Twice Between The Sheets (2 Nights A Week)

Chapter 1: A Sticky Encounter

The Worthington-Blake name was synonymous with two things: opulence and exclusivity. Ethan Blake and Rachel Worthington Blake were titans of Boston's elite, their empire bolstered by an 80% stake in Massachusetts' most prominent automobile import company. But it wasn't their sprawling estate or their gleaming fleet of cars that captured public fascination—it was their daughter, Arabella Worthington Blake.

Arabella was born into a world where velvet was commonplace and diamonds were her first playthings. Even as an infant, she was a star, her cherubic face gracing the cover of Baby Fashion Magazine at just eight months old. By the age of two, she was America's sweetheart, her face as familiar in households as the jingles on television. Arabella grew up in a cocoon of glamour and indulgence. To her, luxury wasn't just a lifestyle—it was the air she breathed.

At twenty-five, Arabella had parlayed her childhood fame into an image carefully curated by gossip columns and glossy spreads. She was the woman everyone wanted to know but no one could pin down. Offers from fashion houses, entertainment studios, and luxury brands flooded her inbox, but Arabella was selective. If her mood wasn't just right—or if the creative pitch didn't intrigue her—she'd toss an opportunity aside like last season's shoes. Being a model was never about necessity; it was a game, a dalliance to entertain her whims.

When she wasn't gracing runways or turning down interviews, Arabella was the queen of Boston's nightlife. Her 25th birthday was no exception, and her inner circle gathered at Five, one of the city's most exclusive nightclubs. The place pulsed with techno beats, its dancefloor teeming with glittering bodies. Arabella and her entourage had claimed the prime spot by the DJ booth, their VIP section cordoned off from the crowd. Tonight, the DJ catered to Arabella's every whim, her requested tracks filling the space like her personal playlist.

They lounged on plush, semi-circular sofas, their laughter rising above the music as champagne flowed freely. A young server appeared, carefully balancing a birthday cake with gold-flecked frosting. The group erupted into a chorus of cheers and claps as Arabella leaned forward to blow out the candles, her diamond-studded bracelet catching the strobe lights.

Across the room, Rafael Montgomery watched the scene unfold, his grip tightening around his glass of red wine. He leaned back into the shadows, the crimson liquid reflecting faintly in his cool, calculating eyes. Rafael wasn't one to frequent parties like this, but tonight had promised solitude—a promise now shattered by the cacophony from Arabella's group.

In his lap, Vivian draped herself languidly, her lips trailing feather-light kisses along his neck. Her hands wandered with practiced intent, slipping beneath his unbuttoned shirt to caress the hard ridges of his chest. Rafael let her play, his focus still on the clinking glasses and exaggerated laughter five feet away. Arabella and her friends were like brightly feathered birds, their presence intrusive and loud.

Vivian's fingers slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt, but Rafael caught her wrist before she could go further. His attention was elsewhere now, drawn inexplicably to the birthday girl whose laughter cut through the ambient noise like a clear bell. Arabella Worthington Blake. He'd heard the name, of course. Everyone had. But seeing her in the flesh was something else entirely.

Her smile was all confidence and mischief, her movements languid as she leaned into the attention of her friends. Rafael's lips curved into a faint smirk. Arabella might have been the life of the party, but to him, she looked like a queen perched on her throne, commanding a court that amused her only so long as it suited her whims.

The DJ switched the track at her insistence, and the crowd responded with a surge of energy. Rafael tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he watched her move to the music. She didn't belong here—not in this world of fleeting pleasures and neon lights. She was too polished, too untouchable.