Page 113 of Tall, Royal Hater
“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.Thatman 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 insurancecompany. 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.”
