[BL] CRAVING HIM: Addicted to His Voice-Chapter 356: Forgiveness Isn’t Mine to Give

~Zayn’s POV~

Finally, the hands on the clock struck the hour. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and I could hear the evening rush of the restaurant humming just beyond my office door. A soft knock followed, and one of my staff members peeked inside.

"Sir, there’s someone here to see you," the staff member said from the doorway, her voice cautious. "An older man."

I felt my entire body go rigid. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that threatened to choke me. I looked over at Evric, my face pale, the air in the office suddenly feeling far too thin. "It’s him," I whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Evric didn’t hesitate. He reached across the desk and took my hand, his grip solid and grounding. He squeezed my fingers, forcing me to meet his steady, dark eyes.

"Zayn, look at me," he said, his voice settling into that deep, steady command that always silenced the chaos in my mind. "You’re not the same boy he walked away from. You’re a man, a father, and the strongest person I know. You hold the power now. Take a deep breath. Say what you need to say. And remember, no matter what happens, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."

That strength he offered, that tether to the present, was exactly what I needed. I took a shaky breath, feeling the panic recede just enough for me to stand. I leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.

"Thank you," I breathed. "I’m going to step out now."

"Go on," Evric encouraged, his eyes never leaving mine. "I’ll be out in a moment. I’ve got you."

I turned and walked toward the door, my legs feeling like lead. As I pushed through the office door and stepped into the main area of the restaurant, the world seemed to slow down.

And then I saw him.

He didn’t look like a dying man. He stood near the entrance, a man in his mid-fifties dressed in a bespoke suit that spoke of immense success and old money. His silver hair was neatly trimmed, and his posture was impeccably straight. He was undeniably handsome and refined, looking more like a high-powered executive than a patient.

Despite the years, recognition hit me like a physical blow. The shape of his jaw, the way he held himself, it was like looking at a version of my own reflection from the future.

As I approached, his eyes found mine. I saw his composure fracture for just a second; his impeccable mask slipped, revealing a raw, desperate hope. He didn’t move toward me, as if he was afraid that one wrong step would make me disappear.

"Zayn," he said. His voice was rich and steady, but there was a faint tremor at the edges that betrayed the sickness he was hiding under that expensive suit.

I stopped a few feet away from him, my hands shoved into my pockets to hide their shaking. I looked at the man who had caused so much wreckage, yet looked so perfectly put together.

"You’re right on time," I said, my voice clipped and cold.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he took a shallow breath, his eyes tracing my face as if he were trying to memorize every detail he’d missed over the last decade. "I am," he admitted, his voice low and gravelly.

The air between us was suffocating, thick with years of silence and resentment. I couldn’t do this standing in the middle of my restaurant, not with my staff watching and the dinner rush humming around us. I turned without waiting for a response and gestured toward a secluded booth in the far corner, draped in shadows and shielded by heavy velvet curtains.

"Follow me," I said.

We walked in silence. Even with the cancer eating away at him, he moved with a measured, rhythmic elegance, the walk of a man used to commanding boardrooms. We sat down across from each other, the polished mahogany table feeling like a vast, empty canyon between us.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He reached out, his long fingers hovering over the table as if he wanted to reach for my hand, but he thought better of it and pulled back, clenching his fist instead.

"You look remarkably like your mother," he finally spoke, the refinement in his voice cracking just enough to show the pain underneath. "But you have my eyes. And clearly, you have my ambition. This place... It’s impressive, Zayn. You did this without me."

"I did everything without you," I corrected him, leaning back into the shadows of the booth. "I didn’t bring you here to talk about my business," I said, crossing my arms, trying to keep the trembling in my core from reaching my limbs.

He let out a sigh and asked softly, "How have you been doing?"

I gave him a faint, controlled smile. "As you can see... I’m perfectly fine. But you? You’re not."

He opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say more, but I cut him off. "Let’s skip the small talk," I said, my voice sharp. "You’re sick. You’re dying. And suddenly, after all these years of silence, you remember you have a son and a daughter? Why now? Is it guilt, or are you just scared to face that surgery alone?"

He looked down at his hands, the impeccably tailored sleeves of his suit shifting. When he looked back up, his eyes were glassy. "It’s both," he confessed with a raw honesty that caught me off guard. "But mostly, it’s the realization that I spent my life building a legacy of paper and stone, only to realize I left the only things that actually mattered behind in the wreckage."

"I’m facing a door I might not walk back through, Zayn. And as I looked at my life, I realized that all the wealth and the ’bespoke’ suits don’t mean a damn thing if I die as a stranger to my own children. I don’t expect you to forgive me tonight, Zayn. I don’t even know if I deserve to be in this chair. But I couldn’t close my eyes for the last time without seeing the man you’ve become. And I need to see Liana."

I stared at him, feeling a bitter, cold laugh bubble up in my chest. "When you speak, you just sound wicked. Wicked and incredibly selfish."

He flinched as if I’d slapped him, but I didn’t stop.

"You’re talking about forgiveness? I’m sorry, Mr. Hudson," I spat the name out like it was poison.

He flinched again, his head snapping up to meet my eyes. The name—the formal, distant title of a stranger, seemed to hurt him more than any insult could. "Zayn..."

"What?" I snapped, leaning over the table, my voice a low, vibrating hiss of pure rage. "Are you expecting me to call you ’Father’? Are you waiting for me to fall into your arms and tell you it’s okay? Because I’m sorry, but that isn’t going to happen. I will not forgive you." 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

The refined mask he wore began to crumble, but I was too far gone in my own pain to care.

"I didn’t plan to forgive you, and I’m still not planning to," I spat, the words fueled by a decade of suppressed rage. "Because let’s be honest, if you weren’t dying, you wouldn’t even remember you had children..."