Page 83 of Deliah
“Hmm.” Her mouth pressed into a line, like she was trying not to let her concern take over. Then she smiled. “Well, it does look lovely. And if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
I felt myself relax. “Thanks, Mum.”
“But just… be careful, okay? I don’t want any more heartbroken daughters to put back together.”
I rolled my eyes, grinning. “I’ll be careful. He’s not like the others, Mum. I actually can’t wait for you to meet him.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She smirked.
“I’ve got to go now, but I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Alright, bab. Take care of yourself.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Telling my mum that I was living with him made it all a little more… official. Not just a summer fling or some impulsive decision. This was starting to feel real. Like something—someone—I was choosing.
Chapter 27 –
You’re Just Another One
Before I knew it, the week had passed by in a blink, and Cherry and I were getting ready for our first night at the Ocean Club. It almost didn’t feel real. The days had been a blur of sun-soaked mornings, giggly outfit planning, and secretly practising how to carry trays in heels around Damion’s marble kitchen. But by the time Friday rolled around, we were ready. And honestly? That first night was a dream. We looked the part—tight black dresses, glossy lips, heels high enough to demand respect but low enough to walk in without snapping an ankle.
Damion dropped us both off right outside the velvet-roped entrance like some sort of Marbella chauffeur, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting protectively on my thigh before I stepped out. The shift flew by. We sold bottle after bottleof champagne, worked the tables like pros, and charmed every group of finance bros and footballers’ mates that walked in.
Charlie, the manager, was buzzing. Told us we were the “best pair of girls he’d had all season.” Which honestly wasn’t saying much, but still—praise is praise. The money was even better than I’d hoped. Rich men drink like fish when they’re trying to impress each other. And when two pretty girls laugh at their jokes and stroke their egos? They practically throw their cards at you. One guy tipped me €200 just for bringing him a fresh ashtray and pretending to know who he was. By the time Damion picked us up that night, I was riding the high of it all. Champagne buzz, fat wad of tips tucked into my bra, Cherry giggling in the back seat about how a guy offered to buy her a bloody Range Rover if she met him for brunch.
The second night was just as good. We hit our stride quickly—worked the floor like we owned it. The club was packed again, and the clients were spending like their credit cards were on fire. But this time, I noticed something. The difference. In the strip club back on the island, the men were drunk, loud, sometimes creepy. They threw cash because they thought it made them powerful, and we squeezed it out of them like pros. But here? The money came easily, but the attitude was different. These weren’t desperate lads blowing their holiday cash. These were men with money. Real money. Boat money. Most of them were decent enough—sleazy in the way rich men always are, but polite-ish. Still, you got the odd one. The smug arseholes who looked you up and down like they were picking a meal off a menu. One guy told Cherry she’d “look better with her mouth shut,” and another grabbed my wrist a little too tight when I laughed at the wrong moment. But we handled it. We always did. I didn’t tell Damion. What was the point? He’d just stress, maybe even show up at the club and cause a scene. He wasn’tthe jealous type exactly, but he had this fierce need to protect me. Sometimes too fiercely. And I liked having a job. I liked the independence. The thrill of earning my own money again. Life was good. Better than good.
Damion and I were… something. I didn’t even know what to call it yet, but it was electric. We were having the best sex of my life—intense, emotional, dominant, addictive. He made me feel wanted and safe, even when I was being a brat or challenging him. Especially then. And somewhere between the after-work takeaways, the morning kisses, and the late-night laughter wrapped up in his sheets, I realised something I hadn’t wanted to admit yet. I was falling for him. Hard.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of sequins, champagne, and laughter. Cherry was her usual self: completely unhinged in the best possible way. She had a knack for making even the dullest nights feel like a wild girls’ holiday. We laughed until we cried, danced around the staffroom in heels we couldn’t wait to take off, and kept each other sane with inside jokes and ridiculous nicknames for the regulars. It was fun. Better than fun—it felt like freedom. Money rolled in like clockwork, the shifts were glamorous enough to forget they were work, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I had a grip on my life again.
Cherry, too, seemed lighter. I knew things between her and Tommy were rocky—she didn’t go into too much detail, but I could read between the lines. There were more sighs, more silences when his name came up, and a lot of shruggingwhenever I asked how things were. But here, at the club, she was glowing. The break was doing her good, and I could see it in the way she laughed without holding back.
But beneath the sparkle of it all, something started to shift. Charlie—our boss—began to show his true colours. At first, he’d been decent enough. Gruff but professional. He liked us because we brought in sales and didn’t cause drama. But once he got comfortable, the mask slipped. And Damion, as much as I hated to admit it, had been right all along. The change wasn’t sudden. It crept in slowly, like a rot under the floorboards.
One night, it was a snappy comment about how we looked tired. The next, it was him barking at Cherry in the staffroom for “slacking” when she was literally fixing her bloody heel. He started nitpicking everything—how we walked, how we spoke, even how we laughed. Yes, laughed. Another night, Cherry and I were doubled over in the staffroom, trying to catch our breath after a particularly drunk customer had called her “Champagne Shakira” and asked her to sing for his table. We were cackling, mascara smudged, still clutching our trays.
Charlie stormed in and snapped, “What the fuck are you two doing in here? Go and sell some fucking champagne—that’s what I pay you for, right?”
We froze, eyes wide. Cherry mumbled an apology, and I just bit my tongue. He was a prick. No doubt about it. But we didn’t let him ruin it for us. We rolled our eyes behind his back, mocked his temper when he wasn’t around, and kept showing up. Because we had each other. And because neither of us was ready to give up the one thing that felt like ours.
I mentioned to Damion in passing that Charlie was a bit of a dick, but I brushed it off before he could sink his teeth into it. I knew exactly what he would do if he thought someone wasdisrespecting me—or Cherry, for that matter. He’d storm into the club and tear the place apart without a second thought. And honestly, as satisfying as that sounded, I didn’t want to lose the job over some middle-aged man’s tantrums. Besides, we could handle Charlie. We were used to men like him. Men who thought power made them untouchable. We’d seen worse. We’d survived worse. So we smiled when we had to. Played nice when it mattered. And when the shift was over, we climbed into Damion’s car, kicked off our shoes, and tucked into greasy chips and fizzy drinks in our laps. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
Then one night started like any other. Cherry and I were dolled up, heels clicking against the pavement as Damion pulled up outside the club. His car, sleek and black, gleamed beneath the streetlights. He hadn’t said much on the drive over; he just held my hand on the gearstick and kept glancing towards the clock. Quiet. Focused. I figured work had been stressful—he got like that sometimes, tense in the jaw, eyes scanning like he was always ten steps ahead. As we stepped out of the car, Charlie was standing right outside the entrance, leaning against the wall like he owned the entire strip. I felt Damion tense beside me. His gaze locked on Charlie with ice-cold precision, and Charlie… scowled. Not subtle. Not polite. Not professional.
I blinked, caught off guard. I glanced between the two of them. “You alright?” I asked Damion, but he didn’t answer straight away—just kept staring.
Eventually, he kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll be back at closing.”
“Okay…” I shrugged it off. I knew Damion didn’t like Charlie—he’d said as much. I figured maybe he’d been in the club once before, got a bad vibe. Damion had a good radar for dickheads. And Charlie was a prick, so I didn’t think much more of it.
Inside, the night carried on like usual. Laughter, luxury, litres of champagne. We poured, smiled, charmed, danced, and flirted with practiced finesse. The tips were flowing, and the millionaires were on their third bottles by 11 p.m. But something felt off. Charlie was watching me. Hovering. He wasn’t yelling or barking orders like usual. No, this was worse—he was quiet. Weirdly quiet. Like he was waiting for the perfect moment to say something. I kept catching his eyes on me, like he wanted to start a fire and was just deciding when to light the match. By the end of the night, Cherry and I were in the staffroom, giggling as we counted our tips like we always did—buzzing off the mayhem, heels finally kicked off, cheeks aching from fake smiles.
The staffroom door slammed open so hard it cracked against the wall. Charlie. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw clenched, face red with whatever cocktail of ego and alcohol he’d been drinking. But it was the voice that got me. Low. Steady. Full of venom.
