1-One Woke To Life , Other To Death

HELLO EVERYONE, HERE IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY BOOK .

I HAVE TRIED TO WRITE IT INTERSTING, BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW IT ENDS,SO PLEASE LET ME KNOW BY COMMENTS.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO PLEASE BEAR WITH GRAMMATIC ERROR.

AND GIVE THIS BOOK LOTS OF LOVE 💓

HAPPY READING 😀.

A girl lay curled in her bed, wrapped tightly in her thin blanket as the first rays of morning sunlight slipped through the curtains and gently touched her face. The warmth stirred her awake. Her brows furrowed slightly, and with a small sigh, she reached for her phone on the nightstand.

6:00 AM.

She blinked at the time for a moment before setting the phone aside. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she slowly got up and trudged to the bathroom to freshen up. Within minutes, she returned - face washed, hair wet, a towel draped around her shoulders.

She sat in front of the mirror, carefully drying her hair, her movements quiet and efficient. With a small black kajal stick, she lined her eyes, then applied a soft pink lip balm to her lips. A tiny pair of silver jhumkas adorned her ears. She wasn't trying to impress anyone, but she still wanted to look presentable. Dressed in a simple yet elegant white palazzo suit, she glanced at the clock again - 6:30 AM.

Without wasting another second, she stepped out of her room and made her way toward the kitchen - a routine she followed every single day. The clanking of utensils, the sizzle of the pan, the aroma of fresh parathas soon filled the house. Breakfast had to be ready before she could leave for college. And in the evening, she'd be back to cook dinner, wash dishes, and clean the house.

"Isha, bring my morning tea!" came the sharp voice of her mother, Riya Mehta.

Meet Isha Mehta - a sweet, simple girl, just 5'2" tall, with dreams far bigger than the cage she lives in. She's the younger daughter of the Mehta household, currently in her final year of college. Her parents have never supported her education. To them,she only belongs in the kitchen - not in classrooms.

But Isha had other plans. Determined to become independent, she worked hard and secured a scholarship at Mumbai's top college. Her parents agreed, but with a cruel condition: she'd have to manage all the housework on her own. No complaints. No help.

Still, she chose her dreams over comfort.

After completing all her chores, she picked up her bag and left the house quietly - skipping breakfast. It was already 8:30, and her class started at 9. She couldn't afford to miss a single lecture.

Standing at the main road, she waited for the bus. You'd expect a Mehta daughter to travel by car, right? But she wasn't allowed. Cars were a luxury reserved for family outings and functions. Alone, she had to take the bus.

With her earphones plugged in, she played her favorite playlist - music was her escape. In just 15 minutes, she reached college. As soon as she entered through the main gate, a familiar figure came into view - Anika Khurana, her best friend.

They hugged tightly.

"Where's Disha?" Isha asked.

"Here I am!" came another voice. Disha Kapoor, their third musketeer, joined them, wrapping them both in a warm hug.

"You're late," Isha teased.

"Stuck in traffic," Disha replied with an eye roll.

The three walked toward class, chatting like usual. Their bond was pure - formed in the chaos of college life, cemented through loyalty and love. Disha, the extrovert, had once stood up for Isha when other girls bullied her in her first year. She taught her to be brave. And Anika, the sweet, bubbly one, soon became their third soul sister.

They did everything together - from lectures to lunch breaks, laughter to secrets.

After three lectures, Isha's stomach grumbled loudly in the corridor, earning teasing glances from her friends.

"Canteen, now," Disha declared.

They ordered two sandwiches, one burger, and three drinks. Isha claimed the burger with a grin. They laughed, joked, and savored their time together.

After lunch, they returned to their remaining classes. By 3:30 PM, college was over.

But Isha had to rush. If she didn't reach home by 4, her mother would be furious. Worse, she'd be denied dinner.

She hugged her friends goodbye, boarded the bus, and reached home fifteen minutes later. As soon as she stepped inside, her mother and sister looked up from the sofa.

"So the queen has returned. Now go make me some tea - I've been waiting forever," her mother barked.

Without a word, Isha put her bag down and walked to the kitchen. Her life was a loop - study, serve, survive.

---

[Warning: Intense violence ahead - ]

Meanwhile, in a dim, cold room inside an old abundant building, a man lay unconscious, chained to a metal chair. His face was battered, blood dripping from his swollen lip, and a bullet wound oozed from his thigh.

A tall man sat before him like a dark monarch - exuding raw power and icy calm. His piercing eyes didn't blink as he stared at the lifeless figure before him.

Aryan Singh Oberoi. 6'2. Dangerous. Merciless. Feared. The heir to the Oberoi empire - both legal and illegal.

With a nod from Aryan, two bodyguards stepped forward, carrying a bucket of boiling water. Without hesitation, they poured it over the unconscious man.

He screamed awake - the pain enough to shake his soul.

Aryan stood up, unbuttoned his cuff, and slowly rolled up his sleeves.

"When you thought of betraying me, did you ever think about the consequences?" he said calmly.

"Kill me! Please! I was blinded by greed - just kill me!" the man pleaded.

Aryan chuckled coldly. "Betrayal has only one punishment. And you don't deserve death yet."

He ordered his men to bring the tools. A hot rod. A cutter.

Aryan walked forward, gripped the rod, and pressed it against the man's palm. Screams echoed through the room as flesh sizzled. The stench of burning skin filled the air.

Once done, Aryan picked up the cutter and began removing the man's fingernails - one by one, calmly, clinically. The man convulsed in agony, his sobs turning to gasps.

Finally, Aryan grabbed one trembling finger.

"No, please... not that..."

But Aryan sliced it cleanly. Blood spurted. The man's shrieks grew weaker as he began to lose consciousness again. Aryan cut each finger off, one by one, like a butcher at work.

When the screams died down, he wiped the blood from his face and gave a cold order:

"Treat his wounds. Keep him alive. We're not done yet."

He left the room, walked out into the night, and climbed into his car - heading toward his penthouse, his mind calm... but not satisfied.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING A BOOK ,SO PLEASE SUPPORT ME BY GIVING YOUR PRECIOUS VOTES AND ALSO YOUR HONEST REVIEWS.