Page 19 of Deliah

A few more days slipped by. Still no sign of Jay.

Just the odd text—short, lazy ones like “ Busy today x ” or “ Miss you, babe .” Nothing with weight.

Nothing that felt real. Just enough to keep me hanging on like a mug.

And I hated how easily I clung to it, even when everything in my chest told me something was off.

I could feel it in my bones—he was pulling away again.

It was the same old story. Charm me. Fuck me.

Make me feel like I was the only girl in the world for about five minutes.

.. then vanished. I wasn’t stupid. Deep down, I knew he’d done it again—got me hooked, got his fix, then dipped.

He’d trapped me in this weird halfway place, like a backup plan in a bikini.

I wasn’t his girlfriend. I was storage. And then, there was that thought.

The one I kept trying to shake off but couldn’t quite silence.

The stash. Was that why he’d really come back to me?

So he could stash his weed somewhere safe while he ran around playing king of the island?

I felt sick even thinking it. I was just a convenient little hiding place.

Maybe I was overthinking it again. I always did when he went quiet, convinced myself there was some darker reason.

Maybe he really was just busy, and I really was the only girl he missed.

I didn’t know what was worse, believing he’d used me or believing he hadn’t and still didn’t care enough to show up.

Either way, the silence was loud. And I was starting to realise just how lonely it felt to be someone’s “maybe.”

But Cherry was there, like she always was, thank god. We were sitting on the balcony, legs tucked under us, wine in hand, watching the street below as the sun dipped low and the city lit up.

“Fucking hell, Deliah,” she said, glancing over with a smirk. “You’re miserable. You’ve barely said two words all day.”

“Shut up, you twat,” I muttered, managing a laugh. But she wasn’t wrong. I felt like I was rotting from the inside out.

“I’m not being funny,” she said, leaning in with a look that meant business, “but he’s barely even messaged you in days. He’s mugging you off, babe.”

I sighed, staring into my wine like it might offer a better explanation. “I know.”

“Like—come on. You let him come back, you let him stash his weed in your fucking wardrobe, and now he’s vanished. Again.”

“I know, Cherry.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So what the fuck are you doing?”

I stared out at the sky. “I don’t know. I just… I love him, don’t I?”

Cherry shook her head. “You know he’s using you, yeah?”

I nodded, throat tight. “Yeah, probably.”

She was quiet for a moment. “So what are you gonna do next time you see him?”

“I’ll tell him I’m done,” I said firmly. “Next time, I swear. It’s over.”

Cherry looked at me for a long second, then softened. “Alright. Well… we will see, but we both know you deserve better.”

That moment, sitting there with her, wine in hand, makeup half smudged from nothing but exhaustion and sadness—I finally felt something click.

Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck everything. What the hell was I doing?

I was letting a man who’d ghosted me, lied to me, cheated on me, and dumped his shit in my flat control my mood like I was some broken doll.

I wasn’t broken. I was Deliah fucking Rose.

I stood up, suddenly electric with adrenaline. “I’m going out tonight.”

Cherry blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing my wine glass and downing the rest. “Fuck Jay. I’m going out, and I’m gonna have a fucking mess of a night.”

Cherry grinned. “That’s my girl. Boiler Boys?”

“Boiler Boys.”

She squealed and launched off the chair, dragging me into the flat. “Right, glam squad time!”

We spent the next hour getting ready like we were going to war.

I wore a tight black silk strappy dress that hugged my waist, dipped low in the back, and clung to my tits like it had been painted on.

Black sparkly Versace stilettos, a flick of eyeliner sharp enough to cut someone, and glossy lips that looked like trouble.

Cherry wore cherry white, her tits practically bouncing with every step.

Her hair was curled to perfection, and her confidence was fucking contagious.

An hour or so later, Tommy’s Porsche pulled up like a mafia don had arrived.

She slid into the front and kissed him with a cheeky grin.

I jumped in the back, heart already racing with anticipation.

“What’s happening, Deliah? You alright, yeah?” Tommy asked, his thick London accent wrapping around the words.

“Better now.” I grinned.

“Good. Let’s go fucking party!”

The music blasted as we cruised into the city, lights blurring past the windows. I’d already had a few drinks getting ready, vodka with orange juice and a splash of rebellion. Now it was starting to hit. And honestly? It felt good. Free. Alive.

The cobbled street shimmered under the streetlamps as we stepped out of the car.

The city air felt different—crisper, charged.

Cherry clung to Tommy’s arm like they were in their own little bubble, giggling and whispering something in his ear while I trailed a few steps behind, heels clicking against the stone like a countdown.

My head was clear for once. I wasn’t thinking about Jay. I wasn’t aching. I felt… sharp. Like myself again. Dressed to destroy in a black silk mini dress with barely-there straps and my lips painted a deep, dangerous red, I was a walking warning sign—and I liked it.

Tommy turned back and grinned. “The lads are up here.”

He pointed to a dimly lit bar up ahead, loud with bass and full of life. We pushed through the crowd towards them. Familiar faces greeted me—cheeky, loud, playful. One of them pulled me straight into a hug, spinning me around.

“Deliah! You finally came out! Missed your madness!”

I laughed, genuine and free for the first time in weeks. I hugged them all, one by one, the usual banter firing between us like old times.

And then I felt it.

The weight of a stare.

That was when I saw him.

I didn’t notice him at first—he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

He was just there. Still. Calm. Like the eye of a storm.

Black tailored trousers, Prada boat shoes, and a white shirt—crisp, clean, and fitted across his chest like it was made just for him.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing tanned forearms and a watch that probably cost more than my year’s rent.

And his face. God help me—his face. Sharp cheekbones.

A jawline that looked carved from stone.

His dark hair was short on the sides, messier on top, and his skin was golden, kissed by the sun.

But it was his eyes that stopped me cold—icy blue, unreadable, and locked straight on me.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even blinking.

He just watched me. I didn’t breathe. Something shifted in my chest—something slow and hot and terrifying.

I turned to Cherry, pulling her close. “Who the hell is that?”

She followed my gaze, eyebrows raised. “No idea,” she muttered. “But fuck me, he’s fit.”

We both stared for a beat too long, then burst out laughing.

I tried to shake it off, tried to pull myself back to the safety of the group, but I could still feel him.

I could feel his eyes on me like a hand at my throat.

I turned back to him without thinking and let my gaze travel down his body—slow, deliberate, cocky.

Then it just came out, unfiltered, straight from my mouth before my brain could stop me.

“Fuck me… I’m going to ruin you.” It slipped from my lips like a dare.

The lads roared. “Oh my god, she’s on one already,” one laughed.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, slow and purposeful, like a panther cornering its prey. His voice dropped low—so low it made my spine ache.

“Say that again,” he murmured, “and I’ll show you what happens when little girls make promises they can’t keep.”

My heart stopped. Just for a second. And then I laughed—loud, wild, reckless.

Like I wasn’t already burning alive. Like he hadn’t just ripped the breath straight from my lungs with one sentence.

I brushed past him, my shoulder grazing his chest. “Nice line,” I said, over my shoulder. “Bet it works on all the girls.”

Inside, I was screaming.

We made our way into the bar, drinks already waiting.

The place was sleek—dark wood floors, leather booths, soft gold lighting.

It felt like a world away from the strip.

Cherry and I threw back shots like we were invincible.

We danced like we were untouchable. We laughed like we hadn’t been crying in showers just a few weeks ago.

But every time I turned around, he was there.

Still sitting at the bar. Still watching me.

Still not smiling. He wasn’t drinking much.

Just nursing a whisky like it was a ritual.

Cigarette smouldering in one hand. A man who looked like he’d seen too much.

Done too much. Owned too much. I could feel him before I even looked. And it made my skin tingle.

Cherry leaned in, eyes flicking to the bar. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

“Good.” I smirked, spinning my hips a little more deliberately, letting my dress ride up as I bent down to pick up my clutch.

I danced like he wasn’t there—yet every single move was for him.

The heat between us built slowly. Me pretending I didn’t notice.

Him pretending he didn’t care. Eventually, I made my way over to the bar.

Not to talk to him. Just to… be near. He was close enough to touch.

I ordered a vodka cranberry, feeling him next to me like a live wire. He didn’t look at me. Not at first.

So I spoke first. “Enjoying the view?”

His head turned slowly, those eyes dragging over me like fire. “I’ve seen better,” he said, deadpan.