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."

a tired hand over his face. "But they’re willing

like Mark Whitmore did not volunteer generosity without purpose. Being second on the billionaire rankings meant Mark played every move like a long

asked,

anyone challenging him. I’m still unsure if I can make it, which means you’ll have

club, and one of those rules required members to reach a specific financial threshold. He exhaled slowly

mark yet. I made the

I never used mine, and I

of relief he had not allowed himself to feel all day. He had indeed forgotten, mostly because the plus-one option had always belonged to Daisy in his mind, and without her

his voice. "I won’t disappoint you. Just try to make it if you

answered, fatigue woven deeply into the

whatever held Voren in California was personal and sensitive enough to keep even his closest friend at a respectful distance. "Get some rest if you can," Ravyn replied. "I’ll handle

thought, preferring to oversee details personally rather than rely entirely on staff. The club rose from the redwoods like a carefully guarded secret redesigned for

combined sleek glass and steel with timber framing,

curved toward the entrance where biometric scanners replaced traditional doormen, and the soft hum of electric luxury vehicles lingered in

stretched overhead, grounding the space in tradition, while sculptural lighting adjusted in tone and

seamlessly onto intelligent surfaces. At the center stood a minimalist column

intimate clusters, each equipped with

his inspection, most members had already arrived, each man accompanied by at least one woman whose presence seemed

low voices, yet the tension beneath them was unmistakable because every agreement forged here had

as a temple of modern power, where secrecy was preserved through technology rather than

a familiar voice behind

Mark Whitmore approaching, a wine glass balanced effortlessly in his hand while two women