Chapter 81
Eighty-One
Delilah had thought she would be on one of the smaller courts, just playing in front of James, maybe a handful of people at most.
Instead, she was being led toward Centre Court, where Santos and Fujimoto had played that afternoon. The lights were on as the sunlight faded, and dozens of people were in the stands.
She had been on sets where the lighting turned her skin a jaundiced yellow, in front of cameras so high definition they exposed every pore. But in her most sweat-soaked nightmares, she had never imagined being on display like this.
Just as she was about to head in, she saw movement at the edge of her vision.
Cassie. She was leaving. Head down, shoulders tight, as though she couldn’t get away fast enough.
‘Wait!’ The word tore out of Delilah. She turned to Lena, desperate. ‘Just give me a moment.’
Lena shrugged, unbothered. ‘Sure.’
Delilah bolted, heading after Cassie. ‘Hey!’
Cassie stopped reluctantly, face stony as she turned.
Delilah skidded to a halt. ‘What are you doing? The match is about to start. They’ve got me playing bloody Lena Dalton for the role!’
Cassie paused. ‘That’s good news. She’s an actress, like you. Not a player. Probably can’t play any better than you can now.’
Delilah didn’t understand what was happening. ‘But, but… why are you leaving?’
‘Because I can’t do this anymore.’ Cassie’s voice was quiet, but it landed like a hammer.
Delilah blinked, stunned. ‘What are you talking about?’
Cassie folded her arms. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. You’re ready for this film. You don’t need me anymore.’
‘That’s not—’ Delilah faltered, words sticking in her throat.
‘Whatever this was between us…’ Cassie’s throat worked as she swallowed. ‘It’s run its course, hasn’t it?’
‘What?’ Delilah whispered.
Cassie shook her head, cutting her off before she could scramble for words. ‘Go play, Delilah. You’re gonna do fine without me now.’
Delilah’s mouth opened, closed. Nothing came. By the time she gathered herself, Cassie was already gone.
**
Back on court, everything felt muffled, unreal, like she was watching someone else’s body move.
Lena’s first serve streaked past her untouched, a blur of white against the green. The second did the same. The third Delilah swung at, desperate, and batted straight into the net.
She was already prepared to fold, to sink to her knees right there.
What was the point? She was nothing. She’d always been nothing.
She didn’t deserve to play Tamsin Rowe. Getting this far had been a fluke, a cruel mistake.
And now she was about to be exposed, everyone watching, every mistake magnified under the lights.
Her chest burned, her hands trembled around the racket, sweat stinging her eyes. Maybe if Cassie had stayed, given just a word of encouragement, a hand on her shoulder, something. But Cassie hadn’t stayed.
It was just Delilah—alone.
As she watched Lena Dalton lazily bounce a ball, preparing to serve, Delilah opened her mouth to say, Forget it. I’m not playing. Then she could walk off, go home, and plan her life as a former actress.
Then Lena Dalton gave a little sigh.
Not even a smug one, just… bored, like this was beneath her. Like she knew what was going to happen, that she was going to win. Everything.
The sound cracked something in her.
Delilah straightened, teeth grinding. She could take humiliation in front of the crowd, the director’s disappointment, the certainty of being replaced, the end of her career, even.
But she would not, under any circumstances, be dismissed by Lena bloody Dalton.
Who was she? An overpaid, overestimated posho.
Delilah had been around that type her whole life on sets and stages.
She despised them. The entitlement, the self-righteousness.
She was suddenly filled with a burning hatred.
She wanted to make Lena swallow it.
The next serve came. Delilah lunged, wild and awkward, but she caught it, smacking the ball back so hard Lena actually flinched, and the ball got past her, just in. A murmur rippled through the stands.
Lena’s smile tightened.
Good, Delilah thought. Let her squirm.
She stalked the baseline, bouncing on her toes the way Cassie had drilled her, her breath sawing in and out. Every shot Lena fired over, Delilah chased down. She was sloppy, her swings too wide, her feet clumsy, but she kept getting there, pushing back, starting to take points.
And Lena hated it.
With each rally, Lena grew more rattled. Her sighs became muttered curses, her shoulders jerking tighter, her control slipping altogether. She sent balls long, clipped the net, and absolutely shanked her forehand.
And Delilah? She was everywhere. Grunting, sweating, flailing, but relentless. The crowd, watching casually before as they necked cocktails, began to really watch, making noises of enthusiasm.
By the last game, Lena looked near tears, her cheeks red, her lips tight as she smacked another return into the net. Delilah’s chest burned, her arm ached, but she dug deep for one last shot, slamming the ball past Lena’s outstretched racket.
Game. Set. Match.
Lena’s head bowed, her racket dangling limp. She wouldn’t meet Delilah’s eye.
The arena erupted.
James was suddenly there, beaming, clapping, showering her in effusive praise. ‘Delilah! Brilliant! Absolutely bloody brilliant!’ His grin was greasy with flattery, as if this had never been an audition at all.
Delilah barely heard him. The victory didn’t feel like a victory. She knew she’d done enough; the role was secure, but her heart was empty.
Because Cassie wasn’t there to see it.
She slipped past James, ignoring his hand on her shoulder, ignoring Lena’s muttered swearing behind her. She dropped her racket and strode down the tunnel.
There was only one thing she wanted. One person.
Cassie. Why had she left? What had Delilah done? Had Cassie just had enough of Delilah?
That was a seductive thought, but the way Cassie’s whole demeanour had changed didn’t really back that up.
Something had happened. Was it because she’d watched that pro exhibition match?
Had it upset her? She’d seemed OK—good, even.
Delilah had thought… She felt silly now, but she’d thought today might have begun some healing for her.
Was that it? Was Delilah a thoughtless, insensitive clod who had brought Cassie to the last place on earth she should have been and acted like it was going to make Cassie get over what had happened?
God.
She called Cassie. It went to voicemail. She called her again. Voicemail again. Shit, she’d blocked her.
Delilah didn’t blame her. But she had to apologise. She had to do that at least. Even if she’d blown it. Cassie deserved to know that Delilah cared about her, that she hadn’t meant to make things harder for her. Even if she had done exactly that.