Page 41 of Deliah

“You’re late,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“I brought caffeine.”

She snatched the coffee without a second thought. “Fine. You’re forgiven. Just.”

We were dressed to the nines—heels, blazers, sleek hair, just the right balance between sexy and sophisticated. Not slutty, but definitely enough to turn heads. We looked like we were about to sell million-pound properties or steal someone’s husband. Maybe both.

“So,” Cherry said as I pulled onto the main road, “what’s the plan, boss?”

“We head to the port. Start with the high-end stores. Prada, Gucci, maybe Louis Vuitton if they don’t throw us out first.”

She laughed. “Can’t wait to get judged for sport.”

By the time we stepped out onto the promenade in Puerto Banús, the sun was shining and the port glittered like it knew it was expensive.

Yachts bobbed lazily in the water, and the air smelled like sea salt and money.

First stop: Prada. We strutted in like we owned the place, heels clicking, heads high.

A perfectly polished sales assistant clocked us the moment we entered, eyes scanning us from head to toe with that tight, silent judgement that only women in head-to-toe beige can manage.

I smiled sweetly and approached the counter. “Hi, I was just wondering if you’re hiring?”

The woman didn’t even blink. “What languages do you speak?”

“English,” I said brightly.

She raised one overplucked brow. “Only English?”

“Well, I know how to order tequila in Spanish?”

“Russian? French?”

I hesitated. Cherry burst out laughing behind me. “She’s lucky she can spell her own name some days.”

I nudged her in the ribs, but even I had to laugh. The woman clearly wasn’t impressed. Her lips pressed together like she was holding back a complaint to management just by being near us.

“Right. Okay. Thank you anyway,” I said quickly, grabbing Cherry’s arm and dragging her towards the door.

The second we stepped outside, she howled. “Deliah! The way she looked at you like you’d just walked in with a missing leg and a fake Gucci belt.”

“That was a disaster.”

“You were a disaster. ‘I can order tequila in Spanish’—are you mad?”

“It was relevant!”

We regrouped, then marched into Gucci next. I approached the counter while Cherry lingered near the accessories, pretending to admire a belt she’d probably pawn for rent if she had to.

“Hi, are you currently hiring?” I asked.

A sharp-faced guy in an immaculately tailored suit looked me up and down. “What experience do you have?”

“We worked in a high-end bar on an island,” I said confidently.

He tilted his head. “Which bar?”

I opened my mouth. Then stopped. My eyes flicked to Cherry, who turned around with a grin that said, “ Don’t you dare .”

“Erm…” I started. “It was very exclusive.”

Cherry burst out laughing. “It was a strip club, mate. But the cocktails were good.”

I couldn’t hold it in—I started giggling, then snorting, then full-on crying with laughter. The sales guy looked like he was about to call security, and we practically ran out, clutching our sides.

“Okay,” I gasped once we made it outside. “This is actually a fucking disaster.”

Cherry wiped her eyes, still wheezing. “Deliah. I kinda knew the high-end shops weren’t gonna work for us. We’re absolute twats in heels. That woman in Prada could smell it.”

“Alright,” I said, fanning myself. “Let’s try something smaller. Boutiques. We’re cute. Maybe someone’ll take pity on us.”

We hit five, maybe six little shops. Boutiques run by older women in floaty kaftans, stiff white men with clipboards, and the occasional teen assistant who didn’t know what day it was. One after another, we got politely—sometimes not so politely—turned away.

“Not hiring.”

“We only take bilinguals.”

“You’re not really what we’re looking for right now.”

“I think you’d be better off… somewhere else.”

By the last one, Cherry muttered, “Do we scream ‘unemployed twats,’ or is that just how I feel inside?”

I exhaled hard. “I need a drink.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

We found a cute café and sat on the terrace. Two hours, three mimosas, and a cheese board later, Cherry had gone from light-hearted to slightly feral.

“Let’s try some bars,” she said, slurring just slightly. “They’re much more likely to take us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You’re about two sips away from starting a fight with a bouncer.”

“Oh, please. I’m charming.”

She wasn’t. We tried two bars. One wasn’t hiring. The other had a manager who looked Cherry up and down and made a comment about her skirt being too short for a ‘family venue.’

She smiled sweetly, leaned over the counter, and said, “Fuck off, Grandad.”

I dragged her out before he called the police.

“This is not going to plan.” I groaned.

“We still have the clubs,” Cherry said, ever the opportunist.

I hesitated.

She leaned in. “Hostessing. Nothing dodgy. Think about it—we already know the drill. Look good, flirt a little, pop a few corks. Easy money.”

I sighed. “Alright. One club. That’s all.”

We made our way to one of the exclusive lounges at the edge of the port, the kind of place with mirrored walls and perfume wafting out of the air vents.

We asked for the manager and were led to a guy called Charlie—a slim, well-dressed man with slicked-back hair and the confidence of someone who definitely owned white loafers.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “What’s your experience?”

Cherry and I sat up straighter.

“We both worked in a luxury bar back in Ibiza,” I said smoothly. “Cocktail service, VIP hosting, bottle presentations.”

He nodded slowly. “Which bar?”

This time, I was ready. “Velvet Room.”

That part was technically true.

He smirked. “And what do you know about champagne?”

“Vintage, non-vintage, brut, demi-sec,” Cherry rattled off. “Moet, Veuve, Dom, Cristal, Krug…”

He nodded. “And liqueurs?”

We listed brands like we were reciting the alphabet. He seemed impressed.

Finally, he leaned forward. “Three nights a week. Thursday to Saturday. Our busiest nights.”

I blinked. “You’re offering us the job?”

“You start next week,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

We practically skipped out of there.

“We got a fucking job!” Cherry yelled.

“We actually did it!”

We celebrated the only way we knew how—by heading to the beach club, ordering cocktails we definitely couldn’t afford, and pretending we were already rich.

I got drunk. Cherry got drunker. We danced to music we couldn’t name and flirted with guys we didn’t care about, then piled into a taxi and headed home—bags lighter, heads heavier, and hearts full.

Tomorrow? Real life could start again. But today? Today, we’d won.

I pulled up to the villa just after sunset, the taxi crunching over the gravel as the warm glow of the porch lights came into view.

My stomach flipped slightly—half nerves, half buzz.

Damion’s car was already parked up. Shit.

I hadn’t realised how late it was. The driver barely had time to stop before I was out, heels in hand, bag slung over my shoulder.

I tiptoed across the tiles like I was breaking curfew.

The door creaked open before I could even fish out the key.

He was standing there. Shirt sleeves rolled up.

Tie loosened. Jaw tight. His eyes narrowed the second he saw me. “How did you get home?”

“I got a taxi,” I said casually, trying not to sway too obviously.

“Deliah,” he said, stepping towards me. “You should’ve called me. I would’ve come to get you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.” I shrugged, brushing past him into the villa. “I thought you’d be busy.”

He followed me inside, his voice low and razor-sharp. “No taxis. On your own. Ever. Do you understand me?”

I dropped my bag by the sofa and turned to face him. “I’m fine, Damion. It was just a taxi.”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “Deliah, do you understand?” His hand came up, firm but careful, fingers curling under my jaw to turn my face towards his. His thumb swept gently across my cheek—but his eyes stayed hard, unblinking steel. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little.” I smirked, trying to cut the tension. Trying to calm the storm I could already feel brewing behind his calm. He stepped back slightly, arms folding. “So let me get this straight. You got into a taxi. Alone. While drunk.”

“It wasn’t even that far!” I argued. “And we only had a few drinks, it wasn’t wild or anything—”

“You think that makes it better?” he snapped, then exhaled hard through his nose, visibly reigning himself in. His voice dropped lower. “Do you know how dangerous that was?”

I bristled. “I’m not a child.”

“No,” he said, pacing a few steps, then turning back to face me. “You’re not. But you’re mine. And I don’t like the idea of anyone else being in control of where you go or what happens to you when I’m not around.”

I paused, heart stuttering at the way he said that.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, quieter this time. “Nothing happened.” There was a long silence between us. A beat too long. “Anyway,” I added quickly, changing the subject, “aren’t you curious how I got on today?”

He raised a brow. “That depends. Do I want to know?”

I grinned. “We got a job. Hostessing. Three nights a week.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Where?”

“The Ocean Club.”

His entire expression shifted—still calm, but I saw the flicker. That tight clench in his jaw. A darkness behind his eyes. I knew that look too well. “The Ocean Club?” he repeated slowly.

“Yeah, you know it?” I teased, pulling off my heels. “Of course you do. You know everything, don’t you?”

“Deliah…” His tone warned me. “I don’t want you working there.”

I straightened up. “Why not?”

“The manager’s a dickhead. That place is full of cokeheads and sleazy rich tourists looking for a different kind of ‘hostessing.’”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Damion.” I rolled my eyes, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Don’t call me ridiculous,” he snapped, voice sharp.