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?”

“Alexsander 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 courtside 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.