One Night With The Hot Doctor

Chapter 1: Arabella's Trap

"Darling, you are dazzling," the older man purred, leaning casually against the bar. His silver-streaked hair framed a smile so sly it made my skin crawl, like a cat stalking a mouse it already knew was cornered.

I turned my head slowly, keeping my expression neutral, almost bored. "Thank you for the compliment," I said, my voice calm, polite, dismissive. "But I have an appointment."

He moved closer, his cologne so strong it clung to the air between us. "Maybe that appointment is with me," he said, his tone dripping with entitlement. "My private jet's ready to take off. Where to, beautiful? London? Singapore? Rome? A woman like you deserves to see the world." His words were sugar-coated, the perfect pitch... but his hand gripping my backside was all vinegar.

I didn't flinch, but internally I seethed. To him, I wasn't a person. Just a prize, a trophy for his collection. A body, not a soul. I wasn't one of them, though. This wasn't who I was. I was working, but not in the way anyone here might think.

"No, gracias," I replied in crisp Spanish, flashing a tight smile. His brows furrowed in confusion, but his hand stayed. "Nee, dank u," I tried in Dutch. Still nothing. "Nein, danke," I said firmly, switching to German. He blinked, stunned for a moment, before I clasped his wrist lightly-my fingers barely brushing his skin-then pulled his hand off me with deliberate precision.

"Thank you, but no," I said flatly, signaling the bartender for a refill. The man lingered for a heartbeat before retreating into the crowd, disappearing as my fresh drink slid across the bar. Good. If he'd pressed harder, I might've been forced to blow my cover, and I wasn't in the mood for a scene. No knees to groins or elbows to noses tonight.

I exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension. As I took another sip, I caught my reflection in the bar's polished mirror. The woman staring back wasn't me. Not really. Her smoky eyes were alluring, her lips painted blood red, and her chocolate-brown waves framed a face designed to seduce. The white dress she wore clung to her every curve, one shoulder bare, plunging neckline flashing miles of cleavage. She was a vision, a temptation. But she wasn't Bella. She was Arabella, the alter ego I wore like armor.

Arabella was ruthless and self-assured. Men wanted her, and she knew it. It was easy to put on her smile, to tilt my head just so, to let her confidence fill the air like a heady perfume. But the truth? I was exhausted. My feet ached in stilettos that felt more like instruments of torture, and my mind wandered to my son, likely already asleep back home.

Still, I was here for a reason. A job. My boss had been hired by a wealthy, suspicious wife to gather evidence of her cheating husband, and I was the bait. She'd said he had a type-exotic, curvy, mysterious. So here I was, sipping a fake cosmopolitan, waiting for a man who may or may not show up.

The club sparkled. Everything glimmered under the soft glow of recessed lights. Sleek black walls reflected the shine of silver accents, and rows of glittering bottles lined the bar shelves. The crowd was just as dazzling, dressed to impress, their laughter mingling with the steady thrum of bass-heavy music. Everyone here was looking for something-or someone-to ignite their night. Mistresses, millionaires, models. And me, the imposter among them.

I scanned the room, my gaze flicking over every middle-aged man in a suit, comparing their features to the file I'd memorized. Too tall. Too pale. Too heavy. None of them matched the description of Anthony Metzger, my target. I checked my phone for the tenth time, sighing as I resisted the urge to text my boss for an update.

I hated nights like this. Sure, I enjoyed the performance-the thrill of slipping into a character so far removed from my real life-but the waiting? The constant leering? That was the worst. Still, the pay was good, and jobs like these helped keep the lights on and my son in his favorite after-school activities.

My eyes drifted to the corner booth. A man sat alone, his phone in hand, his dark hair mussed as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. I'd noticed him earlier but dismissed him. He wasn't my mark. He wasn't even looking at me-or at anyone else, for that matter. Still, there was something about the way his shoulders slumped, the quiet frustration in his sigh that I could hear even from across the room.

And then, as if sensing my gaze, he looked up.

His eyes, sharp and pale green, locked onto mine, and for a moment, the noise of the club faded into the background. He saw me. Not Arabella, not the red lips or the white dress. Me. The thought made my stomach tighten.

I forced myself to look away, lifting my glass to my lips as if his stare hadn't rattled me. It had. Arabella didn't get rattled. Arabella would smirk, toss her hair, and lure him in without a second thought.

But I wasn't Arabella. Not entirely.

My phone buzzed, snapping me back to reality. I glanced at the screen, reading the text from my boss.

"The wife just called. The mark's not coming tonight. You're off the clock."

I let out a heavy sigh. Typical. Hours of preparation, two hours in stilettos, and for what? A wasted night.

"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Guess I'll go home, eat an entire tray of brownies, and soak in the tub. Maybe blast some Taylor Swift for good measure."

I tossed my phone into my clutch and turned back to the bar, ready to finish my drink and make my exit. But before I could, a deep, velvet voice broke through my thoughts.

"Did you get stood up too?"

I turned, slowly, deliberately, the picture of composure. The man from the booth stood beside me now, his height even more intimidating up close. His tailored suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, and those green eyes of his? They practically glowed under the dim lights.

Arabella smiled. Bella faltered.

"Something like that," I said, my voice smooth despite the flutter in my chest.

"Well," he said, his lips curving into a faint smirk, "at least we've got that in common."

And just like that, the night suddenly didn't feel like a waste after all.