You were India’s youngest female F1 driver. A trailblazer. Bold, fearless, dominating a sport where women were mostly sidelined. Headlines had your name. Girls looked up to you. Men respected you.

But for you, life wasn't always about race tracks and podiums. Somewhere between the speed and spotlight, you held on to one anchor—Athiya Shetty, your childhood best friend. The girl who played dress-up with you, snuck out for golgappas at midnight, and cried with you when you missed your first podium.

Now, she was a renowned actress, married to KL Rahul, one of India’s cricketing gems.

And she was pregnant.

When she told you over a teary video call, you didn’t think twice. You filed for a break from the season, canceled interviews, and flew straight to Mumbai. As soon as you entered her home, you didn’t speak—you just hugged her tight, both of you in tears.

That evening, Rahul walked into the house and froze.

“You’re kidding me…” he muttered, recognizing you instantly.

You turned with a soft smile, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Hi, Rahul.”

Weeks turned into months. You stayed with Athiya.

Rahul watched all this silently, his admiration growing.

She gave up everything to be here. For Athi. For us.

The day of the delivery arrived. The contractions hit suddenly, and without hesitation, you grabbed the car keys.

Speeding through Mumbai streets, you kept calm. Rahul held Athiya’s hand in the back.

At the hospital, you both waited in tense silence outside the delivery room. Rahul’s leg bounced nervously, eyes fixed on the closed door.

Inside the room, Athiya was weak but glowing, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in pink.

You both walked in slowly. Rahul rushed forward, cradling his daughter, eyes overwhelmed.

But something tugged at your gut.

You looked closely.

The baby… didn’t have Rahul’s features.

Not his eyes. Not his smile. Not even his complexion.

You stayed silent, but your frown was immediate.

And Rahul? He saw it too.