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.

"Rafael," Vivian purred, her voice a sultry whisper. "Where were we?"

But Rafael's gaze didn't waver from Arabella. The queen had caught his attention. And queens, as Rafael knew, were never as untouchable as they seemed.

The low-lit club pulsed with an undercurrent of bass, but in Rafael head, the noise was a hazy blur. He swirled the crimson liquid in his glass, his jaw tightening as his companion, Vivian, pressed closer. Her fingers, insistent and eager, had made their way down his torso, her breath hot against his neck.

"Vivian," Rafael muttered, his voice deep and slurred. He gripped her wrist firmly and pushed her hand away. "I've lost my appetite."

Vivian's glossy lips parted in a gasp, her frustration palpable. She swallowed hard, as though choking down her own disappointment.

"Too many people," Rafael added, leaning back into the shadowy booth. His eyes flicked across the room to the group that had ruined his evening.

Vivian followed his gaze, her face twisting into a sneer. "It's those girls, isn't it? Ugh—bitches!" she hissed, clenching her fists.

Her glare settled on the birthday girl, the center of all the attention. A flicker of recognition crossed her face. "Wait a second," Vivian spat, her tone laced with venom. "Isn't that Arabella Blake? That bitch!"

Rafael raised a curious brow, shifting his gaze back to Arabella, now laughing with her friends, her head thrown back in carefree abandon. "You know her?"

"Know her?" Vivian's laugh was sharp, bitter. "I know her like the back of my hand. She's Boston's answer to Paris Hilton—a spoiled, high-society princess who thinks the world revolves around her." Vivian's voice dropped, heavy with resentment. "She stole my last modeling gig. They dumped me because she walked in and decided she wanted it."

Rafael tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "She's hot," he said bluntly, the alcohol loosening his tongue.

Vivian's jaw dropped, and her fury ignited like dry kindling. "She might be hot," she snapped, crossing her arms, "but that girl's been around the block. She's not as untouchable as she looks."

Rafael shrugged lazily, a devilish grin tugging at his lips. "Guess she missed my block." He swirled his wine and chuckled, leaning heavily against the table. "I want a taste of her..."

Vivian gaped at him, her face reddening in a mixture of shock and rage. "Rafael! You don't even know what you're saying. You're dead drunk!"

"Maybe," Rafael admitted with a drunken smirk. His gaze fixed on Arabella again. Her red dress caught the flickering strobe lights, the color like ripe strawberries against the club's dim haze. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Strawberry..."

"Strawberry?" Vivian scoffed, shaking his arm in frustration. "She's wearing a red dress, you idiot! Rafael, snap out of it! You're supposed to be with me!"

Rafael groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. The room spun around him, and his stomach churned from the four bottles of wine he'd imbibed. He forced the nausea down, awkwardly pushing himself to his feet.

Vivian rushed to steady him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. "You're a mess. Let's get out of here," she pleaded, her voice softer now.

Rafael shook her off, determination flashing in his unfocused eyes. "The sofa's... floating," he mumbled before breaking into a hiccupping laugh.

"No, it's not. You're drunk, and you're embarrassing me!" Vivian hissed, but Rafael was already staggering toward Arabella's table, weaving between the crowded dance floor and narrowly avoiding collisions.

Arabella and her friends turned to the commotion, their laughter fading as they watched the disheveled man stumble toward them. His tousled hair looked like a bird's nest, lipstick stains smeared across his face like a telltale mark of recent indiscretion. Arabella's sharp eyes caught the furious woman in the background—clearly the girlfriend—stomping her foot in frustration.

Rafael reached the table and stopped, swaying slightly as he braced himself on the edge. The group jolted back in unison, wide-eyed and wary, staring up at him in stunned silence.

Arabella arched a brow, her perfectly painted lips curving into a smirk. "And who, exactly, are you?" she asked, her voice as cool and polished as the champagne flute in her hand.

Rafael pointed a finger toward her, his lips curving into a crooked, drunken smile. "You," he drawled, his voice low and husky, "are... a strawberry."

Her friends erupted into laughter, but Arabella merely tilted her head, her smirk deepening. "Oh, this should be interesting," she murmured, setting her glass down with deliberate precision.

Levi Brooks, Arabella's ever-loyal confidant and self-proclaimed protector, blinked a few times, his jaw slack with disbelief as he stared at Rafael. The man was a wreck—his hair disheveled, his face a map of smudged lipstick and exhaustion. Yet even under the club's erratic strobe lights, Rafael exuded a rugged, intoxicating charm that made Levi's pulse quicken.

After a beat of stunned silence, Levi clutched the edge of the table and finally found his voice. "Oh. My. Freaking. God. What does a sexy guy like you want with us beautiful girls?" He fluttered his fingers dramatically in the air, then giggled, the sound both shy and gleeful.

Rafael squinted, his glassy eyes struggling to focus on the speaker. "What the hell are you?" he slurred, his brow furrowing as if the answer to this question held cosmic significance. "You... you pee standing up, right?"

Levi gasped, clutching at his imaginary pearls, his expression somewhere between affronted and amused. "Who says?!" he shot back, tossing his head with exaggerated flair. "I sit down when I'm not peeing! Thank you very much." He crossed his arms and gave a mock huff, his chin jutting into the air. Beneath the posturing, though, his cheeks burned. Even through the haze of drunkenness, Rafael was breathtaking—a disaster, yes, but a gorgeous one.

Rafael dismissed him with a lazy wave of his hand. "Who cares about you?" His attention shifted, his gaze locking onto Arabella with a lopsided grin. "What's your name, baby?"

Before anyone could react, Rafael dropped heavily onto the couch beside Arabella. The suddenness of his move made her jolt, and with a sharp exhale of indignation, she scooted away. The others shuffled to accommodate her retreat, casting wary glances at the intruder. Arabella brushed at her shoulder with exaggerated disgust, as if trying to erase the imprint of his presence.

"Hey, mister!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the music. Her eyes narrowed as she pushed his shoulder with the tips of her manicured fingers, careful not to touch him more than necessary. "If you're drunk, go home to your mother! Don't ruin my birthday!"

Rafael blinked at her, his face blank for a moment before breaking into a childlike pout. "Your birthday?" he echoed, tilting his head. "I don't have a present... but I could kiss you instead."

With surprising speed for a man so intoxicated, Rafael turned to her, puckering his lips like a toddler expecting a treat. Arabella froze in disbelief as the rest of the table shrieked and scrambled away from the inevitable disaster.

Rafael missed his mark entirely. His lips met neither Arabella's cheek nor her perfectly contoured lips but instead landed smack in the center of her elaborately frosted birthday cake.

For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then, laughter erupted from every corner of the table. Arabella's friends clutched their sides, tears streaming down their faces as they pointed at Rafael, now wiping thick, pink-and-gold frosting off his face.

"Get him out of here!" Arabella shrieked, rising to her feet and pointing toward the exit as though banishing him from her kingdom.

Vivian appeared at Rafael's side, her face a mask of humiliation as she barked at two nearby servers. "You—yes, you—help me get him out of here. Now!"

As the servers hauled Rafael to his feet, he began to protest, his words slurred but his indignation palpable. "Sticky... it's sticky! What the hell is this?" He rubbed at his face, smearing the frosting even further. Then, as his tongue darted out to taste it, he paused, his expression transforming into one of drunken realization. "It tastes like... strawberry! What the hell?!"

The servers exchanged exasperated looks as they maneuvered him through the club, his complaints echoing behind them. Rafael continued his incoherent tirade, cursing the "sticky strawberry mess" as they shoved him unceremoniously into the backseat of a sleek black car waiting at the curb.

Behind them, Vivian covered her face with her purse, her heels clicking angrily against the pavement. Her patience had evaporated with Rafael's first hiccup. As she slid into the car, she muttered under her breath, her tone dripping with venomous exasperation. "He's a mess. A complete, embarrassing mess."

Inside the club, Arabella collapsed onto the couch, shaking her head. "Who even was that?" she muttered, still brushing invisible frosting off her sleeve. Her friends erupted into another round of laughter, their voices rising above the music as they recounted every moment of Rafael's spectacular downfall.