CHAPTER 1- WHITE COAT AND WARZONES

The hospital corridor smelled like Dettol, coffee, and crushed dreams.

Aarohi Mehta kicked open the gynecology ward doors like she owned the place, her stethoscope dangling around her neck like a trophy and her badge slightly tilted—intentionally. Confidence wasn't just her style; it was her armor.

“Emergency in Labor Room 2,” a nurse called out as she passed.

Aarohi didn’t pause. “On my way. Tell the intern to prep the patient and not to faint this time.”

She flashed a smile, sugar-coated with sarcasm, and strode forward—her curly ponytail bouncing behind her like she was in a shampoo ad, not in a government hospital barely functioning on overworked residents and leaky ceilings.

It was 7:32 AM. She had already been up for two hours, survived one post-partum hemorrhage, two hours of shouting from Dr. Rakhi (a.k.a. Toxic Rakhi), and half a cup of disgusting hostel tea.

Dr. Rakhi Gupta was her unit senior—a living, breathing warning against letting power get to your head. The woman had a voice sharper than a scalpel and the empathy of a stone.

“Dr. Mehta!” Rakhi snapped the moment Aarohi entered the labor room. “Where were you? You’re two minutes late for morning rounds.”

Aarohi didn’t flinch. She simply pulled on her gloves and raised one brow. “Two minutes late, but the baby didn’t wait, ma’am. Delivered it while you were screaming at Sharma for writing ‘overdue’ as one word instead of two.”

Even the junior resident behind Rakhi choked back a laugh. Rakhi, however, glared as if she could murder Aarohi with her pupils.

“You think you’re clever?” she hissed.

Aarohi gave her a dazzling smile. “Not really. I know I am.”

Outside the labor room, Aarohi’s gang was waiting.

There was Simran, her co-resident and caffeine soulmate; Tanya, the calm, sarcastic type who looked like a quiet nerd but had a savage tongue when provoked; and Rishi, the only guy in their squad who understood periods better than most boyfriends.

“Survived Dracarys again?” Rishi asked, handing her a protein bar.

“She tried to roast me,” Aarohi replied, tearing it open, “but I’m flameproof, baby.”

Despite the madness, the hospital was her kingdom. Aarohi had a magic touch in labor rooms—firm hands, sharp mind, soft words. Patients loved her. Nurses adored her. Even the cranky HOD, Dr. Chopra, had once muttered that she was “a reckless genius but gifted nonetheless.”

Between deliveries, Aarohi texted her mom.

> Good morning, Amma. Tell Papa I’m skipping lunch again. Emergency duty.

The reply came instantly.

> Beta, don’t skip meals. Papa will worry. Also, no news of that rishta. They cancelled last minute again. Papa seemed relieved.

Aarohi sighed, thumb hovering over the screen. Marriage talk was like acid reflux—kept coming up at the worst times.

> No worries. Rishta-shishta can wait. I’ve got placentas to pull.

She added a winking emoji and slid the phone into her coat.

🌒 Back at Home

Mehta House, an old but posh bungalow tucked in South Delhi, was warm and chaotic. Her mom, Dr. Vaidehi Mehta, was a retired pediatrician and full-time overthinker. Her father, Mr. Pranav Mehta, was a high-profile businessman with eyes that smiled less these days.

To Aarohi, he was still Papa—the man who taught her how to ride a bike, sneak chocolates into the hostel, and always believed she could run the world in heels and a lab coat.

But lately, he’d been… different.

His calls came late at night. He had long meetings, security upgrades, and new “business partners” she’d never heard of. And sometimes, when he looked at her, there was a flash of something like guilt.

She didn’t question it. Yet.

That night, Aarohi sat on the balcony with Simran, legs dangling off the ledge, sipping stolen hostel cold coffee.

“I swear Rakhi’s soul is 98% ego and 2% magnesium,” Simran muttered.

“She’s got a personality deficiency,” Aarohi replied. “Needs supplements for basic decency.”

Simran laughed. “You’re gonna get us all kicked out.”

Aarohi smirked. “No one kicks out sunshine, babe. They need me.”

But as she looked up at the stars—bright but distant—something inside her shifted. Like the calm before a storm.

Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number.

> Aarohi Mehta. Your father owes a debt. You’re the payment.

She stared at the screen, the coffee suddenly bitter on her tongue.

End of Chapter 1

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