The wrong Door

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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