Anna's second regression, Alpha regrets it

Chapter 25 — The Night of Confessions

Lina’s apartment smelled like lemon oil and something sweet baking in the oven—the kind of domestic warmth that made secrets feel safer. She’d insisted on a small gathering, a “truth night,” she called it, which was her way of saying she wanted everyone to be honest and slightly tipsy. The guest list was intimate: friends who knew my history, the men who’d circled back into my life, and a few faces I trusted to hold whatever spilled.

The living room was a soft chaos of cushions and low light. Lina had lit candles in mismatched jars and set out a spread of cheeses and olives that made people lean in. The playlist hummed with songs that made you want to sway and confess. I arrived with a bottle of wine and a sense of curiosity that felt like a small, delicious dare.

We started with small talk—work, the weather, the latest book someone couldn’t stop recommending. The conversation loosened like a muscle. Then Lina, with the theatricality I loved, raised her glass. “Confessions,” she announced. “One truth, one regret, and one thing you want to change.”

The game was a dare disguised as intimacy. People laughed and then leaned in. The first confessions were light—embarrassing crushes, childhood mischief. The room warmed. Then the questions turned sharper, the kind that cut through the polite veneer.

When it was Rian’s turn, he set his glass down and looked at me with a steadiness that made my chest tighten. “My truth,” he said, voice low, “is that I thought success would make me whole. My regret is that I let it cost me people I loved. What I want to change is how I measure worth.” He paused, and the room felt like it had inhaled. “Anna,” he added, “I want to be better at choosing you when it matters.”

The words landed like a small bell. They were not a plea; they were a promise shaped by practice. I felt something warm and complicated in my chest—gratitude, caution, a giddy flutter that had nothing to do with being rescued.

Mateo’s confession was messy and immediate. He laughed, then swallowed. “My truth is that I run when things get too quiet. My regret is that I left when I should have stayed. What I want to change is my fear of being ordinary.” He looked at me with paint-stained fingers and eyes that had learned to be honest. “I want to learn how to stay.”

His words were a raw thing, and the honesty made my heart ache. There was a vulnerability in him that had always been his most dangerous charm. It made me want to hold him and also to hold my own ground.

Evan’s turn was quiet and steady. He set his glass down like a small offering. “My truth is that I’ve always loved quietly. My regret is that I didn’t speak sooner. What I want to change is my fear of being too much.” He reached across the cushion and took my hand, the gesture simple and fierce. “I want to be brave enough to ask for what I want.”

The room hummed with the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full of things waiting to be said. People shared confessions—some tender, some sharp. The game became a mirror. I watched faces soften and harden, saw the way truth could be both a balm and a blade.

Then Lina, with a wicked grin, turned to me. “Your turn,” she said. “One truth, one regret, one thing you want to change.”

I felt the old reflex to smooth, to make myself small. Instead I breathed and let the words come like a tide. “My truth is that I woke up younger and kept the receipts. My regret is that I let myself be small for too long. What I want to change is my habit of shrinking to make others comfortable.”

The confession landed differently than I expected. It felt like a shedding. The men around me listened without flinching. Rian’s fingers tightened around his glass. Mateo’s jaw softened. Evan’s thumb rubbed the back of my hand like a benediction.

The night shifted after that. The confessions opened doors. People spoke with a new kind of honesty—about fear, about the ways they’d hurt others, about the small, daily choices that shape a life. A friend admitted she’d been in love with someone who never saw her; another confessed to a betrayal that had cost them a friendship. The room felt like a confessional and a classroom at once.

At some point, the wine loosened tongues and the conversation turned intimate. Mateo pulled me aside to the balcony, the city lights a soft blur below. He leaned close, voice low. “I’m terrified of losing you,” he said. “But I’m more terrified of not trying.”

I felt the heat of him—close, earnest, a little ragged. The air between us was charged. He kissed me then, a kiss that was both apology and promise. It was messy and tender, the kind of kiss that makes you forget the world for a moment. I answered because I wanted to, because the choice was mine.

Rian watched from the doorway, the silhouette of his profile sharp in the dim light. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t demand. He simply stood there, and the sight of him—steady, present—made something in me ache with possibility. He crossed the room and placed a hand on my shoulder, a small, careful touch. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m trying.”

Evan, who had been quiet all evening, came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. His presence was a warm, steady anchor. “You don’t have to decide tonight,” he murmured. “You can take your time.”

The three of them—different constellations of desire—formed a small orbit around me. The night felt like a test and a gift. I was not a prize to be won; I was a woman who had learned to set terms. Yet the tenderness of their confessions made my heart do a curious flip.

We returned inside and the confessions continued, softer now, more intimate. People shared small promises—calls they would make, apologies they would keep. The game had become a pact: to try, to be honest, to be brave.

When the night wound down and guests drifted away, Lina and I sat on the couch with the last of the wine. “You okay?” she asked, voice gentle.

“I am,” I said. “I’m tired and a little raw, but I’m okay.”

She smiled. “You look like someone who’s been given a second chance and decided to spend it on herself.”

I laughed, a small, giddy sound. The confession night had been a mirror and a map. It had shown me who could be brave and who still had work to do. It had made the men in my life more human—flawed, trying, and achingly sincere.

That night I slept with the memory of Mateo’s kiss on my lips, Rian’s hand on my shoulder, and Evan’s arms around my waist. The confessions had not solved anything, but they had opened a space where honesty could grow. I woke the next morning with a sense of possibility that felt like a small, dangerous thrill.