Alpha's Regret: The Seventh Time was Forever

Chapter 80 – This Is a Joke, Right?

Ravyn had been staring at the stock charts for so long that the numbers no longer felt like data, but rather accusations. Ever since Damon authorized the transfer, he had monitored every rise and dip with obsessive focus, tracking percentages the way a surgeon tracks a patient’s heartbeat during a high-risk operation.

Technically, he was back in the green. The graphs had turned favorable again, climbing steadily enough to give hope to anyone watching from the outside. But Ravyn was not anyone. He understood margins. He understood targets. And as his eyes traced the figures once more, he knew the truth that refused to soften. He still needed at least ten billion to reach the required mark.

If he had a few more days, perhaps even a week, the natural upward momentum would have carried him there. The projections were promising, the trends aligned, and under ordinary circumstances he would have trusted the math to do its work.

Unfortunately, there was nothing ordinary about his situation, and time had tightened around him in a way that made patience impossible.

Sitting in his Manhattan penthouse, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass that displayed a skyline most men would envy, he felt none of the triumph that space usually symbolized.

The place felt hollow in a way that had nothing to do with architecture. Daisy’s absence lingered in the air like a quiet echo, turning luxury into something strangely lifeless.

His phone vibrated against the polished surface of the table, snapping him out of the spiral of numbers and memory. When he saw Voren’s name on the screen, a subtle tension moved through his chest because Voren never called without reason.

Ravyn answered immediately, his tone controlled but alert. "Voren, what’s going on, is everything alright?"

The exhaustion in Voren’s voice traveled clearly across the line, heavy and frayed around the edges. "No, not really. I’m still in California, and I don’t think I can make it back to Manhattan in time. I’ve been working on moving the meeting over here instead. The Bohemian Grove makes more sense for what we need, and the moment I suggested it, about seventy percent of them agreed."

The name alone carried weight. Bohemian Grove had always been more than a venue. It was a sanctuary for the elite, wrapped in towering redwoods that had witnessed secrets for generations. Ravyn could already picture it, the quiet forest roads, the sense of isolation that made discretion feel effortless.

For billionaires who were accustomed to skyscrapers and constant scrutiny from the media, it offered something Manhattan never could. The illusion of complete freedom.

He considered the logistics carefully because nothing about this level of wealth functioned without calculation. "Relocating everything won’t be cheap," he pointed out, his voice steady as he imagined transportation, accommodations, and security already prepaid in New York. "All of it was arranged in advance."

was my concern too," Voren admitted, and Ravyn could almost hear him rubbing a tired hand over his face. "But they’re willing to split the cost. Actually, Mark Whitmore

without purpose. Being second on the billionaire rankings meant Mark played every move like

covering all of it?" Ravyn asked, letting

I’m still unsure if I can make it,

had written the rules that governed their club, and one of those rules required members

yet. I made the rule myself, and technically I’m out because of

the golden invitation, didn’t you? I never used mine, and I still have my plus-one privilege. If

realization hit him gradually, accompanied by a flicker of relief he had not allowed himself to feel all day. He had indeed forgotten, mostly because the plus-one option had always

sincerely, allowing warmth into his voice. "I won’t disappoint you. Just

fatigue woven deeply into the words. "I haven’t slept through

Voren in California was personal and sensitive enough to keep even his closest friend at a respectful distance. "Get some

thought, preferring to oversee details personally rather than rely entirely on staff. The club rose

sleek glass and steel with timber framing, creating a balance between raw nature

pathways curved toward the entrance where biometric

striking. Massive redwood beams stretched overhead, grounding the space in tradition, while sculptural lighting adjusted in tone and intensity to match the evolving atmosphere

intelligent surfaces. At the center stood a minimalist column of flame encased in glass, its warmth controlled by touch panels embedded within

clusters, each equipped with concealed charging ports

most members had already arrived, each man accompanied by at least one woman whose presence seemed as ornamental as it was

in low voices, yet the tension beneath them was unmistakable because every agreement forged here had the power to influence industries

reborn as a temple of modern

a familiar voice behind

Whitmore approaching, a wine glass balanced effortlessly