A naked woman was in his shower. And it wasn't even someone he knew, It was a stranger, stripped naked just as the day she was born while having a blast in his shower.

Xander McQueen was clueless about her identity. At the very least, he didn't believe he had previously seen any of the flesh he was gaping at from the transparent glass door of his shower.

With his heart thumping and his thoughts still hazy from sleep, he froze, wide-eyed in between the bedroom and bathroom floor of his elegant apartment in Kensington, London.

He ran a hand through his tangled brown hair and mumbled to himself, "You're dreaming."

He must have pressed the snooze button one too many times the previous night.

That had to be it! Or what else could explain this? No sober man would wake up to the sound of running water and a tall, curvy blonde singing off-key in his shower.

But then, why wasn't he enjoying it if it was indeed a dream? Because he felt a tight coil of distrust tightening in his gut instead of excitement.

He wasn't daydreaming. He was making calculations in his head. He was thinking of possible escape paths. Domestic weapons. Backup. Phone…. in that sequence.

However, his curiosity soon took the best of him. He took a step towards her. She appeared as a silhouette of sun-kissed skin and her long, damp hair was only a little blurry through the frosted glass.

Completely relaxed, as though she were supposed to be there, she swung here and there while cleaning.

Xander gave a blink. But not at all, he wasn't dreaming. She was still there. Still naked. And the situation was still a total mystery to him.

How on earth had she entered? The locks were the latest in technology. Cams for security. The floor had a private elevator. No one just wanders into the penthouse in Kensington.

However, she had.

And now, as if this were a spa commercial, she was soaping herself and singing about daisies.

Ready to pick up his phone and dial security, he pivoted on his heel.

But just then, the bathroom glass door whoosed open and she walked right out. Dripping. Grinning while still naked.

As if this were coffee and pastries on a patio, she remarked brightly, "Good morning, Xander, hon. Had a good sleep?"

Having stopped in his tracks, he blinked. "You know my name?"

"I certainly do, hon." She tossed a strand of damp hair over one shoulder. "I take it you don't remember me." Her tone was overly upbeat. Her big, blue eyes were too delighted. And her smile? An unadulterated mayhem encased in silk.

He cautiously remarked, "I don't think we've met," before snatching up a towel from a nearby stand and thrusting it towards her.

She didn't recoil. She simply chuckled. "Calm down. Don't look at me as I'm insane. I'm not.”

"Arguable." Xander muttered under his breath, his hand still holding the clean towel.

With a dramatic sigh, she accepted the towel and wrapped it over herself as if she were doing him a favor. “It's me. Zara Blake. From the Westmark Hotel's gala. We did a dance. You said I had eyes like summer lightning….” She chuckled again, seductively fiddling with a strand of her hair. “That they were beautiful.”

Xender's eyes narrowed, trying to recollect. "I said that?"

"Yes, you did. You meant it, too.”

He racked his memory. He did attended a gala at the Westmark Hotel. There were socialites, champagne and cameras. A dance. Perhaps two.

However, that was no reason for a lady to break into his apartment to take an early shower uninvited.

Zara left a trail of attitude and water as she padded barefoot into the bedroom. She plopped on the edge of his bed and stated, "I called a locksmith. I told him I had left my keys behind. When I smile this way….” She tilted her head to the side and flashed off a smile that ought to have been prohibited. “Guys do whatever I want.”

"That's... illegal," Xander countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"In a technical sense," she shrugged. “But romantic, isn't it? I heard you were lonely, which is why I came and had to go to all this trouble. “

He gazed hard at her. "What? I'm not lonely. What gave you that—"

“Yes, you are, hon. But you're attractive. Thus…” The towel slipped dangerously as she strained unnecessarily while talking. "I reasoned that I could take a shower and try my hand at shooting my shot instead of waiting for fate."

"You broke into my house, " Xander snapped.

She cocked her head. "You're not angry. You're interested.”

She wasn't entirely mistaken, he was getting interested. But he wasn't sure if her strength came from lunacy or confidence.

Who was this movie-star-smiling, boundary-less woman? Why in the world was she staring at him as if she had known him for ages?

She got back up and moved closer, meeting his gaze. Something changed in the air between them. It became Charged. "You don't recall how you held me on that dance floor, do you?" Her voice was nearly a whisper when she spoke.

He didn't respond.

"You told me that my laughter restored your humanity. A rhythm. Or perhaps you were simply intoxicated."

Now she was so near. He was close enough to smell her skin's subtle fragrance. Vanilla. Or perhaps peaches. His heart pounded more vigorously.

Her blue eyes were unexpectedly vulnerable as she stared up at him. "You know you don't have to pretend you don't want me? I've already been told that you're lonely and you're ready to settle down into a meaningful relationship." She remarked with a casual shrug.

Xander came to a complete halt, his eyes sharp. "You heard what?"

"That you're desperate to find a wife," Zara continued. "It is so cute, you know, that a hot guy like you would be so shy when it comes to approaching a lady," she laughed coyly.

She went on when Xander only stared at her, confused. “You've always been so attractive and a catch too, and I'm not dating anyone anyway. So I thought, why not do us both a favor and give the hottie, poor Xander, a dream come true?" She stretched out her two hands in opposite directions, laughing once again.

“Oh my God." Xander rubbed his head and moaned. "Where did you hear this?"

“From the table tennis club where I play, The Petals Parrish. I heard Eleanor, the snooty daughter of Ms. Petals, telling her cousin and her friend in the ladies room that your mother had informed her that you were in a desperate search for—”

"What? My mom said I was desperate?” Xander's voice was one of pure shock. He should have known, though.

Alexandra McQueen, his mom, the most difficult and cunning mother in the world. And he had her all to himself.

He really ought to have known. His mother had to be at the center of any rumors that he was searching for a "meaningful relationship."

He raked a hand through his hair. Then, he stared at her for a minute, towel, smirk and all. He scoffed and muttered under his breath. “Great. First a naked stranger in my shower... now a rumor I’m auditioning for a wife. What’s next—matching monogrammed towels?”

It seemed like he was going to have a long day although it was hardly morning yet. He wished he could just boot Zara out of his space and get on with it already.

But how does one handle a lady who had been made to believe he was desperate for a woman?

Alexandra McQueen had been trying to marry her only son off since he turned twenty-five.

She desperately wanted him to get married. And not just to any lady, but to anything that had a family crest and an uterus.

She yearned for heirlooms handed between polished hands, Sunday brunches with well-dressed toddlers, and grandkids.

Legacy wasn't merely an idea to her. It was a mission. The perfect prospects, in her opinion, were Zara Blake and her Ivy League group: beautiful faces, old money, and last names that had value at country clubs.

This situation that morning was essentially a matchmaking operation.

Zara, utterly unconcerned that she was practically half naked, threw her damp hair over one shoulder.

With an unapologetic smile, she spoke again, "Look, I know this seems… weird, but I figured I had to make a move when I heard Eleanor Petals yammering about how she was going to play your personal Florence Nightingale. I am more intelligent than she is, don't you think?”

Xander didn't think so. He gave her a blink. Not once. Not twice. He checked three times to make sure this wasn't the worst rom-com fever dream ever.

"My mom is mistaken,” He mumbled, looking for her clothing on the floor, "And so is anyone she's talked into believing I'm desperate. I'm not looking for Ms. Right or even any Ms at all.”

"But—"

Like a bouncer ejecting a highly privileged visitor, he seized her elbow and began guiding her down the corridor. "Where are your clothes?" He asked slowly and clearly as if addressing a little child. Or an extremely brazen raccoon.

"What's the rush?"

"Oh, right here." He gestured to the stack of high-end athletic apparel that was slickly stretched across the love seat in his living room. "You can get dressed in the kitchen."

"What? In the kitchen?!" She let out a gasp as if he had just asked her to peel potatoes.

He tossed her a silk blouse and shrugged. “I apologize, but I need my room. I need to get ready for work.”

"So I'm meant to see myself out?"

"Exactly. The door is there. Make use of it. I'm sure you can find your way around.”

Shocked, Zara gazed at him. “Well, It's no wonder you're unable to get a girl. You're damn rude!”

Xander refrained from pointing out the irony in the situation. He so wanted to yell that she was the rude one that barged into his apartment uninvited, but he decided against it on a second thought.

There was a heavy sigh, followed by a theatrical hair flip, and then the sound of heels stomping on polished hardwood came next.

With theatrical precision, the door banged. "Goodbye," Xander whispered.

She would hopefully scare off all the other socialites by broadcasting his "rudeness" to every other one her phone could reach. He desperately hoped that would happen.

He was still perplexed by Alexandra's declaration that his single status was open season.

She had always been dramatic, to be sure, but this? Putting together what amounted to a ‘socialite stampede?’ It was below the belt, even for her.

As he stood beneath the same hot shower Zara had just been, he wondered whether it was all a great mistake. Perhaps his mother's innocuous remark at a gala caused matchmaking fever to break out.

With hope, he reassured himself, "Perhaps the worst is over."

After all, the other candidates undoubtedly probably have superior judgment, even if Zara believed he was a "catch," her words, not his. The others would know better, won't they?

Even if they thought he was eligible, attractive and a hunk, it was insufficient to land someone in a one-woman ambush.

And as for being eligible, well, maybe on paper. The family name was prominent enough to be in the appropriate circles and Alexandra did consider herself one of the creme-de-la-creme of the society.

However, the wealth was long gone. Like cigar ash off a tuxedo lapel, it dried up and was carried away.

A long time ago, the family had established themselves as a leading manufacturer of horse-drawn carriages so elegant that they nearly whispered, ‘old money,’ through the distinguished McQueen & Sons Custom Transport.

But, the family fortunes whimpered along with the advent of posh vehicles rolling in while horse carriages rolled out.

By the time Xander became an adult, what the McQueen had left was a town named after them, McQueenville and an almost run-down business.

The McQueen 'legacy' was more of Alexandra's fantasy and a big, fancy, bicycle shop for old, nostalgic rich people.

Xander had chosen not to participate in the fantasy. After complying with his mother's demands for black-tie rewards, he went back to his regular life.

No drivers. No parties in penthouses. Just a simple, elegant apartment, a good espresso maker, and a tiny business that he was genuinely interested in.

It was known as Vault Point Athletics and focused on high-performance pole vaulting gear, such as grip technology, fiberglass poles, and matting. It wasn't particularly sexy, but it covered his expenses.

Most significantly, it helped him stay sane. That is, until that morning, he believed. He believed his life was modest enough, so who'd want him?

For the first time, he was glad that the family's fortune had dwindled. It actually put him in a good mood.

Hastily dressing himself in casual wear, even though it was mid-week, he grabbed his car keys and wallet and left the apartment.

In the parking lot, he jumped into his car and took off for his office. But his good mood didn't last long.

Dread struck him in the stomach as he turned into the office parking lot. There were six unknown cars parked outside.

His office was small, barely spacious enough to accommodate him, his secretary and a collection of sporting equipment on one side of the wall. Also, a depressing attempt at interior design featured a real javelin mounted like a museum piece and framed old race posters on the other side of the wall.

The office wasn't set up to handle a stampede. But it was stampede that morning.

As soon as he walked through the door, he regretted it. Six women were cramped up on the waiting chairs, suspiciously eying one another.

“What's going on?” He frowned, looking ahead to his secretary, Denise but the latter didn't get a chance to reply before a redhead in high heels yelled, "I'M FIRST!" and jumped up as if she were winning something on a game show.

With the grin of a ravenous bear, a woman wearing a fur coat yelled right back, "Back off! I was here before you!"

Another, all cheekbones and bones, with her asymmetrical bob flying madly, snorted, "Oh please. A compliment isn't even something you can vault."

It was chaos all of a sudden, with voices rising, heels clacking, and perfume whirling thick enough to suffocate a man.

Like a guy fleeing a battlefield, Xander quickly snuck into his office, locked the door behind him and jumped behind his desk.

Leaning against it, he panted. At a second thought, he moved and pushed a chair under the door knob, just for good measure.

He had always participated in athletics. He had stared down linebackers weighing 300 pounds.

A rival had once used a javelin grip to strike him in the ribs. But it wasn't as bad as this.

This was worse. This was warfare of the mind. Using lipstick. "Why, Mother?" He said to himself as he gazed at the ceiling. “Why?”

The phone suddenly rang. He stopped. A part of him was reluctant to respond. He already knew that this would not go well.

However, curiosity prevailed. He took it up. "Hello?"

A chaotic mix of voices bled through the line.

And then, through the static and shouting, a silky voice purred, “I hope you’re ready, darling. Because we haven’t even started.”

Xander blinked, utterly horrified. The voice was familiar.

Too familiar. But it wasn’t Denise, his secretary's voice.

What now?

Xander stared at his phone like it had just growled at him.

That voice—silky, smug, and dripping with “You’ll never escape me” energy—was unmistakable.

It took a few painful beats to register. “Zara,” He said flatly.

“Surprised?” She purred. “You shouldn’t be. “Did you think I’d give up that easily? After you basically kicked me out naked, I thought I at least deserved a call-back. Or a muffin. Blueberry. Extra gratitude.”

He pressed his fingers to his temple. “Zara, I didn’t kick you out naked. I pointed to your designer leggings and suggested the kitchen might be a discreet place to dress.”

“You banished me like I was Cinderella—except with better cheekbones.”

“You broke into my apartment like a sparkly raccoon with contours.”

Zara tsked. “Honestly, if you’d just stop fighting fate, you might enjoy yourself. Besides, my father plays golf with your mother.”

“Oh, great. Then maybe he can marry her.”

She laughed like she thought that was flirty. It wasn’t.

Xander was halfway to pretending the signal had cut out when his phone blessedly beeped with a waiting call.

Denise. Glorious, competent, underpaid Denise.

“Zara,” He said, voice suddenly bright with sarcasm, “I’d love to keep diving into this emotional swimming pool without a lifeguard, but I’ve got another call—from someone I pay to talk to. So, can I politely ask you to get lost?”

It was unlike him to be rude but God knows he wasn't himself at that moment.

“Wait, Xander—”

Click.

“Denise,” he said, breathing her name like it was his last hope. “Please tell me you’re calling to report an actual emergency. Fire. Flood. Unexploded bomb. Anything that ends with an evacuation.”

There was a pause.

Then Denise’s dry, deadpan voice rolled in like salvation. “Good morning, sir. I’m calling because we’ve got a Category Five headache out here. What the hell have you done to—”

“Don’t even ask, Denise.” He interrupted her. “Let's sort out the problem first. Maybe I could bring them in one by one and negotiate a peace treaty?”

“No. Absolutely not. If you let one through the door, the others will riot. I’m not dying today in kitten heels.”

Feeling perplexed, Xander closed his eyes while rubbing his forehead. “What then? You want me to come out there?”

“That’s worse. You’d be ripped apart before you reached the coffee cart.”

He sighed. “What do they want?”

She dropped her voice. “Oh, they've made that pretty clear. You.”

He laughed bitterly. “Do I look like a limited edition handbag?”

“Hard to say, sir. One of them just asked what cologne you use so she could have it bottled as wedding favors.”

He groaned. “Jeez.”

“What started this? Did you accidentally post a ‘bachelor clearance sale’ ad somewhere? Because judging by the stilettos and trust funds out here, they came prepared for a bidding war.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s my mother. She turned herself into a social strategist and matchmaking terrorist overnight.”

First Zara Blake. Now six more just like her—each richer, louder, and more determined. It was like his mother had drafted the roster for a reality show titled ‘Fiancée Wars.’

Even if he escaped today’s chaos, what if another batch showed up tomorrow? Or worse, later in the day?

“How many more of these ‘eligible’ women has my mother revved up?” he muttered.

There was no answer—just his sanity quietly packing a suitcase.

To make matters worse, he had a client coming in: Ferdinand Levee, high-powered sports agent and golf-course gossip sponge. Their meeting could make or break the future of his business.

But how could business happen when his front office looked like a casting call for ‘The Real Housewives of Kensington?

“If Levee sees this circus, I’ll be a meme by lunch. Any chance we can bribe them to leave?” He asked.

“I tried. The one in the fur coat offered me a bribe—to be her maid of honor.”

“So... no?”

“That’s a run.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is the javelin still in the umbrella stand?”

“Still mounted. I dusted it this morning. Ready for use when you are.”

For the first time that day, Xander cracked a smile. “I don’t suppose we can call the police,” he joked, half-serious.

“Actually,” Denise replied a little too eagerly, “We can. But what do I report? That you're being hunted by a herd of weaponized heiresses?”

Looking absent minded, Xander whispered, more to himself than to Denise. “I’m being punished for my sins. That’s what this is.”

A pause.

“Because of that dumb college club you were in?” Denise asked. “The Apex... something?”

He winced. The Apex League. God help him.

What had started as a stupid campus joke between him, Harry, Dan, and Troy—four guys, one leather-bound manifesto, and way too much hair gel—had somehow spiraled into legend.

The name was a joke. The club was a joke. But apparently, the universe hadn’t gotten the memo.

They’d sworn brotherhood. Swagger. No emotional attachments unless there’s a prenup and press release.

Idiots.

But It really did start out as a joke—a smug little brotherhood of charm and cologne, complete with a leather-bound rulebook and an oath sworn over a bottle of cheap whiskey.

But by senior year, The Apex League had become legend. And legends, as Xander knew too well, had a nasty way of coming back to haunt you.

Just like now. It was all coming back around.

“I told you so,” a voice said in his head.

It wasn’t real, but it was vivid. That voice? It unarguably his old friend, Bieber Waverley.

Bieber had been his best friend, his conscience and constant critic way back in college.

Hand on hip, eyes blazing, she’d warned him. “You want to be part of some apex-level meat parade? Fine. But don’t come crying to me when women start treating you like grade-A steak.”

Xander chuckled at the memory, even now.

Bieber—fierce, brilliant, unsparingly honest—had always been the one person who made him question his own ego.

While the rest of them were skipping class and chasing keg parties, Bieber was writing policy memos and storming student government meetings.

She looked sweet and unassuming: heart-shaped face, long dark hair, barely five-four. But the attitude? Towering.

She’d been right, of course. She always was.

He hadn’t spoken to her in years.

He wondered what she’d say now—watching him drown in exactly the mess she’d predicted.

With one last sigh, he stood up, adjusted his collar, and tried to will his pulse into something that didn’t resemble a jackhammer.

Then Denise’s voice came through the intercom again, sounding strained. “Sir, the situation is getting worse out here. You need to make a decision.”

“Why, did another batch show up or what?” Xander asked looking alert.

There was a pause.

“One of the ladies is crying. Another is threatening to livestream a ‘McQueen Betrayal Tell-All.’ And the one in the fur coat just asked where your bathroom is.”

Xander closed his eyes. He was totally done for, this sinfully beautiful day.