Chapter 27
Shehryar
H e was late.
My leg bounced furiously under the wooden café table as I checked my wristwatch. Again.
Andrew Platmon, my father, was late to our meeting by thirty-four minutes and counting.
I wasn’t surprised by his tardiness, but I was livid to the point my bones felt cold rather than hot.
I glanced across to the clock above the young boy, who was probably around Prince Adam’s age, at the serving counter. For confirmation rather than to check for a different result.
Thirty-five minutes late.
If he didn’t show in five minutes, I planned to leave, and the fucking bastard could forget about any talk or potential reconciliation between us.
Relaxing into my chair, I picked up the wide cappuccino mug before me and took a leisurely sip.
The café I’d chosen to meet my father in had been nearly a three-hour drive from Chaukham Palace, one of my reasons for picking it. It was a small, rustic place in a town within the countryside that sat between Pavilion City and Trillham City to the south, full of mismatched wooden chairs and town locals out for lunch or grabbing coffee after walking their dogs.
It wasn’t a place my father from generations of wealth would have ever visited, which was my other reason for choosing it. I wanted him to feel uncomfortable in an unfamiliar place. I also hoped townsfolk etiquette meant they were less likely to approach me even if they recognised me.
Thirty-six minutes late.
I finished my coffee.
Thirty-seven.
The older man, who quite possibly was the young boy behind the counter’s father going off their similar features, smiled at me as he took my empty mug. “Would you like anything else?” he asked. “Our cakes are made fresh every morning. As are our sandwiches.” He pronounced “ sandwiches ” as “ sam-widges,” something a lot of Western Toumans did.
I offered a smile back. The bell went ting above the door as someone with a brown poodle left the café. “Thank you. I intend to buy something as I leave.”
“Of course.” The man headed off behind the counter through an open doorway.
The sound of smart shoes clacking against the wooden floor came towards me before a tall figure dressed in grey appeared in my periphery. Said figure cleared their throat.
My heart reared back and knocked against my lungs.
I didn’t have to look to know who was there. Not because he was the person I’d intended to meet. But because I was suddenly an eighteen-year-old boy again. One with bones that felt too big, limbs that weighed heavy with newly discovered strength, and “baby fat” that he hadn’t yet lost. That boy had smacked his forehead on too many doorframes to count because he still wasn’t used to his height. But he’d remembered to duck before he entered his absent father’s mansion once the butler had let him in.
I hadn’t remembered to duck to impress anyone. It had been a matter of pride.
I’d been nervous and stupidly hopeful about the possibility of reintroducing myself to the man who’d abandoned my mother and me. But my hot-headedness had developed even faster than the rate I’d grown tall, and by eighteen, I was full of all the anger, hurt, vengeance, and protectiveness that came along with “ I’m a grown man, I can deal with it ” teenage idiocy.
I hadn’t been able to deal with it. Not the humiliation I’d faced nor my anger.
But that had been a decade ago. I was older now. I wasn’t sweaty-handed or nervous or hopeful of anything. I couldn’t say I had complete control over my anger, but I had learnt that there was a place for aggression and a place for indifferent silence. And usually, silence was the more powerful tool.
I turned my head slowly, lazily, like I had no care in the world and all the time at my hands, to face my father, and assessed him until I found his dark brown eyes.
Dressed in a grey three-piece suit, Andrew Platmon looked ridiculously out of place, but he also looked nearly the same as I remembered him to a decade ago. At the age of forty-nine, going on fifty, my father still looked fit and healthy, though his gut was showing a little where his buttoned waistcoat was convex. Thanks to his family’s genes, he’d retained a full head of short hair that hadn’t thinned and had very few greys.
But there were a couple of differences too. His dark brown eyes didn’t appear as hard as I remembered them to be. And while his posture was still strong and straight, it lacked the closed-off rigidness that had sent me packing without remorse ten years ago.
I didn’t stand up to greet him, nor did I say anything. I sat there staring with cool indifference, sprawled in my chair with unwavering confidence.
Andrew Platmon swallowed slowly and shifted on his feet. By his stiff movement and the glowing flicker in his eyes, it seemed he was nervous.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
He offered me the pursed lip smile of a man who felt uncomfortable with the action from a lack of practice and said, “Hello,” his voice deep but vaguely unsure. He put a hand on the back of the chair on the opposite side of the circular table. “May I take this seat?”
The fact that he didn’t apologise for being late hooked deep into my skin, creating a new wave of hot anger. My jaw twitched, but I kept still and silent.
His jaw set firm as he realised I wasn’t going to make this easy for him, and without another word, he pulled the chair out, undid his coat and suit jacket buttons, then sat down with an old money flare and rod down his spine.
He stared at me like he was taking me in, and I stared back.
The resemblance between us wasn’t obvious until closer inspection. I had his warm golden skin tone, but I had Mother’s features and eye colour. I had his hairy genes with hair that grew quickly and almost everywhere, though mine was coloured a chocolate-brown like Mother’s. I had his wide, tall build, but I now had the advantage of an extra two inches of height and at least sixty pounds of muscle that I hadn’t had when I was a teenager.
Some unreadable emotion turned his eyes dull, but he angled his sharp chin up with a silent proclamation that he wasn’t deterred by my coldness. “How—”
I broke eye contact and turned my attention to the clock on the wall. I watched it for ten seconds as the time neared four p.m.. “Had you arrived at the time you agreed to meet me,” I said, setting my gaze back on Andrew Platmon, “I would have given you thirty minutes of my time. But since you made me wait, you now only have five.”
I almost grunted at the blatant surprise that gelled over my father’s features as he darted a glance to the clock then looked at me. He honestly couldn’t believe I’d called him out on his lateness, like he’d assumed I wouldn’t have minded waiting around, or that I’d still have been willing to talk to him even so. To him, his lateness was a normal thing. He probably made a tonne of people wait around on a daily basis as if they didn’t have anything better to do.
But I hated tardiness. It showed a lack of care and respect for the other person and said more about someone’s attitude towards another than anything else. That my father had turned up late without an apology showed me exactly what I needed to know about him.
Son or not, he couldn’t be bothered to respect me as a person.
The momentary alarm on Andrew Platmon’s face disappeared behind a shutter. And just like that, he was back to being the cold, detached man I remembered him as. So much for wanting things to change.
“I can explain why I was late,” he said with all the authority of a businessman whose decisions were never questioned. I stayed silent, forcing him to continue. “I had a board meeting on the opposite side of Pavilion City that ran over. We have acquired a large insurance brokerage and opened a new coffeehouse, so there was a lot to discuss, and I could not simply get up and leave.”
And still no fucking apology.
The stench of old money entitlement and arrogance rolling off him was making the tiny possibility of understanding I might’ve had for his decisions shrivel up to nothingness.
“You had my email address,” I reminded him. “It would’ve taken a second to let me know you were running late.”
My father stared unblinking as if he’d only just realised it was something I would have wanted.
Wow…just wow.
Everything inside me went quiet and numb. I felt nothing because of or for the man opposite me. I didn’t even care for an explanation anymore. I just wanted to be done with him and leave.
“Why now?” I said, wrapping my hand around the car keys atop the table. “Why are you suddenly interested in me after all this time of radio silence?”
He opened his mouth…then closed it. And opened it. And closed it again.
I wanted to throw my head back and laugh mirthlessly. He didn’t even know why he reached out.
Andrew Platmon must’ve seen the insane look of iciness on my face because he straightened even further in his seat. “Because I made mistakes in the past, and I want to fix them.”
Generic answer. Meant nothing. Not in his eyes, not in his tone.
“No.” I leaned forward. “ Why. Now. ”
His mouth fumbled to form words again. “I do not understand what you’re asking.”
Bullshit .
The chair legs scraped across the floor as I pushed myself back from the table. I stood up, keys in hand, and pinched my coat from the back of my chair.
“Where are you going?” my father asked quickly as I slipped my arms into my coat.
Ignoring him, I headed to the counter where the boy and father duo suddenly dropped their gazes and pretended to look busy, eyeing displays of pastries and the cash register.
It was a small café, I couldn’t blame them for having listened to what was being said, but I hated that I’d been turned into a spectacle again. But I knew, on top of my soon-to-be relation with the Touman royal family, when the world found out who the man behind me was and how I was related to him, I’d become an even greater source of interest. And I dreaded that very moment.
“Can I have two tuna melt paninis, please?” I said to the young boy behind the register, unable to muster a smile.
“Shehryar.” That was the first time he used my name.
“Sure,” the boy stuttered and tapped on the screen. “Would you like that to take away?”
“Yes, thank you.”
A chair scraped the floor behind me, and the boy’s eyes darted past my shoulder before he dropped them to the screen again. “That’ll be, uh, seven-ten. Card again?”
I nodded and pulled out my wallet from my coat pocket just as Andrew Platmon appeared by my side. “You cannot leave like this.” Again, there was too much entitlement in his tone for my liking.
The boy’s wide-eyed stare was locked on my father as he blindly held out the card machine. I tapped my card and slipped it back into my wallet.
“Shehryar.” There was the faintest waver of panic or anger in my sire’s voice. “Do not ignore me.”
“I’ll just, uh, warm those,” the boy said, but faltered when he turned around and realised his father was already doing it, destroying his escape route. “Never mind.” He chuckled awkwardly.
A silent minute passed by as I waited for my food.
Andrew Platmon shifted restlessly by my side, but eventually, he said, “Shehryar. Son, let—”
Fury roared through me, sending me flying around. “Don’t fucking call me that,” I growled, murder dripping off each word. “I am not your son.”
For the first time since he’d arrived, my father shrunk back into himself, suddenly looking tired and old. Guilty. Ashamed. Regretful.
Andrew Platmon visibly swallowed. “I…”
“Maybe start off by apologising for being late.” Both my father and I glanced towards the counter where the older man now stood in his son’s place. Judgement and disapproval weighed heavily on his rugged face as he frowned. “He was waiting for you for over forty minutes.”
I felt my father bristle next to me, but I offered the man an appreciative smile as he held out two folded brown paper bags. “Thank you,” I said while taking them from him.
“You are most welcome, son .” The man flicked another glare at Andrew Platmon.
In my head, I smirked, but I kept a blank expression as I made my way to the door. That man was no doubt a good father to his child, or children. Unlike mine.
“Shehryar.” Andrew Platmon’s voice and footsteps followed behind me. “ Please .”
The desperation in his voice halted my feet just before the door.
It sounded so wrong, so out of place, when the man had never known true desperation in his life, that a sudden thought hit me right in the chest. It wasn’t worry that evoked from the dent—I didn’t care about the man enough to worry—but…
Gritting my teeth, I stepped back and faced him halfway. Hope glowed in his eyes. “Are you dying?”
His brows lowered. “What?”
“ Are you dying? ”
“No. No.” His spine straightened. “I’m not a man lying on my deathbed trying to right all his wrongs if that is what you are asking.”
I hated that I felt a small sense of relief, but I did.
He took another step towards me. “I apologise for being late.”
“Doesn’t mean much now, does it?”
Andrew Platmon had the decency to grimace. “No. It doesn’t. I should have started with an apology. But you and I both know that I have far more to apologise for.”
My silence was all the agreement he deserved.
“I do not have an exact reason as to what made me reach out now—”
“You mean, my new links to royalty have nothing to do with it?” I asked sardonically.
My father smiled softly, almost proudly. “I do not need power, money, or influence, Shehryar.”
He wasn’t wrong, and that grated.
The Platmon family had had wealth, power, and influence since the seventh century when they set up their first coffeehouse for the gentry men to gather and discuss business and politics, which led to the formation of their insurance company. Now the Platmon Group was worth over fifty billion raal and had spread its reach into consultancy, shipping, an airline, and investment banking.
My father didn’t need links to royalty when he was ruling over his own empire.
His smile slipped away. “Not anymore, at least.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to decipher the weight behind his words.
His expression hardened with resolve as he closed the last step between us. “I want to apologise for not being a father to you for all these years, but more than that, I want you to know how and why I failed.”
“I don’t care about your excuses.”
He paused over his answer. “I understand that I ended up becoming the villain in your story, so my reasoning will likely sound like an excuse.” He shook his head. “But you were never the villain in mine, Shehryar, so nonetheless, I would like a chance to explain. Please.”
We returned to our table in silence. Andrew Platmon ordered a sandwich, swapping glares with the other man as he did, but when the café owner returned with the sandwich, there were two cups of coffee on the tray too. “On the house,” he said as he set them down.
My instincts jumped to life, wanting to insist on paying, but I bit my tongue and thanked him.
Neither my father nor I touched our food or drink as he began explaining his side of the story.
He started with how he and mother met—when she came to work with her parents at eighteen for his family and he was in his second year of university. How they talked in secret and fell in love. How nearly a year later they found out she was pregnant. How he took her to his father and mother and told them he was going to marry her. How they shut him up and warned them both not to tell his grandfather, and the existential crisis that followed.
“I fought with them daily,” he said, “and it became violent. Their threats became real.” He took a sip of his coffee. It must’ve been cold because he grimaced, set it down, and pushed it away. His expression turned sombre quickly. “On the night of your birth, they locked me in my room. I managed to get to the hospital eventually with the help of one of the butlers, though.”
A far away glaze cast over his eyes. “It wasn’t until I held you in my arms that I realised my arguing and fighting was childish. I could threaten to run away with you and your mother, but then what? How was I to look after you? Feed you? Clothe you? Keep a roof over your head?
“I was born into wealth, but I didn’t have a rupee to my name. Not without my family, not without the trust fund I didn’t have access to, not without any prospects of work. And as easy as it was to say I could leave it all behind…I couldn’t. It was not feasible.”
I arched a brow in question. “So, you saw your son and decided money was more important?”
He narrowed his eyes. “No. I saw you and decided that I could not take care of you without money. I did not want a life of poverty for you or your mother, but my family was determined to do everything in their power to make sure you never had a place amongst them. They would have thrust the three of us into poverty purposely, and I was aware that without any funds I could not protect you.” He paused. “So I asked your mother to take you away and keep you safe while I tried to build something for us.”
“You lied to her,” I accused, anger heating my words. “ For years. About marrying her. About loving her. You dragged her along and toyed with her feelings while you lived in the freedom and comfort of your wealth. You left her to face the judgement of everyone around her, and like every other fucking bastard of a man who abandons the mother of his child, you escaped unscathed.”
Andrew Platmon’s eyes flashed with reciprocating anger. “I didn’t escape unscathed. I may not have faced the judgement of people, but my family beat me down at every chance. I grew tired of losing every little thing I was working towards. And I was losing your mother too.” He let out a quiet breath. “Whenever I saw her, all we did was argue. I knew she was losing hope and her trust in me, and I was young and hot-headed, so I, in return, grew angry at her distrust.” He paused. “And I was losing you too. You were only little, but the further apart my visits grew, the less you approached me.”
I grunted mockingly. “And that surprised you? You made yourself a stranger who appeared once every few months, then fought with my mother and left her crying. I had no reason to like you.”
“You were still my son, and it…” He paused, visibly reeled whatever emotion had been behind his words back in, and then fortified his shoulders. “It made me bitter. Seeing my own son glare at me and hide behind his mother every time I visited. And I blamed her. I blamed Katiya.”
Furious claws racked down my neck, making my skin burn. “It was easier, wasn’t it? Blaming her rather than owning up to your own mistakes.”
Andrew Platmon swallowed slowly. “It was. Very easy. And in blaming her, I convinced myself I hated her and that I was glad my family had prevented me from marrying her.”
Stampedes of huffing animals stormed through the canyons of my nervous system that made up my muscles. I thrummed down to the marrow on my bones under the raging feeling, and the violent urge to break something consumed my thoughts. I held my breath and curled my fists in my lap, sitting perfectly still in case one wrong move sent me on a rampage.
“It was after our last fight that my grandfather found out about you—”
“And it was the perfect excuse to cut ties with us,” I bit out low and accusing.
My father’s anger rose to the forefront of his brown stare, making it darken, and it was almost sickening how alike our anger was. I supposed I’d inherited that from him as much as I had from Mother—her anger was just as fierce, if not more.
“Yes, it was,” he retorted sharply. “And if you’re expecting me to regret it, I don’t.” He edged forward, staring me in the eyes with no remorse. “My relationship with your mother was over. My sacrifices were not going to change that, nor was I willing to make any more. But I was not fool enough to want to keep my son around a man who was threatening to kill him just to spite her.”
“Bullshit,” I hissed, jerking forward. “You’re lying to hide the fact you were done with us long before that. You were just waiting for the right moment to cut us off.”
“Ask your mother, Shehryar, if you do not believe me.” He lifted his chin. “My grandfather had vowed to kill you if she stayed in contact with me. I could not allow that. I could not put you in danger, real or not. You deserved better, and I was not blind either. You were happier without me. So yes, I cut you out of my life without hesitation to ensure you were safe. And I do not regret it. I will never regret it. I would do it again and again if I had to.”
We both puffed out quick, shallow breaths as we glared at each other.
I didn’t want to believe him. I had no reason to believe him. He was lying. Trying to claim he was also the victim just to save face. But the hard reality was displayed in his eyes loud and clear.
With a slow inhale and exhale, he leaned back. “I had not expected you to show up that day.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about.
The day I turned up at his family mansion.
I had always had it in my head that once I turned eighteen, I would go to my father and demand answers. It had taken me a few months to work up the courage, but I’d eventually bought the plane ticket. I hadn’t told Mother until after I’d got the ticket confirmation; she’d been panicked, but she hadn’t discouraged me.
So, I went.
Over five hours later, I’d been led into a drawing room that was just as extravagant as Jahmal Palace.
But instead of meeting my father, I’d been accosted by his wife and father. It was only when they’d thoroughly humiliated me, accusing me of coming for the only thing rich people cared about, that Andrew Platmon had showed up. I’d thought that he would have stopped them, but instead, he turned his gaze away as his wife threw money at my face, leaving me feeling stupid and hollow.
I’d stormed out quickly after, and in a blinding fit of rage, I’d picked up a nearby potted shrub and thrown it at one of several cars parked out front. I’d thrown punches and broken the nose of the security guard too when he’d tried to drag me out. The only reason I’d stopped was because Andrew Platmon came out and dragged me off the man.
Until the day I died, I would never forget the way he looked at me with absolute cold distaste as he shoved me to the gate and said, “Leave. And don’t ever show your face here again.”
I couldn’t recall how I got myself back to the bed and breakfast Mum had helped me book, nor the airport the next morning. I only remembered that when I walked into Jahmal Palace late in the evening, Mother had been pacing the entrance, waiting for my return.
She’d taken one look at me and come rushing over.
I’d crumpled in her arms and sobbed. Loud, agonised roars of hurt and anger and rejection.
It was the one and only time I had cried over him.
After that, I’d clung on to my hatred and vowed never to be like him. I’d vowed to protect and love everyone I cared about with my full being the way he never had.
I signed up to the Army not long after, on top of training to be Esmeralda’s private secretary, and worked day and night to be the best, strongest, and most informed version of myself. I was officially appointed to my role at twenty-one, almost a year before Esmeralda went off to university.
I’d never looked back since.
At least not until nine months ago when the whole Mum and Prince Arsh thing had come to light.
“I was…surprised,” my father said, dragging me away from memory lane, “that you had wanted to see me, let alone actually come to see me.”
I grunted. A bitter taste coated my mouth that had nothing to do with the coffee I had yet to touch. “Is that why you let them humiliate me then kicked me to the curb and told me never to show my face again? Is that how a father who was ‘ surprised’ to see his son is supposed to act?”
“I never said I was proud of the way I acted.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“For multiple reasons. I’d become hard-hearted. A part of me believed maybe you were only after money. I had closed that chapter of my life, and I did not want to reopen it. And…and the way they treated you.” Cracks spiderwebbed through the hardness of his stare. “My grandfather had passed, but the threat my wife and father posed to you was great. I did not want you near that.”
I shook my head slowly and growled in disgust, “You’re nothing but a selfish coward.”
A muscle in his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth. “One day, when you have children, you will understand that sometimes being a coward is the only way to protect them.”
“No.” I jerked towards him. “When I have children, they will know how important they are to me, because I will never put my life above theirs. I will never cower when it comes to protecting them.”
Andrew Platmon held still and silent before he lowered his gaze to his untouched sandwich. After a tense moment, he lifted his lashes. “If it means anything, I greatly regret what I said.”
“It means nothing,” I said, leaning back into my chair. Cold, empty, and detached.
Silence weighed down on the café’s atmosphere like a building on the verge of collapsing.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I said. “Why now? Aren’t your wife and father still alive? How is the threat any different to me if that’s what you care so much about?”
He pulled his coffee cup back towards himself though didn’t pick it up. “My father is bedridden with cancer. He will not last long.”
I wasn’t apologetic upon hearing that. The fucker deserved to die. Miserably.
I angled a brow. “So, he’s the one dying.” See, you are a coward, was how my tone sounded.
“He is.” Andrew Platmon smiled slightly. “And I look forward to the day he does.” That surprised me, though I didn’t let it show. “The day we found out he had cancer was the day I reached out to your mother.” The correlation wasn’t clear until he added, “I had been happy to hear that my father was sick, and in hoping for his death, I realised I did not want you to feel the same way about me.” Sincerity softened the rough lines of his face. “I wanted to apologise to you for the way things turned out, even if it did not lead to your forgiveness.”
“I don’t forgive you,” I said instantly. Defensively. I didn’t want to forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And I didn’t want him to think this meeting had changed anything.
“I expected so much.” His expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to droop. Only momentarily before he straightened his shoulders. “As for my wife and son, you have nothing to fear. She knows she will lose her financial privileges if she hurts you, and Johnny…” He frowned. “Johnny is a lost cause, though even he is not stupid enough to attempt treason.” His face melted again into the loving look of a proud father, and the sharp pang of jealousy I felt was acute. “Ablah, on the other hand—your half-sister—is excited to meet you. She is the only one who knows I am here today.”
I bristled, a frown falling over my brows. “What? I don’t intend to meet anyone from your family.”
A mix of surprise and confusion filtered over Andrew Platmon’s eyes. “Whyever not?”
Was he fucking serious?
I stared him dead in the eyes. “Because your family are the ones who hurt my mother. That’s why.”
“Ablah played no part in that. And I—”
“No.” Trying to find my place among royalty now that Mum was marrying Prince Arsh was hard enough as it was. I couldn’t deal with finding my place in another circle of rich people I had nothing in common with. Especially not one where half the people hated my existence.
“But—”
I shoved my chair back from the table and stood up. “We’re done here.”
“Shehryar.” His eyes searched mine. “She’s your sister.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
It was harsh. I knew it was. And false. Because I had Esmeralda. And this girl, Ablah, who I didn’t know, didn’t deserve my rejection, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. Not now.
I picked up my cup of cold cappuccino and chugged it down, then picked up my paper bags with my now cold paninis. I glanced down at my father’s imploring expression, but no words came to mind.
What exactly was I supposed to say?
Goodbye? Don’t contact me again? I’ll email you?
Each one tasted weird, and neither felt right.
So, I opted for silence and looked towards the door.
But one step forward, and Andrew Platmon’s hand came around my forearm.
“Wait.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, but he didn’t remove his hand. “I…I understand that you may not wish to mix with my family. I would never suggest that either. But…” For the first time, he looked genuinely, openly uncertain of himself. “You are my son. I want to be a part of your life, and I’d like to include you in mine.”
I pulled my arm from his hand. “Just because you want it, doesn’t mean I do too.”
He was quiet for several breaths. “Is there truly no hope of reconciliation? Ever?”
I clenched my teeth, unable to answer.
I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t decide. I didn’t know what to believe of what he’d said or what to want or do now that I’d heard his side of the story.
He took my silence as a positive possibility and said, “It’s Ablah’s eighteenth birthday on Saturday, on the twenty-seventh. She’ll be coming to Touma, and I had planned to throw her a party. Nothing big—she’s oddly not one for big celebrations—but I’m certain she would be happy if you were there. As would I. I can email you the details.”
Say no. Say no, Shehryar, and leave.
That should have been the only thing to do, but…
All I could picture was another wide-eyed version of Esmeralda.
I rolled my jaw, trying to relieve the ache and tightness from it. “I’ll think about it.”
Andrew Platmon offered me a slight smile. “Thank you. For Ablah. And for agreeing to meet me today too. I…hope you have a safe trip back.”
I stared at him, maybe trying to read him, or maybe I was imprinting the softened plains of his face into my memory…just in case. “Don’t contact Mum again.”
And without a backward glance, I left.