Page 55 of Deliah
“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.
I’d only ever seen him in shirts before—tailored, crisp, the kind of man who always looked like he had a meeting with someone powerful. But this? This was filth. Soft cotton clinging to his arms, hugging that thick chest, and—dear god—his cock literally bouncing in those trackies like it had its own postcode. I stared. Couldn’t help it. He caught me looking. Smirked. The heat that flushed through me was instant.
“Hello, princess,” he said, voice low and loaded.
My skin prickled. Every nerve ending in my body came alive. “Hi, Damion…” I said, blinking like I’d just been slapped with attraction. “You look… nice.”
He stepped forward, lifting my suitcase from the floor like it weighed nothing.
“Let me get your bags,” he said like he’d been doing this for years, and I hadn’t just flown into his life with nothing but red flags and lingerie.
And just like that, I was in it. No turning back. No safety net. Just him. And me. And whatever the hell came next.
We drove along the coast, the sun sinking low enough to glaze the sea in gold. To our right, cliffs and scattered villas climbed through the hills. To our left, the ocean stretched out like it had something to say. It felt surreal. I felt like I’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life. Not the one where I’d cried myself to sleep in a shitty shared apartment on that godforsaken island. Not the one filled with hangovers, heartbreak, and unflushed toilets. This was something else entirely. I glanced over at him, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses still perched low on his nose, like he’d stepped out of a music video and never looked back.
“So…” I said, dragging out the word. “Is your place like… super depressing?”
He didn’t blink. “Define depressing.”
“Like mismatched furniture. Maybe a sad microwave dinner left out. You give me ‘I sleep on a mattress with no frame’ energy.”
That got a smile. Just the corner of his mouth. But still.
“Bold coming from someone who used to keep her makeup scattered across every surface like it was part of the décor.”
I shrugged, eyes on the window, hiding my grin. “Just mentally preparing myself in case you’ve catfished me with your property.”
“I don’t need to catfish,” he said smoothly. “You’ll see.”
“Oh, I’ll see,” I teased. “I’m just saying, if I walk in and there’s plastic flowers and a lava lamp, I’m out.”
He didn’t answer, just turned into a discreet side road flanked by tall palms and whitewashed walls. At the end was a sleek security gate that slid open like something out of a spy film. We began climbing. The driveway wound its way up the hillside, the view growing more ridiculous with every turn. More ocean. More sky. More proof that I was either living someone else’s dream or halfway through a hallucination brought on by too much Prosecco. And then we reached it. His villa. Modern. White. Ridiculously massive. The kind of house that makes you instinctively whisper “what the actual fuck” under your breath.
We pulled into the circular drive, the engine purring as he shifted into park. I stared out the window, shamelessly gawking. Clean lines. Glass walls. Sculpted gardens. A private pool that shimmered like it had its own lighting designer. Bifold doors stretched wide open onto a marble terrace that overlooked the entire coastline. I could see the sea from here—and I wasn’t even inside yet. Damion stepped out first and circled to my door, opening it like some gentleman from a luxury noir fantasy. I got out slowly. Took it all in.
“Well,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Told you it’d be shit.”
He smirked. “Try not to look so impressed.”
“I’m not,” I said, already walking towards the front door. “I’m just mentally measuring where I’ll place my throne.”
Inside, the place was even more ridiculous. High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Sleek black fixtures and dark stone floors that gleamed under soft, ambient lighting. The walls were a deep matte grey, broken up by raw textures—concrete, glass, steel. A floating staircase with black metal rails twisted upwards likeit belonged in a design magazine, and the art on the walls? Monochrome. Abstract. Sharp. The kind of pieces that didn’t ask to be liked—they demanded to be noticed. I barely made it through the hallway without spinning in a full circle.
“You live here?” I asked, like I hadn’t just willingly flown across countries to do exactly that.
