Bound By Deception Freed By Love

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.