Page 37 of Deliah
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 havethe 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—”
