Page 31 of Deliah

A s soon as I got home, Cherry was already ringing. Obviously.

“Right,” she said the moment I answered. “Spill. All of it. Every detail. Don’t you dare skip the spicy bits.”

“There were no spicy bits,” I groaned, flopping onto my bed with a dramatic sigh. “Unless you count the duck confit.”

“Ooh, fancy.” I could hear her grinning through the phone. “Come on, what did he say? What did you say? Did he finally admit he’s obsessed with you? Did you sit on his face?”

“Jesus, Cherry!”

“What? I’m just trying to cut to the good bit.”

I sighed, flipping onto my back. “Okay. So. We talked, we ate, we flirted. Then he tells me he’s moving to Marbella next week.”

“Duh,” she said. “I live with Tommy, remember? You think I don’t hear every time those lads book a flight or forget to flush?”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “But then he asked me to come.”

“Stop,” she gasped. “No. Fucking. Way.”

“Yeah. Like… full-on ‘come with me, stay at mine, I’ll take care of you until you figure stuff out’ vibes.”

“Deliah.”

“I know.”

“DELIAH.”

“I know.”

I could almost hear her pacing. “Do you know what this means?”

“That I should probably pack my SPF 50?”

“That me and you could be day-drunk, poolside in the Marbella heat, laughing at all the stupid shit the boys say, and making men cry in broken Spanish!”

I bit my lip, smiling despite myself. “That does sound fun.”

“You’re damn right it does. Babe, imagine it. Us. In bikinis. Cocktails at noon. Chaos by night. We’d be iconic.”

I let out a long breath. “I don’t know, though. I mean… it’s a lot.”

“It’s not that deep,” she said. “It’s a break. A reset. And you’d be with me half the time anyway.”

I stayed quiet, my mind still racing. She softened her tone.

“I know it’s a lot,” she said. “But maybe this is what you need. Something new. A little break.”

“You make it sound like I’m moving to Ibiza on Love Island.”

She laughed. “And? Is that really the worst-case scenario?”

I covered my face with my hand. “You know we’ve only hung out a few times, right? Me and Damion? Like… not even properly.”

“Oh, trust me, I know. I remember your drunk attempt to kiss him in the hallway.”

I groaned into the phone. “Can we not bring that up ever again?”

“Absolutely not. That’s a core memory.”

I smiled, but my chest still felt tight. “He doesn’t even know me,” I said. “Not really.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But he obviously likes you.”

Silence stretched between us for a second. I didn’t know how to explain it. The feeling I got around him. Like I’d already been claimed and hadn’t read the fine print.

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“Well, think fast,” Cherry said, her voice going playful again. “Before I drag you into my suitcase.”

We stayed on the phone for a little longer, switching to lighter things—what we’d pack, which sunglasses made us look expensive, who’d lose their passport first (her, obviously). But eventually, I hung up and lay there in the dark, the weight of it all sinking in.

That’s when it hit me. We’d only really seen each other a couple of times.

Never even kissed, and now he wanted me to move in with him?

What the actual fuck? It made no sense. And yet, weirdly…

it did. He didn’t seem like other men. He didn’t beg.

He didn’t chase. He just appeared. Mysterious.

Solid. Present. Like some beautifully dangerous shadow who only showed up when I needed him and then vanished before I got too close.

But he’d seen it. All of it. The bruises.

The mess. The damage I couldn’t even name.

And instead of flinching, he’d said he’d kill Jay if he ever touched me again.

Not in a performative, dramatic way—just calm.

Certain. Like it wasn’t a threat, it was a promise.

And when I’d lied to his face, when I’d curled into the corner of that apartment, half hoping he’d walk away…

he didn’t. He stood up for me. Quietly. Steadily.

Without a raised voice or a flinch. Maybe that was why it didn’t feel so mad.

Because, deep down, I trusted him. Not because of anything he’d said. But because of everything he hadn’t.

Also, he knew I’d gone back to Jay. How?

How did he always know what I was thinking—what I felt—before I even opened my mouth?

It was like he was hardwired into my brain, synced himself to my heart rate and just waited.

Watching. Calculating. Choosing the exact moment to reappear like he’d planned it.

Honestly? It was giving stalker. But also, it was giving hot.

So fucking hot. There was something about him that made me nervous in the best way.

That quiet kind of dominance—not the fake, shouty alpha-male crap.

Real power. The kind you felt before he even spoke.

He could walk into a room and the air would shift.

If ever I were in trouble, he’d just handle it.

No fuss. No hesitation. Just calm destruction.

I mean… what if he was in the mafia? What if he was part of some deep underground world of crime and money and secrets?

It would explain a lot. His watch collection.

The way he always had cash. The calm, deliberate way he spoke—like he was used to people obeying him.

And the way he’d said “I’ve got you” like it wasn’t a question, wasn’t even a conversation.

Just fact. Yeah. Red flag city. I groaned, dragging the pillow over my face.

This was ridiculous. Reckless. Possibly unhinged.

And yet…

What if this was the plot twist I didn’t know I needed? What if I stopped overthinking and just let myself live?

I woke up the next morning after barely sleeping—wired, exhausted, and yet…

weirdly alive. Something had cracked open inside my chest, and I was finally crawling out of the wreckage of my own mess—not whole but not buried anymore either.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time, heart thudding like it was trying to wake up the rest of me.

My thoughts had been loud all night, ricocheting between panic and pleasure, doubt and desire.

This was mad. Absolutely unhinged. And I was saying yes anyway. I grabbed my phone.

Me: The answer is yes.

His reply came before I could even lock the screen.

Damion: Good girl. I’ll send the flight details shortly.

No delay. No overthinking. Just decisive, dominant certainty. I wasn’t used to that. I was used to half-efforts and gaslighting. I was used to being breadcrumbed and ignored until I begged for scraps. But him… he moved like a man who didn’t doubt himself. And that made it impossible to doubt him.

So I packed. Folded clothes I barely remembered buying.

Crammed my lingerie drawer into a case like I was packing for a mission I didn’t understand but desperately wanted to complete.

I said goodbye to my friends, to my family, to the version of myself that was tired of playing it safe.

And I told my mum the half-truth I could get away with.

“I’m going to Marbella with Cherry,” I said casually. “We just need a change of scenery. So we’re going to give it a go for a few months.”

She looked at me like I’d just announced I was joining a cult.

“So what are you going to do for money?” she asked, arms crossed, frown loaded.

“There’s plenty of bars out there, Mum,” I said with a breezy shrug. “I’ll find something. I’ve got money saved.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And you’re not going out there for some lad?”

I almost choked. “No! God. No. It’s just me and Cherry.”

I was lying, obviously. But what was I supposed to say? “Oh yeah, by the way, Mum—I’m flying across countries to move in with a man I’ve never kissed, who ghosted me once, and then came back with a plane ticket and eyes that make me forget my name?”

Nope. She’d lock me in the attic. But the truth was… I didn’t even care. Because, yeah, it was reckless. In fact, I’d officially gone fucking nuts.

A week later, I walked into the airport with a suitcase and an unhealthy amount of adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

My palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, there’s vomit on my sweater already, Mom’s spaghetti…

Okay, I’ll stop. Anyway, my stomach was tight.

And my brain kept flicking between ‘ this is so exciting’ and ‘ what the fuck are you doing, babe ’ at full volume.

The ticket? First class. Obviously. Because of course that’s what he booked.

Two-hour flight, sure—but Damion didn’t do “standard.” He did leather seats.

Champagne before take-off. And the kind of casual luxury that made it clear this wasn’t some holiday fling.

This was his life. And if I wanted in, I had to get on his level.

Somehow, I felt like I was already behind.

I leaned back in my seat, sipped the champagne, and stared out the window as the plane lifted off.

Everything felt like it was rising—my heart, my expectations, my entire fucking personality.

I didn’t know what was waiting for me in Marbella.

But I knew who was. And that was already making me cry down my leg a bit.

I landed in Málaga just after 3:30 p.m. It wasn’t scorching—it was January, after all—but the air was still warmer than home.

Brighter. Like it had something to prove.

I wrapped my jacket tighter around me and headed through arrivals, trying to steady my breathing, pretending I wasn’t walking into a brand new life like a complete lunatic.

And then I saw him. And fuck me. Grey tracksuit.

Fresh white Prada trainers. Tanned skin.

Sunglasses low on his nose like he hadn’t even bothered to pretend he wasn’t a problem.

He looked… insane.