The studio lights were blinding. The cameras rolled. The mic was clipped to her collar.
Vashti sat upright, confident as always—at least on the outside.
It was her first live interview since rejoining Formula 1.
Millions were watching.
The host smiled politely. "Vashti Dhiman, India's racing pride. How does it feel to be back?"
She grinned. "Like I never left. Just took a pit stop."
Laughter.
But then came the question that made her heartbeat stumble.
"Let's talk about that crash. Some say you drove recklessly. Others say it was a breakdown. And then… there were rumors you had received some personal news just before. Care to comment?"
Her smile faded.
The flames. The scream. The lie about Shabd dying. It all came rushing back.
Her hands tightened on the armrest.
From the back of the set, Shabd stood, arms crossed, eyes on her. Silent support.
Vashti took a deep breath.
"I got a message that day," she said slowly. "I thought I lost someone I cared about more than anything."
The host leaned in. "Shabd Heer?"
She nodded.
"I raced like I didn't care because I truly thought nothing mattered anymore. Was it reckless? Maybe. But in that moment, it felt like grief."
The studio fell silent.
She looked straight into the camera.
"But I came back. Stronger. Smarter. I've made peace with the past. Because love didn't break me—it saved me."
Shabd smiled faintly, his eyes shining.
As the interview ended, fans flooded social media with messages of admiration.
And when they got home that night, Shabd pulled her close.
"You didn't just win today," he said softly.
"You reminded the world that scars don't make us weak. They prove we survived."
Vashti smirked. "Careful, doctor. You're sounding like a poet."
He kissed her forehead. "Only for you, Hitler."
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