Page 30 of Deliah
I didn’t reply. Because she was right.
She softened a little and looped her arm through mine. “Babe, it’s just a date. You’re acting like he proposed.”
I sighed. “Yeah. But dinner turns into drinks, drinks turn into kissing, kissing turns into a fuck—and then what? I spiral all over again.”
“Or maybe,” she said gently, “you have a nice meal, get dressed up, feel sexy, and remember there’s more to life than Jay.”
I looked down at the bar floor, scuffed with glitter and spilled tequila.
She bumped my hip. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
I met her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Famous last words.”
“I mean it,” she said. “Just go. If he’s a dick, you never have to see him again.”
I gave her a nod, my heart still thumping. Because maybe, just maybe, this dinner wasn’t the start of another heartbreak. Maybe it was the start of getting my fucking power back.
I decided not to text him back. I was testing him, seeing if he would still come without a reply.Didn’t say yes. Didn’t even acknowledge the message. But still—there I was, standing in front of the mirror in a tight black dress that clung to me like sin. My heels were too high, my nude lipstick perfectly lined, and my attitude too dangerous.
I told myself it was just in case I went out. Nothing to do with Damion. Nothing to do with the way he made me feel like I was under a microscope with one look.
6:59 p.m. The exact moment I heard it. The deep rumble of that matte black Range Rover purring outside like it owned the street. I peeked through the shutters. And there he was. Leaning against the bonnet like some anti-hero from a film that shouldn’t exist—one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone like he hadn’t just sent the most arrogant invite in the history of texting.
He didn’t look up until I opened the door. Then he smiled—slow, sharp. Dangerous.
“Get in, trouble.”
That was it. Not a hello. Not a compliment. Just a challenge. I rolled my eyes and strutted past him. He shut the door behind me with the quiet finality of a man used to getting his way.
We didn’t go into the city. Instead, we drove towards the hills, the road winding and empty, the silence between us thick with tension. He didn’t say much. Neither did I.
But every now and then, his hand would rest on the gearstick, and my skin would crawl with anticipation. He wasn’t even touching me—but I felt it. Every glance. Every breath.
The restaurant was tucked away like a secret. Amber lights, ivy-covered stone walls, and a valet who greeted him like royalty. Inside, it was all candlelight and whispered money. He didn’t ask what I wanted. He ordered for both of us.
“Red wine. Full-bodied. Heavy,” he said smoothly.
The waiter nodded like this was normal.
I sat back and crossed my arms. “Do you always make decisions for people you barely know?”
His eyes met mine, unwavering. “Only when I’m right.”
Oh, fuck off.I sipped the wine anyway. Of course it was perfect. We talked. But not small talk. Never with him. He asked questions that went straight through the surface like a knife. I pushed back, obviously. Called him full of himself. Arrogant.A walking red flag. But he didn’t flinch. He just smirked and leaned in, calm as ever.
“Keep talking, little girl. It’s cute when you pretend you’re not dying for someone to put you in your place.”
My legs crossed tighter. My stomach flipped. What the fuck was this guy doing to me?
After dinner, he didn’t rush. He walked me to the car like a gentleman, palm grazing the small of my back in a way that made my body scream for more. It wasn’t possessive—but it might as well have been. In the car, I tried to be quiet. Distant. Unbothered. He glanced over at me as we drove, the streetlights flickering across his face like they were too scared to touch him.
Then he said it: “You always have an attitude?”
I didn’t look at him. Just smirked out the window. “Only when someone tries to tell me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” he said smoothly. “I’m just wondering how long you’ll last before you beg someone to take control.”
I turned to him, slow and deliberate. “If I wanted control, I’d hand it over. You think I’d give it to you?”
