The Alpha King Who Saved Christmas

Regret Isn’t Loud (Marcus POV)

“You don’t get to rewrite what you destroyed.”

Tyra’s words slice through the air like they belong to her, like she owns them...

but they land in my chest because they’re aimed at me.

I stare at her across the dim lounge of her penthouse, Christmas lights blinking behind the glass walls like they’re mocking us both. Red. Gold. Perfect. Everything Sydney would’ve loved.

Everything I ruined.

“I didn’t destroy anything,” Tyra continues, pouring herself another drink, lips curling. “I exposed it. You were bored. She was predictable. I just gave you permission.”

“Stop,” I say, my voice low, raw. “Just… stop talking.”

She laughs softly, a sound that used to thrill me. Now it makes my skin crawl.

“You’re spiraling over a woman who cried a lot and ran a charity,” she says casually. “Marcus, please. She was never enough for you.”

That does it.

I move before I think, standing so abruptly the chair scrapes harshly against marble. “Don’t say her name like that.”

Tyra raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like she was disposable.”

Her smile fades. Not completely—but enough.

“Oh,” she says slowly. “So that’s it. You’re really choosing her.”

“I didn’t choose you,” I snap. “I made a mistake. A stupid, selfish, irreversible mistake.”

She scoffs. “You kissed me back.”

“I was weak,” I admit, chest tight. “But I was never in love with you.”

The silence that follows is thick. Dangerous.

Tyra sets her glass down with deliberate calm. “Careful, Marcus.”

“No,” I say. “I’m done being careful.”

I turn away from her, my heart hammering as I pull my phone from my pocket. My hands shake as I open Sydney’s contact—still saved as My Miracle.

I hit call.

Straight to voicemail.

I try again.

Blocked.

My stomach drops.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no—”

I open every app. Messages. w******p. i********:. Even email.

Blocked.

Blocked.

Blocked.

“She cut you off,” Tyra says behind me, satisfied. “Smart girl.”

I spin on her. “What did you do?”

She laughs. “Nothing. This one’s all you.”

I leave.

I don’t even grab my coat.

The cold hits me like punishment the moment I step outside. Snow dusts the sidewalks, Christmas music drifting from somewhere distant. Couples laugh. Hands intertwine. Someone kisses beneath a glowing arch of lights.

I walk through it all like a ghost.

Seven years.

Seven years and she blocked me in less than seven minutes.

I pull my phone back out, my fingers numb, and type a message from a different number.

Sydney. Please. Just talk to me. I can explain.

Delivered.

No response.

I sink onto a bench outside the hotel—the Hamilton Empire State towering above me like judgment itself.

And then I see him.

Drake Hamilton.

He stands near the entrance, coat dark, posture relaxed—but his presence is impossible to miss. Like the city bends around him without realizing it.

He’s on the phone. Then he looks up.

At me.

Our eyes lock.

And I swear—I swear—the temperature drops.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t scowl.

He simply watches me like a man studying a problem he already solved.

He ends the call and walks closer.

Every instinct in me screams to run.

I don’t.

“You should stop,” he says calmly.

My jaw tightens. “Stop what?”

“Looking for her.”

My pulse spikes. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

A pause.

Then he steps closer.

And suddenly I understand something terrifying.

This man isn’t just rich.

He isn’t just powerful.

He’s dangerous.

“She doesn’t belong to your regret,” Drake says softly. “And she’s not yours to chase.”

I swallow hard. “You barely know her.”

A hint of something dark flickers in his eyes.

“I know enough.”

“And what—” my voice cracks, betraying me, “—you’re just going to take her from me?”

Drake leans in just enough that I can feel the threat beneath his restraint.

“You lost her,” he says. “All on your own.”

He turns away.

Then stops.

Without looking back, he adds, voice deadly calm—

“And if you try to touch her pain again…”

He pauses.

“…you’ll learn what real regret feels like.”

He walks inside.

I sit there, shaking, snow settling on my shoulders like ash.

My phone buzzes.

One new message.

Unknown Number.

I open it with trembling fingers.

This is your last warning. Leave Sydney Walters alone.

I whisper into the cold night, my voice breaking—

“What did I lose?”

And somewhere above me, the hotel lights flicker like an answer I’m not ready to face.

“Marcus,” a voice says behind me, sweet and poisonous, “you really don’t know who you’re up against.”