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.

Xander stared at the intercom, jaw slack. “What? A livestream? Of what?” The questions rolled out in a single breath.

“Something about ‘the truth behind your bachelor facade,’” Denise replied. “Also, another one is trying to bribe the janitor for your floor plan.”

He muttered a string of words that would’ve scandalized his mother’s prayer group, then grabbed his blazer like it was a riot shield. “I need an escape route. I have to get out of here ASAP.”

“I already tried the freight elevator,” Denise said. “Blocked. They cornered the florist and took over the west corridor.”

“Oh, come on—”

“And the coffee guy.”

“No!”

“Espresso machine’s a hostage now. Sorry.”

Xander paced in a tight circle, dragging a hand through his hair. “This is insane. This is fine china-throwing, diamond-stiletto-wearing insanity.”

“You could try pretending to be in a coma,” Denise offered. “Or we call your mother and ask her to collect her pawns.”

“That’s not a solution. That’s inviting more chaos in heels.” He stopped pacing. His mind, finally clearing through the caffeine and panic, latched onto one name. One person.

Someone who’d always been better at handling drama than he ever was—who could negotiate with protestors, disarm passive-aggressive sorority presidents, and debate professors into stunned silence.

Someone who could walk straight into a storm of high-maintenance socialites and come out holding their handbags and their loyalty.

Bieber Waverley.

The thought dropped into his brain like a lifeline. Bieber Waverley—not the pop star. His real Bie, as he fondly called her. The no-nonsense, sharp-tongued, former college best friend and academic savior.

She’d always seen through his charm and posturing like it was cellophane, and she’d never been afraid to call him out.

In fact, if she saw this current disaster, she’d probably fold her arms, raise one brow, and declare, “Congratulations. The meat parade has circled back.”

He actually smiled at the thought. Back in college, when he was still a half-baked jock with more opinions than brain cells, she’d been his compass.

While his Apex League brothers were busy drafting ego-soaked oaths and making girls sign “consent contracts” written in cocktail napkins, Bieber was helping him outline anthropology papers and dragging him to tutoring sessions.

She was sharp. She was sane. And—God bless her—she didn’t own a fur coat.

Why hadn’t he thought of her earlier? He stopped pacing and headed straight for his desk. “Denise,” he said, suddenly sounding far more confident, “Hold the line. I’m calling in a specialist.”

She sounded curious. “Security? PR? FBI?”

“Bieber Waverley.”

Pause.

“The pop star?”

“No. The real Bieber.” He flipped open his ancient Rolodex—yes, he still had one—and scanned the B's like a man on a mission. “Let’s hope she hasn’t blocked me,” He muttered, punching in the number.

Denise remarked, “She?..... Wow, you're full of surprises, aren't you boss?”

Ignoring her comment, Xander concentrated on the task at hand. It was his only hope out of the mess he had found himself in.

First ring. Second. Then—click. “Harrington, Pembroke & Associates. This is Ms. Waverley’s office,” A crisp voice answered, sounding very formal.

Not her voice. Not his Bieber's.

Xander straightened, clearing his throat. “Is Bie in, please?”

“Ms. Weaverly,” The woman said, each syllable starched and pressed, her voice dipped in corporate disapproval, “Is in a client meeting. Is there some way I can help you?”

That tone. The kind that could curdle milk and dissolve weak men.

Xander adjusted his grip on the phone. “Do you know how long she’s expected to be in the meeting?”

“I really couldn’t say.” The iciness on the line was unmistakable. If this receptionist had access to lasers, he’d be a pile of ash. What the hell had he done to offend her already? He hadn’t even flirted. Well, not yet.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she repeated, this time with more frostbite.

He could practically hear her mentally labeling him ‘Annoying Male Caller #47.’

Xander leaned back, spinning his chair away from the rising noise in the lobby. It now sounded like a stampede. Or maybe a revolution.

Something involving heels, hairspray, and high-pitched threats.

He lowered his voice. “Just… please tell Bie that Xander called. Ask her to get back to me as soon as she can.”

There was a pause.

Then came the chill. “Would that be Mr. Alexander?”

“Alexander McQueen,” he said flatly. “But I doubt she knows more than one Xander with a reputation for poor timing.”

“And this is regarding…?”

“It’s personal.”

“And would she have your number?”

“She has it,” He snapped, getting impatient.

“Still, I should write it down. She might not—”

“She has it,” He cut in. “Thank you.”

Before she could recite the company’s privacy policy, he slammed the receiver down with enough force to make the desk vibrate.

God.

First the society heiresses, now the gatekeeping Ice Queen of Legal Towers.

He was one interruption away from pulling a full Gatsby and disappearing forever.

He’d barely exhaled when the phone rang again.

He pounced. “Bie?”

“No,” came Denise’s low hiss. “It’s me. I got the police to come out—but the second I told them what was happening, they started laughing. One of them asked if we were shooting a reality show.”

Xander pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perfect.”

“That’s not the worst part,” She continued. “Ferdinand Levee just got here.”

He froze. “Ferdinand?”

“Yes. And he’s not helping. First, he tried to get the cops to lay odds on which woman would reach your office door first—then he hijacked my phone and called his friends to set up a betting pool.”

Xander’s stomach dropped. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“He’s calling it The McQueen Matrimonial Sweepstakes,” She said, voice tight with disbelief. “Entry fee, fifty bucks. Winner gets naming rights to your firstborn.”

Xander slumped in his chair. “Of course he is.”

“And now,” Denise continued grimly, “One of the women’s publicists just arrived with a camera crew. They’re filming testimonials. Apparently they think this is some underground matchmaking competition. One just called it The Bachelor: Billionaire Edition.”

Xander’s head hit the desk with a thud. “They’re printing hashtags, boss. Hashtags. I saw a sign that said #McqueenWife2025.”

He groaned. “Did anyone bring a tranquilizer dart?”

There was a pause.

Then Denise asked in a whisper, “What do you want me to do?”

He lifted his head slowly. “Bet the farm on ‘no wedding and no bride.’ And maybe get Ferdinand off my property before TMZ shows up.”

Denise sighed. “I already tried. He offered the police chief court side seats to a Lakers game.”

Xander blinked. “Did they take them?”

“They’re considering it.”

For a long, horrifying second, Xander just sat there, listening to the chaos on the other side of the wall.

He could make out shrieking, champagne corks, what sounded suspiciously like a ukulele, and a woman shouting, “I brought a prenup with gold trim!”

How had it come to this? And worse—how had Bieber seen this coming five years ago?

Somewhere in the mess of memories and regret, he heard her voice again. Calm, sarcastic, smug. “Someday, Xander McQueen, this League nonsense is going to backfire so hard, you’ll need a rescue team.”

Well, the explosion had arrived. And unless he wanted to be married by sundown, his best bet was calling in the one woman who knew how to detonate this circus with surgical precision.

Bieber. She’d mock him. She’d definitely roll her eyes. But if anyone could disarm a war room full of designer stilettos and overactive ovaries, it was her.

Now if only her secretary would pass on the message.

He stood up, squared his shoulders, and rubbed his temples.

Just then, the building's fire alarm started blaring.

Denise’s voice buzzed back through the intercom. “Okay. Slight update. Someone just pulled the fire alarm to get the other women out of the way. It was the one in the Valentino dress.”

Xander swore. “Which one is she?”

“She brought a lawyer.”

Of course she did. He stared into the middle distance.

This wasn’t just a crisis. This was a full-blown, high-gloss, glitter-dusted apocalypse.

And he was smack in the middle. He reached for the phone again. If Bieber didn’t call back soon, he might need to start a GoFundMe to rebuild his career.