Page 24 of Deliah

T he following week, the workers’ party was coming up.

The big one. Hot, wild, messy in the best and worst ways.

Last year, I’d stumbled home with tequila in my hair, no idea how I got back, and a sunburn so bad I peeled for days.

The whole thing was pure carnage—cheap shots, shrieking promoters, girls dancing on pool bars in club vests two sizes too small.

It was tradition. Mayhem with a dress code. But this year felt different.

Cherry was going with Tommy. Dangerous, I know.

Him out in broad daylight like he didn’t give a shit who saw him.

And her? She didn’t care anymore either.

At this point, I think she was falling. Hard.

I couldn’t blame her; Tommy was solid. One of the few decent ones left and minted, too—not the flashy kind but the quiet, dependable kind that buys your favourite snacks without asking and pays your rent without ever making you feel like you owe him.

Me: Hey. There’s a party this weekend. Workers’ thing. Thought you might wanna come.

I stared at the screen for a long time after pressing send. Heart pounding. Regretting it already. I didn’t expect a reply. And when my phone finally buzzed? I was scared to look.

Damion: What time?

That was it. Two words. No questions. No jabs. No mention of bruises or lies or the way I avoided him like a coward for days. Just: What time? And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

I told Cherry I’d invited him, and she practically squealed down the phone. “Yesss! I love this for you.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I laughed. “He might not even come. I can already see the disapproval on his face, and I haven’t even picked my outfit.”

“Babe, trust me. He’ll come. You’re magnetic.”

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled anyway. “What time you getting there?”

“I’m getting ready at Tommy’s, but I should be there for about one.”

“Perfect. I’ll meet you there.”

There was a pause, then I lowered my voice a little. “You not worried about getting caught?”

“Caught?”

“With Tommy. You two, all loved up in public, and every worker in town there?”

Cherry snorted. “We’re just gonna act like mates for the day. Keep it chill.”

I raised an eyebrow, even though she couldn’t see me. “Cherry, you’ve told me you’d keep it chill before. Then proceeded to sit on his lap and feed him chips.”

“Shut up.” She laughed. “That was one time!”

“It was three.”

“Okay, well, this time I’m being serious. We’ll just hang out, act casual. No PDA.”

“Babe. I’ve seen you drunk. There’s no way you’re keeping your hands off him.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Then: “Okay, maybe you’re right. But whatever. I don’t even care anymore. Let them gossip.”

And that was the truth of it. She didn’t care. Not about the whispers. Not about the rules. Not about the potential fallout. Cherry had always been the kind of girl who went with her heart first and cleaned up the mess later.

I spent way too long standing half-naked in front of my wardrobe, overthinking everything like a lovesick teenager on her first date.

But this time, it wasn’t about trying to impress him.

This time, I wanted him to see the real me.

Not the version he knew—the girl curled up in his passenger seat at midnight, talking softly about childhood scars and heartbreak.

No. This was the daylight version. My world.

Loud, chaotic, barely dressed. And after the whole bruises ordeal, the way he’d seen me at my most vulnerable and still said yes to coming?

I figured the least I could do was show up as all of me.

No filters. No performance. Just a nightmare in heels and a heartbeat.

If he didn’t like it, he’d leave. But at least this time, he’d be leaving someone real.

I went with a high-waisted ruffled mini skirt that barely covered my arse and a tiny black boob tube.

Not one of my usual sultry dresses I wore just to make him stare—this was different.

Bolder. A bit cheeky. A bit reckless. Wedges tall enough to rival the Burj Khalifa completed the look.

If I didn’t break an ankle by sundown, I’d call it a win.

I stepped back, gave myself a once-over in the mirror, and smirked.

Cute. Cocky. Just enough “try me” to keep things interesting.

This wasn’t about being sexy. This was about being me.

And Damion? He was about to get the full fucking show.

The apartment still smelled like perfume and hairspray.

I was halfway through winging my eyeliner—one eye flawless, the other a work in chaotic progress—when the intercom buzzed.

Damion. I glanced at the time. Right on cue.

Typical Damion. Always punctual. Always calm.

I buzzed him up, quickly clearing a few stray brushes off the kitchen side, then cracked the front door.

Nervous to see him, I shouted down, “Not quite ready, come in if you want.”

He stepped inside like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Calm. Collected. That signature quiet confidence wrapped in soft cotton and hard lines.

He was wearing black shorts and a fitted black short-sleeved shirt that clung to every inch of his restraint—biceps snug, chest taut, veins just visible beneath tanned skin.

His eyes dropped the moment he clocked my outfit.

A slow sweep—from the curve of my hips in the high-waisted mini to the barely-there boob tube holding on for dear life to the skyscraper wedges I hadn’t even buckled yet.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just tilted his head, mouth twitching.

“That what passes for casual at this party?” His voice was low. Warm. Amused.

I smirked. “You don’t like it?”

He looked me over again, this time a little slower. “Oh, I like it. I’m just trying to figure out if I need to carry a weapon.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing my eyeliner from the table. “Relax. It’s a skirt, not a siren call.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, eyes on me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve before the day was out. He glanced around the room once, casually, like he was already making himself at home.

“You live tidily,” he said, nodding at the mess of makeup scattered across the kitchen table.

“Yeah, well. Don’t look in the bedroom.”

He smirked, that crooked half-smile that always made it hard to breathe. I turned back to the mirror, steadying my hand as I lined the left eye, trying not to let the way he looked at me get under my skin. Then my phone lit up.

Jay: Babe, I’m coming to grab the weed. Two mins.

My stomach dropped. Fucking typical. No apologies.

No explanation. And now he was showing up like he still had keys to my life—like I was just a pit stop on his tour of chaos.

I stared at the message a second longer than I should’ve.

My hand froze mid-wing. Behind me, I felt the shift in Damion’s energy.

He saw my face change—just slightly. But it was enough.

“What is it?”

I shook my head too quickly. “Nothing. It’s… it’s nothing.”

But my voice betrayed me. Tight. Uneven.

He straightened slightly, watching me now with a sharper kind of focus. “Deliah.”

I forced a smile, twisting the cap back on my eyeliner. “It’s just Jay being annoying. Not a big deal.”

But the truth was already crawling up my spine.

He was coming, with his charm and manipulation.

The fire I didn’t have the energy to put out today.

I tucked my phone face-down on the counter, heart hammering like I’d just done something wrong.

As if I’d been caught even though I hadn’t done anything—yet.

Damion didn’t press me. Not right away. But he was watching.

Quiet. Still. Like he could already smell the smoke.

I didn’t even have time to reply. Two minutes later—Bang. Bang. Bang. A knock at the door, sharp and aggressive.

Damion raised a brow from across the room, his arms still folded, eyes never leaving me. “Expecting someone?”

My throat tightened. “Not really,” I muttered, tossing the eyeliner aside, hand already slick with nerves.

I walked to the door slowly, every step weighed down by dread. I cracked it open just enough to see him. Shorts. Fitted t-shirt. Jaw clenched. That twitchy, stormy energy vibrating off him like a warning sign. I could already feel the uproar bleeding through the crack in the door like smoke.

“Hi, babe,” he said, stepping forward without hesitation. “I texted. Just here to grab the weed.”

And just like that, he pushed the door open wider. Like he still had a fucking key to my life.

“Jay, now’s not a good time—”

“Shut up, babe. Two minutes.”

He walked in like he owned the place. And then he saw him. Damion. Still. Composed. Leaning against the kitchen like he was born there.

Jay stopped cold, eyes narrowing instantly. “Who the fuck is this?”

Damion didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied, voice level.

“Jay, don’t start,” I warned, heart racing.

“Start?” he barked, eyes blazing now. “You’ve got some guy in here while you’re still fucking me?”

I blinked in disbelief. Anger rose in my chest like a scream trying to claw its way out.

“Fucking you?” I snapped. “You barely speak to me. The only reason you’re here is because you want your fucking weed. And let’s get one thing clear—I’m not yours. You made that very fucking clear when you were out screwing anyone and everyone.”

His face twisted into something I recognised—something ugly. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

I stepped forward, fists clenched at my sides, voice shaking but hard. “Oh, don’t I? You think you can treat me like shit, disappear for days, then show up fuming because someone else is in my apartment? You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t get to have me, Jay.”

He sneered. “Fuck off, Deliah. Just give me the fucking weed.”