Raghavendra’s World

Raghavendra Deshmukh adjusted the strap of his delivery bag, wincing when the coarse fabric dug into his shoulder. His bike rattled beneath him as he swerved around a pothole, narrowly missing a vegetable cart. The man pushing it cursed at him, but Raghav just raised a hand in apology, too drained to respond properly.

It was nearing six in the evening. The streets of the city were loud with the usual symphony—horns blaring, vendors shouting, children laughing somewhere in the distance. Raghav’s shirt was clinging to his back with sweat, but he still had one last delivery. His body begged for rest, but his mind reminded him that stopping wasn’t an option. Not when his father’s medicine had to be bought tonight, not when his sister’s college tuition loomed next month.

He pulled up at a red light and let the bike idle. His reflection in the cracked rear-view mirror looked older than his twenty-five years. Broad shoulders slumped with fatigue, hair messy under his helmet, eyes that rarely got more than four hours of sleep. But still—there was strength there, a stubborn fire that kept him moving.

The light turned green. He drove on.

The address on the package was unusual—no shop, no flat number, just a road name and a landmark: Rathore Mansion. He frowned. Mansions didn’t usually order couriers from his company; it was mostly shops, middle-class homes, small offices. But it wasn’t his place to question. He followed the pin on his phone, weaving through lanes that grew quieter the further he went.

The shops disappeared, replaced by tall iron gates, polished cars, and walls high enough to block the world out. He slowed, feeling suddenly out of place. His bike sputtered as he stopped before a massive gate guarded by two men in black suits. They looked him over like he was a trespasser.

Raghav cleared his throat. “Delivery,” he said, holding up the brown cardboard parcel.

One of them pressed a buzzer. The gates opened with a low metallic groan.

---

The Mansion

The driveway stretched long and silent, lined with manicured hedges that looked too perfect, too artificial. Raghav parked his bike just outside and began the walk up. His shoes left faint wet marks on the marble path, the drizzle from earlier still clinging to him.

The house—or no, mansion—was enormous. White marble walls, glass windows gleaming even under the gray sky, a front door that looked more like a fortress entrance than anything welcoming. Everything about it screamed money. The kind of money Raghav had never touched, never dreamed of touching.

He adjusted his grip on the package and rang the bell. The sound echoed faintly inside.

The door opened almost immediately.

And Raghav found himself staring at a man who seemed carved out of shadow and steel.

---

Viraj Singh Rathore

He was tall, easily over six feet, with the kind of presence that filled the doorway before he even spoke. His suit was dark charcoal, tailored so perfectly it looked like it had been stitched directly onto his frame. His hair was slicked back, a single rebellious strand falling near his temple. But it wasn’t his clothes or his hair that struck Raghav—it was his eyes.

Sharp, dark, unblinking. Eyes that pinned him in place, made the package in his hands feel suddenly heavier.

“Package,” Raghav said, keeping his tone professional. He held it out.

The man didn’t look at the parcel. His gaze swept Raghav slowly, deliberately—wet hair plastered to his forehead, droplets trailing down his neck, the veins in his strong hands clutching the cardboard box. His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment of amusement.

“Name?” Raghav asked when the silence stretched.

“Viraj Singh Rathore,” the man said. His voice was smooth, deep, carrying the kind of authority that didn’t need to be raised. It wasn’t a voice used to being questioned.

Raghav handed him the pen. “Sign here.”

Viraj took it, but instead of simply signing, his fingers brushed against Raghav’s, light but intentional. The touch lingered longer than necessary.

Raghav stiffened. He pulled back immediately, jaw tightening. “Please sign,” he repeated, curt.

For a moment, something flickered in Viraj’s eyes. Interest. Challenge. Hunger. Then he finally scrawled his name—sharp strokes, elegant and precise—and handed the pen back. Their fingers almost touched again. Almost.

Raghav tucked the signed slip back into his bag. “Enjoy your parcel, sir.” His tone was polite, clipped, already turning away.

He walked back down the driveway, his shoulders straight, pace firm. But even as he mounted his bike, he felt it—that gaze. Heavy. Piercing. Following every step.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He knew the man was still standing there, watching.

---

Viraj’s POV

Viraj remained in the doorway long after the delivery boy left. The package sat untouched on the console table.

His men were whispering somewhere near the gate, but he didn’t hear them. His focus was still on the image seared into his mind: the delivery boy’s eyes. Steady, unafraid, utterly ordinary yet defiant in their simplicity. No fear. No trembling like everyone else who stood before Viraj Singh Rathore.

He licked his lips slowly, almost tasting the rain that had dripped down the boy’s skin. His name… he hadn’t asked. A mistake he intended to correct.

“Sir?” Kabir’s voice broke his trance. The man had appeared silently at his side, as he always did. Loyal, efficient, irritatingly observant. “Shall I open the package?”

Viraj waved a dismissive hand. “Later.”

Kabir’s brows furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

Viraj’s lips curved, the expression unsettlingly soft. “On the contrary,” he murmured. “Something is very, very right.”

His eyes drifted back to the driveway, empty now except for faint tire tracks left by a battered bike.

He wanted to know everything. The boy’s name. Where he lived. What he wanted. Who he belonged to.

And more importantly—how soon Viraj could make sure he belonged to him.

---

Back at the Deshmukh Home

By the time Raghav reached home, the rain had picked up again, dripping from his jacket onto the narrow corridor floor. The house smelled of frying onions and turmeric. He slipped his shoes off by the door and called out, “Aarti? Baba?”

His younger sister peeked out from the kitchen, flour dusting her cheek. “Bhaiya! You’re late. I was about to yell at you.”

Raghav smiled faintly, exhaustion softening at the sight of her. “Last delivery took longer.”

In the living room, his father sat in the old armchair, a blanket over his legs, the fan creaking above him. “Beta,” he greeted softly, his voice worn from years of factory labor. “You’ve eaten?”

“Not yet. I will.” Raghav placed his bag down, ignoring the ache in his shoulders. He glanced at the family photo hanging crookedly on the wall—the three of them smiling, back when his mother was still alive. His chest tightened briefly, but he pushed it aside.

“Tuition fees are due next week,” Aarti reminded him from the kitchen.

“I know,” he said. He always knew. Every bill, every deadline, every weight.

And yet, as he sat down to eat the roti she handed him, he found his mind flickering—not to money, not to deadlines, but to a pair of sharp, unblinking eyes watching him in silence.

---

End of Chapter One Hook

Far across the city, in a mansion too quiet for its size, Viraj Singh Rathore poured himself a drink. The glass trembled faintly in his hand—not from fear, but from anticipation.

He replayed the encounter in his mind, each detail etched in clarity: the delivery boy’s defiance, the brush of his hand, the way he walked away without looking back.

No one walked away from Viraj.

And if they did, he always made sure they returned.

This time would be no different.

Viraj raised the glass to his lips, a smirk curving as rain lashed against the windows.

“Until tomorrow,” he whispered into the empty room.

Because one delivery was never enough.

The next morning, Raghavendra woke to the usual chaos of his neighborhood: vendors calling out their wares, the screech of brakes from a nearby intersection, and the faint clatter of children playing in puddles left from last night’s rain. He rubbed his eyes, grimacing at the ache in his shoulders, remnants of the long ride yesterday.

He swung his bag over his shoulder, noticing that it felt heavier than usual. Odd. His first few deliveries had gone smoothly, but something in the list of addresses caught his attention. Several were for the same street: Rathore Lane. Not unusual in itself—wealthy areas did have multiple houses—but the addresses were increasingly precise, each one leading closer to the towering mansion from yesterday.

Raghav frowned. Why so many packages for the same place?

He shook his head, trying to ignore the creeping unease. Business was business. He had no reason to get involved in someone else’s affairs. Still, there was a strange pattern emerging, one he couldn’t entirely dismiss.

---

The First Encounter of the Day

By late afternoon, the skies had darkened, warning of another downpour. Raghav navigated through narrow lanes with his bike, the familiar hum of the engine comforting. The streets were quieter now, residents having retreated indoors. A small café spilled light onto the wet road, the smell of brewing chai mingling with rain-damp earth.

And there it was—the Rathore mansion again, looming with its oppressive silence. Guards at the gate gave him a quick once-over before pressing the buzzer. The gate swung open as though expecting him, familiar now.

Raghav swallowed the lump forming in his throat. This is getting ridiculous.

He parked and approached the massive front door, package in hand. His heart thudded—not from fear, but a strange premonition. Something told him that the man who had watched him yesterday was already waiting.

Sure enough, as he lifted the package, the door opened before he could ring. And there he was. Viraj Singh Rathore, standing like a statue, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You’re early,” Raghav said, keeping his tone steady.

Viraj’s lips curved into that faint, infuriating smile. “No. Just on time.”

He stepped aside, allowing Raghav to enter. The interior of the mansion was even more imposing in daylight. Marble floors reflected light in harsh angles, and the quiet hum of air-conditioning felt almost alive. The package didn’t matter to Viraj—he didn’t even glance at it. His eyes were locked on Raghav, following each movement as if memorizing him.

Raghav’s cheeks heated under the scrutiny. He set the parcel on the counter. “Sign here,” he said, extending the clipboard.

Viraj’s fingers brushed his again, deliberately slow. Raghav jerked back reflexively. “Careful,” he muttered, his voice low.

“Am I?” Viraj asked softly, his tone teasing yet edged with something darker. “I suppose I’ll find out.”

Raghav’s pulse quickened, though he hated to admit it. Something in the mansion’s air—oppressive, intoxicating—made him unusually aware of every look, every movement.

---

Kabir’s Observation

In the corner, almost invisible, Kabir Malhotra watched the interaction. His arms were crossed, and his expression was unreadable.

This is new, he thought, frowning. Viraj’s never been distracted like this. Not by a delivery boy.

Kabir had known Viraj for over a decade—through business deals, fights, betrayals, and victories. He had seen men terrified in his boss’s presence, women flustered, rivals trembling—but never this quiet fascination. The way Viraj’s eyes followed the young man, the subtle trembling of his fingers, even the faint flush on his cheeks… Kabir had seen obsession before, but not like this. Not for someone so fragile, so ordinary.

“Sir,” Kabir said cautiously, stepping closer. “Should I…?”

Viraj waved him off. “No,” he murmured, barely audible. “Let him go. For now.”

Kabir’s brow knit. “For now?”

Viraj didn’t answer. He couldn’t explain it yet. He didn’t even want to.

---

A Mystery Gift

By evening, Raghav was already exhausted from the extra deliveries. His backpack was heavy, and the rain had soaked him despite the jacket. He returned home to find a small package waiting outside the door—neatly wrapped in black paper, no sender’s name, just a golden seal.

His father, Vijay, glanced at it suspiciously. “Beta… what is this?”

Raghav shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t order anything.”

Aarti peeked curiously. “Maybe someone’s secret admirer?” she teased.

Raghav ignored the joke, inspecting the package carefully. Inside was a small envelope and a rare, handcrafted pen—expensive, elegant, something that would cost a month’s salary for a man like him. His fingers brushed the pen, and he felt an odd, uncomfortable flutter in his chest.

Who would send this? he wondered. It didn’t feel like a gift meant for thanks—it was something else. Something… possessive.

---

Raghav’s Inner Conflict

He sat on the edge of the cot, holding the pen, thinking. He hated that he felt drawn to it. He hated that part of him wanted to know who had sent it, why.

Yet he couldn’t deny it: the name Viraj Singh Rathore lingered in his mind. The way he had looked at him yesterday. The way he had watched him today.

Is he dangerous? Raghav thought. Probably. Probably extremely dangerous.

And yet, his heart refused to listen to reason.

---

Viraj’s Obsession Intensifies

Back at the mansion, Viraj was pacing in his private study. His hands clenched around a glass of whiskey, though he hadn’t drunk a drop. His eyes were fixed on a monitor showing the street outside Raghav’s home—security cams, yes, but mostly for him. For observation.

There he is, Viraj thought, watching Raghav unload the bike, greet his sister. The way he moves… the way he breathes… it’s mine already. I just haven’t taken it yet.

Kabir stepped in again, quietly: “Sir, this is… unusual. You’ve never—”

“Shut up,” Viraj snapped, his voice sharp, dangerous. He immediately softened, taking a deep breath. “I don’t need anyone else. Only him.”

Kabir let the statement slide. He had learned over the years that arguing with Viraj Singh Rathore rarely ended well. But this… this was different. Something was changing in his boss, and Kabir didn’t know whether to be alarmed or… relieved.

---

The Evening Escalates

Night fell, and Raghav finally settled in, trying to ignore the package on his table. He ate dinner quietly with his family, but his mind wandered back to the pen, to the way Viraj’s fingers had touched his. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him, even though logically he knew it was impossible.

The rain returned, drumming against the windowpane. Somewhere in the distance, a sleek black car rolled past the house. Raghav’s pulse quickened. Paranoid, he thought. I’m just tired.

But in the mansion, Viraj watched the same scene unfold. He traced the outline of Raghav’s figure through the camera, studying every subtle movement. A shiver of something deeper ran through him—an obsession he couldn’t explain, couldn’t control.

Tomorrow, he whispered to himself, “I will see him again. And then… everything changes.”

---

Chapter Two Cliffhanger

Outside, the rain fell heavier, and Raghav pulled his shawl tighter around his shoulders. He didn’t know that in the mansion miles away, Viraj Singh Rathore was already planning the next delivery—watching him, following him, waiting.

And Raghav had no idea that his life was about to spiral into something he could never have imagined.

Because one delivery was never enough.

Raghav’s Morning

Raghavendra woke to another gray morning, the city streets still wet from last night’s downpour. The air smelled of damp concrete, chai stalls, and early traffic fumes. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the soreness in his shoulders—a reminder of yesterday’s deliveries.

The package from the Rathore mansion sat on his table, unopened. The pen gleamed under the soft sunlight filtering through the window. He had ignored it last night, telling himself it was nothing, but curiosity had gnawed at him all morning.

He reached out, hesitated, and then picked up the envelope. Inside was a short note, written in precise, elegant handwriting:

"For someone who keeps his world moving. Use this well."

Raghav frowned. What does that even mean? He ran a finger along the edge of the note. There was something deliberate about the choice of words, something… personal.

He shoved the note into his pocket. There was no way he was letting this affect him. He had a family to feed, bills to pay, a life to live. And yet… the name Viraj Singh Rathore lingered in his mind, unbidden, like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

---

Aarti’s Observation

His younger sister, Aarti, had been hovering in the kitchen, watching him curiously.

“You’re distracted again,” she said, placing a cup of steaming chai before him. “What is it, Bhaiya? You look… different.”

Raghav chuckled lightly, hiding the tension. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Aarti frowned. “Sure, but even tired, you don’t frown this much. And you’ve been staring at that pen all morning.”

He waved her off, but she didn’t leave. Aarti had always been perceptive, noticing things he tried to hide. And right now, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was hiding from himself.

---

The Delivery Begins

By late morning, Raghav mounted his bike, ready for the first deliveries of the day. The streets were lively again, vendors calling out prices, rickshaws honking, children running past puddles. His routine was comforting, grounding—a stark contrast to the strange tension he felt about the Rathore mansion.

He had two packages before reaching Rathore Lane. Each delivery felt heavier than usual, as if the air itself was pressing down on him. And then he arrived.

The mansion loomed like a dark monolith, its marble gleaming even in daylight. The guards eyed him, just as yesterday, but this time there was a flicker of recognition in their gaze.

He swallowed. Why do I feel like I’m being watched?

---

Viraj’s Obsession Deepens

Inside the mansion, Viraj Singh Rathore was already waiting. He had not slept properly, his mind consumed with images of the delivery boy—his movements, his expressions, even the subtle way he held the package.

Kabir Malhotra, his loyal right-hand man, observed quietly. “Sir,” Kabir began cautiously, “you’ve been pacing since dawn. Perhaps a meeting would… distract you?”

Viraj’s eyes didn’t leave the screen showing Raghav’s bike weaving through the streets. “Distract me?” he echoed, voice low, almost a growl. “Kabir… this is no distraction. This is my world finally… moving into focus.”

Kabir’s brow furrowed. He had seen obsession in Viraj before, but never like this. It was… delicate, terrifying, consuming.

“You should rest,” Kabir insisted, though his tone lacked force. He knew better than to argue when Viraj’s mind was fixed on something—or someone.

“I cannot rest,” Viraj said sharply. “Not when he exists. Not when he moves without knowing I exist.”

---

A Second Encounter

Raghav approached the front door with the second package. He tried to keep his movements calm, professional, but his pulse betrayed him. He didn’t know why the presence of this mansion—and its owner—made him feel simultaneously irritated and… intrigued.

Viraj opened the door before he could ring. His eyes, dark and unyielding, locked onto Raghav instantly.

“You again,” Raghav said, keeping his tone even.

Viraj’s lips curved faintly. “Yes. Again. Because some things cannot wait.”

Raghav’s brow furrowed. “Some things?”

Viraj stepped aside, his gaze still fixed, almost possessive. “Yes… like the person delivering them.”

The words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they struck Raghav like a jolt of electricity. He handed over the package, resisting the impulse to glance at the man’s face for too long.

Viraj’s hand brushed his again—this time deliberate, lingering—but Raghav didn’t pull away. He froze.

“Careful,” he muttered under his breath, though the warning sounded feeble, even to him.

---

Kabir’s Concern

From the corner, Kabir observed again, arms crossed. “Sir… he’s a delivery boy. He’s not like the others. You should… be careful.”

Viraj didn’t answer immediately. His lips were pressed together, eyes following Raghav as he moved. “He is not like the others,” Viraj finally murmured. “And that… is exactly why I cannot ignore him.”

Kabir exhaled slowly, sensing the depth of his boss’s fixation. “Sir… this is different,” he said softly.

“Yes, Kabir,” Viraj said, voice low, almost reverent. “Different. And I intend to make it mine. All of it. Him. Everything.”

---

A Quiet Gift

That evening, after Raghav returned home, another small package awaited him—this time left carefully on the doorstep, unsigned but unmistakably luxurious. Inside was a handcrafted leather journal and a small note:

"For your thoughts. Use it wisely."

Raghav stared at it, heart pounding. The gifts were no longer small gestures—they were deliberate, intimate, unsettling. He looked at the note again, feeling the weight of every word.

Aarti, curious, leaned over his shoulder. “Bhaiya… someone’s very interested in you,” she teased.

Raghav didn’t answer. He didn’t want to admit that the fascination, the unease, was slowly curling into something he couldn’t name.

---

Internal Conflict

Raghav sat on his cot, tracing the edges of the journal. Why am I thinking about him? he asked himself. Why do I feel… drawn?

The name Viraj Singh Rathore echoed in his mind, over and over, like a mantra. He hated it. He hated the pull. He hated the fear and intrigue twisting inside him. Yet… he couldn’t ignore it.

Far away, in the mansion, Viraj watched through his monitors. The boy held the journal in his hands, unaware of his observer. Viraj’s chest tightened, a mix of longing and obsession.

Soon, he whispered, voice barely audible. Soon you will belong to me completely. And I will belong to you too.

---

Chapter Three Cliffhanger

Rain lashed against the windows of the Deshmukh home. Raghav drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders, eyes on the journal. He didn’t know that miles away, Viraj was planning his next move, watching his every route, imagining what it would be like to touch, to hold, to command.

And Raghav had no idea that the web had already begun to close around him.

Because obsession, once ignited, could not be ignored.