Page 51 of Deliah

B efore I knew it, a few more months had slipped by.

The heat of summer was starting to soften, the days still golden but cooler at night.

Marbella had become something I never expected: a home.

Not just a place I’d landed in by accident but somewhere that felt like it had always been waiting for me.

Damion and I had talked about staying long-term.

The office wasn’t going anywhere, and neither of us liked the idea of trading sunrises on the balcony for grey skies and traffic jams.

“What’s the rush?” he said one night, his arms around me as we watched the sun sink into the water. “We’ve got everything we need right here.” And he was right. We did. But even with all the peace and luxury, there were things I missed—things that tugged at me when the house was quiet.

Cherry had flown home a week after the blow-up with Tommy.

We’d FaceTimed every day since she left, our calls full of chaotic gossip and inappropriate jokes, but it wasn’t the same.

I missed her energy in the apartment, the late-night giggles over wine, her voice echoing through the hall shouting for a charger or a hairbrush or help picking out an outfit.

I missed the mess of it. The comfort of her.

Without her, the days felt slower. A little quieter. A little too quiet sometimes.

While Damion was at work, I tried to keep myself busy.

I joined a gym—well, I showed up once and mostly stared at the machines.

I swam most mornings, wandered around the port in oversized sunglasses pretending to be busier than I was.

I shopped like it was a sport—shoes, dresses, lingerie, pointless little things I didn’t need but made me feel like the old me again.

Or maybe a newer version of me. One that was softer. Happier. Free.

Evenings and weekends were still magic. We cooked together, danced in the kitchen like no one was looking, fucked like we were trying to burn the house down.

Sometimes we’d just lie in bed for hours, limbs tangled, him talking about the business and me half listening, watching the way his mouth moved when he got serious.

I was obsessed with all of it. With him.

And somewhere along the way, I realised I couldn’t leave.

I didn’t want to. Being with him didn’t feel like a phase anymore.

It felt like the beginning of everything.

But I missed my family, too—my mum’s roast dinners, even my brother.

Damion had promised we’d fly home for a visit soon, just for a week or two.

I was already planning outfits in my head.

I wanted to see them, I wanted them to properly meet Damion, and I wanted them to see me.

To see that I wasn’t just surviving—I was finally fucking thriving.

But before that, Damion had to fly back to England for a day.

Just one day. Some boring business thing he couldn’t avoid.

You’d think he was leaving for a year the way he carried on.

He was a nightmare. Pacing around the apartment the night before, double-checking flight times, printing off documents, asking me if I had enough food, like I didn’t live in a fucking mansion five minutes from every restaurant in Marbella.

“Text me when you wake up,” he said, pulling me into a kiss before he left. “Text me after breakfast. After lunch. When you nap. Just—text me, okay?”

“It’s twenty-four hours.” I laughed. “You’ll survive.”

“I don’t like leaving you.”

“I’m not made of glass, Damion.”

“I know,” he said, kissing my forehead. “But you’re mine. And I like to keep what’s mine close.”

When he left, the place felt hollow. It was stupid, really.

I was normally fine being on my own. But now?

Without his presence—even just the sound of his shoes on the floor or the way he sighed when he read emails—I felt weird.

Unsettled. He texted me from the plane. Then again when he landed.

Then again when he got to the office. It was like he couldn’t go five minutes without checking in.

And I didn’t hate it. Not even a little.

When Damion got back from England, he told me he had something planned for the weekend.

Nothing wild, just a date night, like we often did.

Saturday came, and he walked through the door holding a couple of sleek designer bags, the kind that made your heart beat faster before you’d even seen what was inside.

He handed me the first one—a Jimmy Choo bag—and inside was a pair of red stilettos.

Strappy. Sleek. The perfect shade of bold.

I lifted them out slowly, already in love.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “These are insane.”

“Wait for it.” He smirked, holding out the second bag.

A Chanel ribbon was tied neatly around the handle.

I undid it carefully, like it might disappear if I moved too fast. Inside was a white silk dress—pure luxury.

Cut on the bias, low back, tiny diamantés scattered across the fabric like stars.

It shimmered without screaming. Subtle, but showstopping.

I looked up at him, stunned. “Damion… this is too much.”

He stepped closer, hands on my waist. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you. Seriously. It’s gorgeous.”

“You haven’t even put it on yet.” He smiled. “But I already know you’re gonna ruin me in it.” He winked. “Date night’s booked. Be ready for six.”

I spent an hour getting ready, taking my time with every curl, every swipe of highlighter, wanting to feel worthy of the way he looked at me.

The shoes fit like a dream. The dress fit like a dream; it gripped my body like a secret begging to be spilled.

Damion looked just as good—maybe better.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black trousers that fit too well, and that quiet confidence that made everything he wore look like it was designed just for him.

When I walked downstairs, his reaction was everything. He stood up slowly, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You picked the outfit,” I said, twirling just enough to make him blink. “What? Regretting it already?”

He dragged his gaze up my body like it physically hurt him. “No. Just wondering how the fuck I’m meant to keep my hands off you.” Then his hand slid into mine, grounding me in that steady, familiar warmth.

“I love you,” he said softly. “You look beautiful.”

I squeezed his fingers and smiled. “I love you too.”

Then, with my heels clicking against the marble floor and his hand wrapped tight around mine, we stepped out the door, into the night, and into whatever was waiting for us next.

We pulled into Puerto Banús just as the sky started to melt into velvet.

The sun was dipping low, casting that golden, honeyed glow over the water, and the air was still warm—just the right amount of breeze to lift the hem of my dress and make the curls in my hair dance.

Everything shimmered: the sea, the lights from the shops, even the pavement beneath my heels.

It all felt like it had been dusted with glitter.

Damion came around to open my door, always smooth, always effortless. He extended his hand, and I placed mine in his like it was second nature now.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low and amused. “This way.”

I followed, the click of my stilettos sharp against the boardwalk as we strolled past rows of luxury yachts, each more ridiculous than the last. The kind of boats you only ever saw in movies, sleek lines, glossy decks, champagne buckets just sitting there like it was normal.

Then he stopped. And I realised he wasn’t walking past the next one.

He was leading us onto it. The yacht was obscene, in the best way.

It looked more like a floating palace than a boat.

Three decks high. Glass balconies. Polished chrome railings.

Lights glowing softly under the hull like the damn thing was levitating.

My mouth fell open. “Damion…”

A suited staff member stepped forward, offering a polite smile. “Sir, welcome aboard.”

I blinked. Sir .

“What is this?” I whispered, trying to take it all in. I could feel eyes on me—staff, crew, maybe even strangers on the pier—but I couldn’t look away from him.

He smirked. “A date.”

“A date,” I repeated, still frozen.

“Come on.” He tugged me gently up the steps, the warm wood of the deck beneath my heels. “You’re gonna love it.”

I looked around in disbelief as we stepped fully onto the yacht.

Everything was pristine—glossy teak underfoot, soft uplighting along the railings, loungers with cream cushions and fluffy throws.

There was even a hot tub bubbling quietly near the back.

The ocean spread out in every direction, calm and endless.

“This is insane,” I said, turning in a slow circle. “Damion, where are we going?”

He gave a small shrug. “Nowhere far. Just out. Just away.”

I stared at him, still stunned. “Whose yacht is this?”

“Just a friend’s,” he said casually. “Someone who owed me a favour.”

I blinked again, half laughing, half drowning in disbelief. “Of course. Of course you know someone with a billion-pound boat.”

He laughed, low and warm, eyes crinkling. “Don’t look so scared. You deserve nights like this.”

Then I saw it.

At the far end of the deck, just where the railings curved and the water glittered beyond, was a small table.

Set for two. Draped in white linen. Tiny gold lanterns hung above, flickering like fireflies, and there was champagne already chilling in a silver bucket beside it.

I felt my breath catch. For once, I didn’t have anything clever to say.

Damion walked me over, pulled out the chair, and gestured for me to sit.

I did, slowly, letting my hands fall into my lap to stop them from shaking.

Everything was glowing—me, him, the boat, the water. The night didn’t feel real.