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.

Bieber Waverley was having a very good day. A deft bit of manoeuvring here, a persuasive phone call there—and voilà, she’d secured a £4.5 million settlement for one of the firm’s most high-profile clients.

No court appearance. No depositions. Not a single motion filed. Just strategic brilliance and a voice like velvet over the phone.

The client had been rich to begin with, of course. Now, he was richer—and so was Harrington, Pembroke & Associates, that walked away with a neat one-third of the total.

“All hail Ms Rainmaker,” Bieber murmured with smug satisfaction as she swept into her elegant, compact, office in the heart of London’s legal district.

She was about to kick off her pumps and bask in the three-degree glimpse of the Thames from her window when she noticed a human blockade in the form of her new secretary—Phyna.

The young lady was practically vibrating with disapproval. “Your phone has been ringing off the hook,” Phyna snapped, holding out a fan of pink message slips like they were toxic. “I thought you’d never get out of that meeting.”

Bieber barely masked her irritation. Phyna had been with her for barely two weeks but had already scaled Everest in the ‘Most Annoying Person on Earth’ competition.

Condescending, gossipy, and constantly clutching her pearls over imagined impropriety, she was the workplace equivalent of a migraine.

“Who called?” Bieber asked, scanning her mental shortlist. “Clington Muller? Ryan Chase? Larry Locke?”

“No. Just one man. And it wasn't a business call, if you ask me.” Phyna sniffed. “He kept calling you Bee or something, which is terribly unprofessional. I answered, ‘Ms weaverly’s office,’ very properly, of course. But he just barreled through, Bee this and Bee that. Quite disturbing.”

Bieber stopped listening from the point where Phyna mentioned Bee. Bie. Not Bee.

A cold ripple of dread ran down her spine. Only one man ever called her that.

Alexander McQueen.

“Please, not Xander. Not today.” Her heart flipped and flailed like a fish out of water.

She’d only just said ‘yes’ to Michael Reed, political golden boy and her freshly-minted fiancé the preview day.

They were going to have clever, ethically-minded children, a Georgian townhouse in Islington, and the kind of high-octane marriage featured in The Economist's wedding section.

Perfect. Predictable. Sensible. Three words that had never, ever, applied to Xander McQueen.

“Tell me it wasn’t Xander,” she said, her voice tight.

“Oh, it was Mr Xander McQueen,” Phyna said with relish, peering at the slips. “Seven calls in two hours. Honestly, doesn’t he have a job? And what kind of name is Xander? Sounds like an app meant for transferring documents.”

Bieber clenched her jaw. “It’s a family name. It's short for Alexander Grey McQueen, the fourth.”

“Well, la-di-da.” Phyna narrowed her eyes. “Is he a friend of yours? Or maybe an old flame?”

“No,” Bieber lied instantly. “Just someone from university. Wycliffe College, Oxfordshire. We... occasionally keep in touch. Not consistently.”

Not consistently was one hell of a way to put it. Chaotic intrusion was another.

Just yesterday, she’d made a solemn vow: no more letting Xander crash into her meticulously crafted world like a wrecking ball in designer loafers. She was done. He was over.

Bieber dropped into the nearest chair, dizzy from the emotional whiplash.

Xander McQueen, back again. Always him. She had hated him at first sight. Back in their first term at Wycliffe College, he and his band of charming, over privileged rogues had sauntered around campus like they owned every courtyard and lecture hall.

She, meanwhile, had been nicknamed Egghead, a no-nonsense law & literature student with a plan and fierce desire to change the world.

He was rugby and cashmere and chaos. She was Austen and ambition and early library closures.

They were two worlds apart and would never have crossed path. But she was assigned to tutor him by the institution agency where she crashed at.

She hadn’t wanted to take the gig. But she needed the money. So she’d turned up with a stack of Shakespeare, ready to freeze him out with intellectual disdain.

Only, Xander wasn’t what she expected. Not completely. He was intriguing. He was distractingly gorgeous. But under all that swagger, there was something wounded, something unknowable.

A hint of Byron, a whiff of Hamlet, a touch of Heathcliff—without the brooding moors but with all the maddening contradictions.

He was clever, but scored less in examinations. Rich, but always skint.

He’d show up for poetry readings with hangovers and quote Keats between belches.

He was brilliant and careless, wild and soft, confident yet constantly on the brink of falling apart.

And Bieber, poor little fool, had fallen hard. She’d spent entire evenings deciphering him like a tragic Victorian novel—an emotional project she hadn’t realized she was taking on until it consumed her.

But no more. No. More. She squared her shoulders, trying to summon the steel she usually kept on standby for opposing counsel.

She was Bieber Waverley, future senior partner, soon-to-be-wife of a man poised for Parliament, builder of an orderly, respectable life.

There was no room in that life for reckless, ridiculous, heartbreak-in-waiting Xander McQueen.

So she stood, straightened her spine, and handed the pink message slips back to Phyna. “Tell him I’m unavailable,” she said calmly.

“For how long?”

She squinted her eyes in thought. Wasn't it said that discretion was the better part of valor? For her own good, she knew she had to avoid the return of trouble by all means.

Pursing her lips, she answered, “Indefinitely.”