Page 80 of Deliah
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. “Moët, 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—”
