House settling around her. A distant door. Running water. Somebody laughing softly farther down the corridor. Footsteps that passed without pausing. Nothing threatening. Nothing wrong.
Maan was somewhere under the same roof. That thought did not make her look toward the lock. The man who had betrayed her more completely than anyone in her life was sleeping somewhere in this house. She had not needed the bolt because of him. Neil had never hurt her on anything close to that scale. And tonight her hand had found it anyway.
Geet closed her eyes. She did not have a name for that yet. She was not ready for one.
The door remained locked.
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