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 slackly stretched across the love seat in his living room. "You can get dressed in the kitchen."

"What In kitchen?!" She let out a gasp as if he had just advised 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 Waverley & 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 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 VaultPoint 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.”

Sebastian blinked, utterly horrified. The voice was familiar.

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

What now?