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."

"That 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 offered to cover everything himself."

That detail made Ravyn pause because men like Mark Whitmore did not volunteer generosity without purpose. Being second on the billionaire rankings meant Mark played every move like a long game of chess, and Ravyn knew enough to question any gift that came without visible strings.

"He’s covering all of it?" Ravyn asked, letting the implication settle between them.

"Yes," Voren replied. "I think he wants the freedom to enjoy the night without anyone challenging him. I’m still unsure if I can make it, which means you’ll have to step in as chairman for me."

The request landed heavier than expected because Ravyn had written the rules that governed their club, and one of those rules required members to reach a specific financial threshold. He exhaled slowly before answering.

"You know I haven’t reached the mark yet. I made the rule myself, and technically I’m out because of it."

A quiet, weary chuckle escaped Voren. "You forgot about the golden invitation, didn’t you? I never used mine, and I still have my plus-one privilege. If we combine those, you can step in as chairman for this event."

The 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 belonged to Daisy in his mind, and without her beside him the privilege had felt irrelevant.

"Thank you," Ravyn said sincerely, allowing warmth into his voice. "I won’t disappoint you. Just try to make it if you can."

"I’ll try," Voren answered, fatigue woven deeply into the words. "I haven’t slept through the night in days."

Ravyn understood without asking because 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 everything on this end."

He arrived at the Grove earlier than most, or so he 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 the modern era.

Its exterior combined sleek glass and steel with timber framing, creating a balance between raw nature and technological sophistication.

As dusk approached, the reflective panels mirrored the surrounding forest so perfectly that the building appeared to dissolve into the trees. Discreet pathways curved toward the entrance where biometric scanners replaced traditional doormen, and the soft hum of electric luxury vehicles lingered in the hidden parking area.

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

Digital art installations animated the walls, curated pieces that changed with the season and projected seamlessly onto intelligent surfaces. At the center stood a minimalist column of flame encased in glass, its warmth controlled by touch panels embedded within nearby seating.

Modular lounges upholstered in sustainable fabrics formed intimate clusters, each equipped with concealed charging ports and holographic displays for private presentations.

By the time Ravyn finished his inspection, most members had already arrived, each man accompanied by at least one woman whose presence seemed as ornamental as it was strategic.

Conversations unfolded in low voices, yet the tension beneath them was unmistakable because every agreement forged here had the power to influence industries and governments alike.

The setting felt like a rustic retreat reborn as a temple of modern power, where secrecy was preserved through technology rather than darkness.

"Ravyn Walker," came a familiar voice behind him.

He turned to find Mark Whitmore approaching, a wine glass balanced effortlessly in his hand while two women lingered at his sides.

Mark carried himself with the composed confidence of someone who rarely faced resistance. "I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight," he said smoothly.

"I’m representing Voren," Ravyn replied, offering a restrained smile. "He should have informed everyone by now."

Mark glanced at his phone, reading the confirmation message before lifting his brows slightly. "I have no objection to your presence," he said after a moment. "I just hope Voren manages to attend. The gathering tends to become chaotic around midnight, and he’s the only one who knows how to keep it under control."

Ravyn agreed silently because he had witnessed firsthand how excessive wealth and alcohol could erode restraint. "I hope he makes it as well," he responded evenly.

Before the conversation could continue, the entrance doors opened again, drawing subtle attention across the room. Two figures stepped inside, and the atmosphere altered in a way that was difficult to explain yet impossible to ignore.

James Hawthorne entered first, with his wife, Mila Hawthorne, his expression reflecting pride as he scanned the room.

Beside them walked Leon Hawthorne, impeccably dressed and carrying himself with an effortless blend of elegance and authority that cameras adored. At his side was a woman whose appearance caused Ravyn’s gaze to linger longer than intended.

She looked different from how he remembered her, styled with refined precision, her presence polished to match the grandeur of the setting. For a brief second he did not place her, and then the familiar scent of her perfume reached him, unmistakable and uniquely hers.

They approached directly. "Mr. Walker," James began formally, "it is an honor to introduce my son, Leon Hawthorne."

Leon extended his hand with practiced confidence. "Mr. Walker, I’ve heard a great deal about you and have seen you on the news many times."

Ravyn accepted the handshake firmly, but his focus had already moved to the woman beside him. The recognition settled slowly yet decisively, and his chest tightened as he spoke her name before he could stop himself. "Sera, what are you doing here?"

Leon’s posture changed subtly as he withdrew his hand and wrapped his arm around her waist with unmistakable familiarity. "It seems you already know each other," Leon remarked lightly. "Allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Seraphine Walker."

The words reverberated through Ravyn with startling force, draining the color from his face as disbelief spread through him like cold water.

He stared at Seraphine, searching her expression for some sign of explanation, some flicker that would undo what he had just heard. His voice emerged low and strained, carrying confusion.

"This has to be a joke, right?"