Chapter 3: The Fire and Ice

Rafael slammed his fist on the desk, cursing under his breath. The image of Arabella—the firebrand who had stormed into his world and left chaos in her wake—was burned into his mind. Yes, she's beautiful, he thought bitterly, but she's like a spice on the tongue, too fiery, too bitter. The chances of getting to know her? Probably zero. His office, typically his sanctuary, felt like a cage now, the walls closing in with every thought of her.

A sharp knock, followed by the door flying open, shattered his moment of solitude. Vivian stormed into the room like an unstoppable force, her heels clicking against the floor as though she were marching into battle. Her fiery red hair seemed to crackle with an energy all its own, matching the fury in her eyes. Without preamble, she launched into her tirade.

"Rafael!" she snapped, her voice like a whip. "I saw you hitting on her! How could you fall for that snobby bitch?!"

Rafael turned slowly in his chair, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral. What does she expect from me? he thought. She knew what I was about, what we were about. She knew the rules. He sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair.

"I'm not falling for anyone, Vivian," he muttered, his words curt. "I was just introducing myself to her."

Vivian's eyes narrowed, disbelief written across her face.

"I'm not blind, Rafael. I saw the way you were looking at her. The way you touched her. I thought we had something special going on, something more."

Rafael's jaw clenched, his patience worn thin. He leaned back in his chair, staring at her with a weary gaze. "Vivian, I told you," he said, his voice low but firm. "Don't expect anything more than what we have going on for each other. You knew this from the start."

Vivian's face faltered, the fire dimming in her eyes for a moment. She crossed her arms, clearly frustrated, but she still couldn't hide the hurt that lingered beneath the surface. "But I love you," she whispered, almost to herself.

"Love doesn't last forever, but friendship does," Rafael replied, his voice softening just a little. He didn't want to hurt her, but there was no denying the truth of his words. He wasn't a man made for lasting commitment. He never had been. "Now, tell me... who won?" he asked, shifting the conversation to something less personal, more business.

Vivian's eyes flared back with intensity. "Arabella," she said, the words slipping out with a hint of bitterness. "But since she left, they're not sure if she wants the contract or not. They might give it to the second runner-up instead."

Rafael's mind briefly flickered away from the conversation. He could still see her in his mind's eye: Arabella, lying on a king-sized bed, the smooth red sheets caressing her skin. She'd be dressed in white, feeding him strawberries, her lips a provocative smile. The soft melody of a romantic tune would play as the camera rolled, capturing every seductive movement. The fantasy was too real, too vivid, too dangerous.

Suddenly, the sharp, disembodied voice of the therapist cut through his daydream, a reminder of the haunting words that had followed him ever since their first session. "PERVERT addiction rule #2: Do you find yourself fantasizing about women in bed with you in an isolated room?"

Rafael's eyes snapped open, his hands shaking slightly. He exhaled sharply, trying to shake the sudden disquiet from his mind. The voice was so damn real. He couldn't escape it.

Vivian was still talking, but now it felt distant, her words muffled in his ears. "Rafael! Are you listening to me?! Rafael!" She was waving a hand in front of his face, a touch of irritation in her tone.

"Yeah, yeah," Rafael muttered, blinking rapidly to clear his thoughts. He looked up at her, forcing a mask of focus over the storm that raged inside his head. "What were you saying?"

"I think the manager's contacting that bitch as we speak," Vivian said, her eyes still flashing with annoyance. "What's so special about that rich girl that everyone seems to want her as their presenter?"

Rafael rubbed his temples, trying to focus. What's so special about her? The question echoed in his mind, but he knew the answer—Arabella was more than just another pretty face in the crowd. She was something else entirely. Unpredictable. Fiery. Untouchable. And he couldn't get her out of his head.

"Well, she won," he said softly, almost to himself, "but I'll be damned if I let her slip away so easily."

***

Several days had passed since that chaotic moment at the competition, but Arabella couldn't shake the decision from her mind. She had stewed over it, heart and mind at odds. The offer had sat there, tantalizing yet repulsive. The CEO of Velvet Vogue—the very man she'd slapped in front of an entire room—wanted her to be the face of a new skin care line. She'd rejected him the first time, the mere thought of working with him sickening. But then... Arabella hated being second. And Mary, that snake of a rival, was all too ready to take her place if she walked away.

Her pride had always been her strength, and now it was pushing her back through the revolving doors of Velvet Vogue's sleek headquarters. Fight, Arabella, she told herself as she stepped into the lobby, her heels clicking with each determined stride. Don't let her win. Don't let him win.

Levi followed at her side, practically bouncing with excitement. The atmosphere of the building was electric, the hustle of fashion professionals in every corner a reminder of the empire Rafael Montgomery had built. Arabella tried to ignore the tightening in her chest at the thought of him, but it was hard when his name was spoken in hushed whispers all around them.

The manager who greeted them was all smiles, but Arabella barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere—on the looming encounter with Rafael. The two of them were ushered into a spacious studio, the scent of hairspray and the soft hum of electric lights already swirling in the air. A crew of camera technicians was setting up, their movements precise and professional, while models milled about, preparing for their shots.

Levi, however, was less focused on the business at hand. His eyes were glued to a group of male models in the corner, their well-oiled muscles gleaming under the lights. He couldn't help himself—his mouth parted in awe, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Ah, girl! Look at that hunk over there," he said, unable to hold back a theatrical sigh. He made a dramatic gesture with his hand, as though catching his breath. "My lips are so sour right now..."

Arabella couldn't help but chuckle, shaking her head as she turned to follow the makeup artist who had come to usher her into the changing room.

"Levi! You're scaring the man!" she scolded, though she was clearly amused by his antics.

Levi turned to the model, who had visibly stiffened at the attention. He winked at the poor guy, who turned his back quickly, a shudder running down his spine. Levi smirked, as if savoring the reaction. "Ah! Girl, it's hard to control a woman's heart like mine," he declared, tossing his hair dramatically.

Arabella rolled her eyes. "Then turn down the drool," she muttered as she walked away.

Levi, looking more sheepish than usual, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, pretending to look around for any visible signs of drool. "Thank you for the sarcasm..." he said, a bit quieter now. "You know I got a weakness for hot male models."

Arabella gave him a look over her shoulder. "You're impossible," she muttered, a soft smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

Levi settled into a chair, still scanning the room with enthusiasm. He was practically bouncing on the edge of his seat when a familiar, unsettling presence filled the doorway. Rafael Montgomery. Arabella stiffened instinctively, but he didn't approach her—no, he had something else on his mind. He was walking straight toward Levi.

Levi, seeing him coming, straightened up and flashed a grin, all shy charm and exaggerated gestures. "Ah, Mr. CEO," he said, his voice laced with the kind of flirtation that only Levi could pull off. He spun on his heel like a man caught in a sudden windstorm, offering a little twirl as if he were in a ballroom. "Nice to meet you again..."

Rafael barely acknowledged the dramatic greeting with more than a tilt of his head. "Yes," he said coolly, his voice deep and controlled, as if every word was weighed with precision. He was still as composed as ever, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of interest as they slid over to Arabella, who was now out of his line of sight, tucked away in the changing room.

Levi, ever the bold one, seemed to take no notice of the tension, and instead leaned forward slightly, his voice dipping into a playful tone. "You've got to tell me, Mr. CEO," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief, "why does that girl make you so... distracted?"

Rafael glanced at Levi briefly, his lips curling into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. "She's a professional. That's all there is to it," he replied, his gaze flickering toward the hallway that led to the dressing rooms. But even as he spoke, Arabella's presence lingered in the air—her fiery spirit and sharp tongue still etched into his memory.

Levi raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Professional, huh? And here I thought it was the other way around..." He smirked, enjoying the tension building between them.

Rafael's expression didn't falter. He stood his ground, the subtle power he exuded never wavering. Arabella Blake, he thought. If only I could get closer... But for now, he was content with watching from the periphery, the game between them still in its earliest, most dangerous stages.

As the makeup artist returned to lead Arabella out of the dressing room, Rafael could feel his pulse quicken.

The moment the curtain parted, the room seemed to hold its breath. Arabella entered, gliding in like a vision—unearthly, untouchable. Her figure, draped in a silk red dress, caught every beam of light, the fabric shimmering like liquid fire against her skin. The dress hugged her every curve, the deep V in the front daringly revealing a glimpse of her cleavage. It wasn't too much, no—just enough. Enough to make a man forget his name.

Rafael's gaze followed her, tracing every movement with an intensity he couldn't seem to shake. Delicious... The word slipped from his lips before he even realized it. His mind caught on that word, replaying it like a slow burn. "Strawberry..." he whispered under his breath, the cool, tart sweetness of her scent still lingering in his memory, though he hadn't been near her in days. And then, as if the heat in the room wasn't already palpable, he added, "If the heater is on, please turn it off..." His pulse was quickening, and it wasn't just the temperature.

The director's voice pierced the tension. The shirtless male models, still glistening from their earlier oiling, were called to take their positions, surrounding Arabella as she stepped into the center of the studio, the camera crew scrambling to adjust their lights, creating halos around her every move. Rafael's eyes narrowed on the muscular men, the way they flexed and preened, trying to claim a space in her orbit. But he didn't care about them—not when she was standing there, bathed in light, looking like a goddess, the rest of the world irrelevant.

His mind wandered, imagining himself the one flexing those muscles, moving in close, touching her in ways the models could only dream of. A sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the thought, but his daydream was shattered by an interruption. Levi's hand waved across his face, snapping him back to the present. Rafael blinked, momentarily disoriented, then glared at his friend, annoyed at the intrusion. Focus, he told himself. But it was hard to focus on anything but Arabella.

And then, just when it couldn't get any more maddening, a skinny man appeared, walking into the scene and heading straight for Arabella.

The man was too close. His fingers brushed along her skin as he pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing the sweat from her forehead in a way that felt far too intimate, too familiar.

Rafael's body tensed, a surge of protectiveness—anger, really—flaring through him. He couldn't stop himself. "Who the hell is that guy?!" The words erupted from his throat before he could stop them, his voice echoing in the studio. His hand shot up, swatting away Levi's persistent attempts to get his attention.

Levi, unfazed, shrugged and muttered, "Ah, that's Dante Green. Arabella's boyfriend..." Rafael froze at the name. Boyfriend.

His gaze locked onto the two of them as they interacted, the way Arabella smiled so effortlessly, her laughter ringing out as Dante wiped the sweat from her cheek. It made Rafael's blood boil in ways he hadn't expected. He tried to rationalize it—he had no claim on her, none at all. But damn it, seeing her so open, so carefree with this... this walking skeleton of a man—this Dante—sent a sharp pang straight through him.

Boyfriend.

The word twisted in his mind like a knife. Wasn't it just typical? A beautiful woman like her, so vibrant, so alive, falling for a man like that—skinny, pale, with the presence of a wet rag. Rafael's eyes burned with frustration. He could practically feel the weight of Vivian's words echoing in his ears—Arabella's trouble. A woman who's been around the block more times than you care to know.

His thoughts spiraled faster. She was smiling, laughing at his jokes, letting him get too close, wiping away the sweat as though it were some tender act of care.

And Rafael? He was seething. It didn't make sense—why should he care? He barely knew her. Three meetings, that was all. But everything about Arabella tugged at him in ways he couldn't ignore, and seeing her with this... this man, a man who couldn't possibly appreciate her the way she deserved... It ignited a fire in him. He couldn't let it go.

Rafael pushed himself up from his chair, knocking it aside, the sound of its metal legs scraping across the floor momentarily snapping everyone's attention to him. His fingers dug into his pockets as he stood, his jaw clenched tight in an effort to contain the tempest within. He wanted to march across the room, confront them, shake the damn man off her. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Instead, he stood there, fists clenched, watching the absurdity of it all, trying to make sense of the conflicting surge of emotions flooding him. Arabella Blake had disrupted his life, turned it upside down without even trying. She'd slapped him, humiliated him, and now, here she was—herself, at the center of everything, and yet so far out of his reach.

Damn her, he thought, unable to tear his eyes away.

And for the first time, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to kiss her or burn her to the ground.