Chapter 12: Not your choices
1435 Words
I must have fallen asleep without realizing it.
When I came to, the first thing I saw was Dominic standing at the foot of the bed.
That alone was enough to sour my mood.
Annoyed, I shifted, trying to sit up, when he stepped further into the room and pressed the help button attached to the bed controller.
“Hello?” a voice answered over the speaker.
“She just woke up,” Dominic said immediately. “I was told to call as soon as she did.”
I hadn’t even finished adjusting the pillow behind my back before the call ended. Moments later, the door opened and a doctor walked in, followed by two nurses. They moved around me quietly, checking my vitals, glancing at monitors, scribbling notes like I was just another chart on a clipboard.
Finally, the doctor nodded.
“You’re cleared to go home,” he said. “But before you do, I want to talk to you.”
My stomach tightened.
“I know you’ve had a difficult year,” he continued, his tone practiced—sympathetic without being personal. “But you can’t live as if you’re in debt to the world, Thumper. Not everyone is trying to take advantage of you. There are people who care about you. People who are worried.”
Each sentence pressed down on my chest.
“I strongly recommend therapy,” he added. “Psychological support. If you don’t follow through with this recommendation in your discharge papers, and you end up here again under similar circumstances, I won’t have a choice but to place you under psychiatric observation.”
He met my eyes directly.
“Are we clear?”
My throat burned.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to throw something.
I wanted to curl into myself and disappear.
He had no idea what it felt like to wake up every day calculating survival. To count dollars instead of dreams. To know that one mistake could cost you everything.
And now I was being warned—threatened, really—that because I wasn’t born with safety, because I wasn’t wealthy enough to rest, I could be locked away for breaking down.
I nodded, because that’s what people like me do.
We nod.
We comply.
We survive.
But inside, something cracked.
And I knew—deep down—that this wasn’t over.
They removed every wire, every sticker, every reminder that my body had betrayed me.
As the nurse worked, the doctor asked Dominic to step outside. I didn’t look at him, but the relief that followed his absence settled deep in my chest like a long-held breath finally released.
Once they were done, I slipped off the bed and went into the small bathroom to change.
That was when the irritation returned full force.
My work clothes were gone.
In their place, neatly folded on the counter, was a knee-length blue dress and a pair of black boots. Clean. Elegant. Expensive.
I should have felt pretty.
Instead, it felt like someone had decided who I was allowed to be without asking me.
The doctor had just told me how to live my life. Now someone else had decided how I should look while doing it.
He had money.
He had security.
He had a home, a car, a future that didn’t depend on counting hours and tips.
I had none of that.
I searched for underwear, found it, and made my choice.
If it was between wearing something I didn’t ask for—or walking out in the hospital gown—I chose the gown.
It was free.
And for once, I didn’t owe anyone for it.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, Dominic was standing in the room.
The moment he saw me, something in him snapped.
“You are not leaving this hospital in those robes.”
His tone—sharp, commanding—lit a fuse in me.
“Oh yes, I am.”
I stepped forward, my hands clenched, my voice steady even as my chest burned.
“You don’t get to choose my life, Dominic. You don’t live with debt hanging over your head. You don’t know what it’s like to be poor when everyone around you is protected, supported, and comfortable.”
My voice rose, not hysterical—honest.
“So back the f**k up and leave me alone. I don’t need pity clothes, and I sure as hell don’t need to create more debt wearing something that probably costs more than my rent ever did.”
Each word felt like oxygen.
Like proof I wasn’t losing myself.
Like a reminder that I was still standing—even if barely.
Dominic swallowed.
That was when I really looked at him.
He was dressed in a dark navy suit, tailored perfectly, the kind men wore when they owned companies or sat on boards. His hair—usually messy—was brushed neatly back. His face clean-shaven. A subtle cologne clung to him, expensive and controlled.
He looked like someone who had never had to choose between dignity and survival.
“I know everything you’ve been through has taken a toll,” he said quietly. “I hate that you didn’t tell me. I wasn’t playing you. I wasn’t stringing you along. I care about you—about your well-being.”
His voice softened.
“I don’t know what made you stop trusting me, but I want to understand.”
And that was the worst part.
Because for a moment—just a moment—I almost believed him.
But belief had already cost me too much.
“Understand what, Dominic?”
My voice shook despite how hard I tried to keep it steady. I gestured toward him—toward the suit, the polished shoes, the way he looked untouched by worry.
“Look at how you’re dressed. Tell me how you got to stand there like that and know you don’t owe anyone a single thing. Tell me how.”
He exhaled slowly, like the answer was simple. Like it didn’t cost him anything to say it.
“I bought it,” he said. “The suit. The dress. The accessories. I did it because I’ve already paid everything off—my house, my car, my bills. The only thing I still worry about is groceries.”
Something inside me snapped.
I laughed once, sharp and bitter.
“Exactly,” I said, stepping closer. “You have money. You don’t wake up calculating how many hours you need just to exist. You don’t owe people pieces of your life the way I do.”
The words burned coming out.
That’s when he asked it—sudden, forceful, almost accusing.
“Who do you owe so much money to that you’re trapped in this mindset, Thumper?”
I froze.
“I told you,” he continued, frustration bleeding through his voice, “when I took you into my home that you didn’t owe me a damn cent. Not one. I told you to save for yourself, to get your feet back on the ground. So what the hell made you decide to throw all of that away and act like I was lying to you?”
The room spun.
That wasn’t how it felt three days ago.
That wasn’t how it sounded when he said I was emotional.
That wasn’t how it looked when women filled his house and I disappeared.
Confusion tangled with anger, tightening my chest. I opened my mouth to answer—to finally tell him everything—
But the door opened.
“Both of you need to leave,” the nurse said firmly.
Before I could move, Dominic spoke again.
“Change into the clothes I got you,” he ordered, his tone clipped. “I’m going to fix this issue you have, because I’m done watching you ignore what I tell you.”
He turned and walked out like the decision had already been made.
I stood there, staring after him, my hands shaking.
The nurse remained in the room—the same one who had helped discharge me earlier. The message was clear.
I didn’t have a choice.
I turned back toward the bathroom, my stomach twisting as I put on the dress. The fabric was soft. The fit perfect.
And instead of feeling cared for, I felt owned.
If I wasn’t furious enough to want to punch him, I felt sick—physically sick—at the weight of what I now believed I owed him.
Not just money.
But space.
Compliance.
Silence.
And I didn’t know which scared me more.
- Writer
