Five years later.
The world still knew her as Vashti Dhiman—F1 icon, two-time world champion, record-breaker, and the girl who once died chasing her dream.
But to one person, she was simply Vashti—his chaos, his fire, his forever.
Shabd watched from the VIP medical booth, wearing his white coat, now marked with a patch:
Official Neurosurgeon – F1 Medical Team.
She had demanded he be trackside every race.
"Just in case I crash again," she always teased, "I trust only your hands to fix me."
The race had ended, and Vashti had won—again. The crowd roared as she lifted her trophy.
Later, they lay under the stars on the rooftop of their lake house, far from cameras, with helmets tossed aside and fingers intertwined.
"You still call me Hitler in your head?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Shabd smirked. "Sometimes. But now you're my adorable dictator."
She nudged him. "Remember when you wouldn't even look at me?"
"Yeah," he said quietly, "I was stupid. And scared. I thought you'd burn me."
She turned on her side. "And?"
"You did. But I survived. Because love like yours doesn't destroy—it remakes."
She stared up at the stars. "Our love was supposed to be incomplete."
He nodded. "Maybe it still is. That's what keeps it alive—unfinished dreams, more to chase."
She smiled. "Then let's keep racing."
Their love wasn't the kind that needed labels or endings.
It had died, come back, and grown stronger.
It wasn't perfect. But it was real.
And most of all—
It never quit.
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