Ranveer Singh Randhawa had everything-power, wealth, and the world at his feet. But the one thing he never wanted? Shayari Chatterjee. The perfect, poised, and infuriatingly brilliant woman who had been a part of his life since childhood. For years...
Time slipped through like mist over Wicklow's hills—but to make amends, here's a double offering of heart and wind: Chapters 28 and 29 await.
Thank you for your patience—now, let's journey on.
The morning light draped Wicklow in shades of gold and green, the kind of light that made everything feel like a memory waiting to be made. After arriving from London the previous evening, the group set out from Kensington's Irish estate just outside Dublin, the sleek black cars weaving through winding roads into the quiet, timeless embrace of the Wicklow countryside. The mood inside was muted—at least in the back seat.
Shayari sat by the window, arms crossed loosely, chin tilted as she stared at the rolling hills. Her eyes weren't admiring the view. They were far away—somewhere she hadn't allowed herself to visit in years.
Ranveer sat beside her, hands clenched together on his lap. He hadn't tried to speak—not since they left London. Not since the night of the merger party of Randhawa Group and Kensington Holdings.
"First stop—Powerscourt!" Richard Kensington called from the front seat, his voice carrying its usual charm. "Prepare yourselves for the gardens Orla once tried to steal roses from."
"Borrow," Orla corrected playfully, nudging his shoulder. "I was borrowing beauty. For my vase."
Shayari's lips twitched, almost a smile. Ranveer noticed. And in the thick fog of guilt he carried, that tiny expression lit a flicker of hope.
Powerscourt Estate and Gardens stood like something out of a fairytale. Terraced lawns stretched down toward a shimmering lake, statues rose from flower beds like sentinels of time, and the scent of lavender and fresh earth filled the air.
Shayari walked ahead with Orla, her fingertips grazing petals like she was reminding herself of softness. Ranveer stayed a few steps behind, watching her.
He hated how he always watched her now—like a man drowning, desperate for a glimpse of shore.
They paused at a marble bench, when Orla drifted ahead, he stepped closer.
"You've always liked gardens," he said.
She didn't turn. "Gardens don't pretend," she murmured. "They either bloom, or they don't. No cruelty. No masks."
He swallowed. "Shayari... about that night I called you to my house... what I said..."
"I remember every word," she said evenly. "So you don't have to."
"I wasn't myself."
She turned then, meeting his eyes. "No, Ranveer. You were exactly yourself. That's what broke me."
Glendalough was a cathedral of silence. Stone ruins rose against a grey sky, ancient and weathered like grief that had learned to stay quiet.
Shayari wandered among the worn tombstones, her fingers brushing the edge of a Celtic cross. Ranveer followed, hesitant but persistent.
"This place feels like... it remembers pain," she said softly.
He nodded. "Like it's made of it."
She glanced at him. "I used to think you didn't remember anything that didn't serve you."
His chest clenched. "I remember everything."
"Do you remember that night?" Her voice was soft but sharp. "No phone. No cabs. Walking in the rain like a fool who still believed you might come after her out of humanity."
"I should've," he whispered. "I still see you on that road, Shayari. Every night."
She looked away, jaw tight. "You only see it now that someone else picked up the pieces."
"I hate that it wasn't me who found you."
"No," she said, turning to face him fully. "You hate that someone else didn't leave me for dead."
At Wicklow Gaol, shadows clung to the walls like regret. The group laughed nervously at Richard's ghost stories, but Shayari stood quietly in one of the old cells, arms folded, the air pressing in.
Ranveer stepped beside her. "This place suits me," he said softly. "Punishment. Iron bars. Silence."
"You're not here because you're being punished," she replied. "You're here because you were invited."
He nodded. "And you were the one who paid the price."
There was a pause.
"Do you regret it?" she asked finally. "Everything you did?"
He looked at her, eyes raw. "Every breath since."
Something shifted in her face. Not forgiveness. But maybe something close to exhaustion. A weariness that came from carrying pain for too long.
Her throat tightened, but she didn't break. "I never hurt you. I always admired you. I lo.. when I didn't even understand what the feeling was. And you—you punished me for it."
"I was scared," he said. "I've never known how to be loved without destroying it."
By the time they reached Lough Tay, the winds had softened, brushing gently through the trees like whispered apologies. The lake spread below like black glass, cradled by hills that had seen centuries come and go.
Orla laid out a picnic, the setting serene. But Shayari sat apart, staring at the water, her knees hugged to her chest.
Ranveer joined her in silence.
"I know a thousand apologies won't matter," he said finally. "But I see what I did. I see you now. And I hate what I was."
Her voice was quiet. "I never wanted flowers or grand gestures. Just respect. Just... to be treated like I mattered."
"You did. You do. And I was too blind to see it then."
She turned, tears threatening. "I died that night, Ranveer. Not because of the car. Because you, someone I trusted with my heart since childhood, made me feel like I didn't deserve to exist."
His voice broke. "Let me make it right. Even if it takes forever. Even if you never love me back."
She held his gaze. "And if all I can offer is silence?"
"Then I'll wait inside it."
A long pause stretched between them. Then, wordlessly, she leaned slightly into the space beside him—not touching, but not walking away either.
As the cars rolled on through the winding green roads of Wicklow, the sky deepened into amber. Shayari leaned her head lightly against the glass, her expression unreadable.
Ranveer sat beside her, every breath a prayer.
In the front seat, Orla looked over at Richard.
"They're standing at the edge," she said softly.
Richard's eyes were on the road. "And edges," he murmured, "are where the brave learn to fly... or fall."
The wind whispered through the hills behind them.
And somewhere between silence and memory, something between Ranveer and Shayari began to stir.
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