Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

Chapter 13: contract of Dominic

Walking out of the bathroom felt like committing a crime.

The dress clung to me like evidence—proof that I had accepted something I never asked for, something I couldn’t afford, something that would come back to haunt me. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the fabric itself carried a price tag stitched into my skin.

When I stepped outside, I froze.

Dominic wasn’t alone.

Sabrina stood beside him.

The sight of her caught me completely off guard. She looked composed as always, but there was no warmth in her expression this time—no easy smile, no quiet reassurance. If anything, she looked disappointed.

And I didn’t know why that hurt more than anger.

She approached me, her posture straight, her tone clipped and professional.

“Hello, Thumper. Can we step outside for a moment?” she said. “Dominic called me yesterday about something that didn’t sit well with me. And it involves you.”

My stomach sank.

I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice.

We walked out of the hospital together, stopping near Dominic’s car, parked neatly beside hers—two vehicles that screamed stability, certainty, control. We sat on a bench while Dominic stepped away, opening his trunk to put his jacket inside, giving us privacy without really leaving.

Sabrina didn’t waste time.

“Dominic told me what the hospital staff said,” she began. “And I’m very disappointed, Thumper.”

The word disappointed landed like a slap.

“To know you’ve been doing this to yourself,” she continued, “especially after everything that’s gone right for you lately… you should be proud. You didn’t fall through the cracks like so many others do.”

My hands curled into fists.

Every word made my chest tighten, made me want to stand up and walk away. They talked as if survival was a moral failure. As if exhaustion was a choice. As if poverty was a bad habit I simply refused to break.

But before I could speak, Sabrina reached into the folder she was holding and handed it to me—along with a pen.

“Dominic doesn’t want this to happen between you two again,” she said calmly. “He cares about you. And if this is what he needs to do to prove it, then he will.”

I looked down at the papers.

My breath caught.

ROOMMATE AGREEMENT

The title was bold. Formal. Final.

Both our names were printed there—Dominic’s and mine—side by side, like a binding decision I hadn’t known I was making.

I read through the sections slowly. Too slowly. The language was clean, precise, terrifyingly well thought out. Rules about expenses. Privacy. Boundaries. Terms that could protect me—or trap me.

Then my eyes snagged on one section.

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

36.10 Unless either party enters into a romantic relationship, this contract remains valid. Once the parties enter a romantic relationship of any kind, this contract is considered breached and void.

The rule was simple.

And it felt wrong.

My chest tightened, memories clawing their way up—contracts, conditions, rules disguised as care. My ex-husband had done this for years. Controlled me through agreements and expectations until love felt like a transaction I was always failing to pay.

My hands trembled.

Did Dominic talk to him?

The thought hit me like ice water.

Were they friends now? Had they shared notes? Advice?

My ex had always been good at that—charming people, winning them over, wearing kindness like a mask until everyone chose him over the truth.

Everything about this felt too perfect. Too organized. Too calm.

And I hated that I couldn’t live like that.

I hated that no matter how hard I worked, how many jobs I stacked, how little I slept, my life still ended with fluorescent hospital lights and strangers telling me how to live.

I stared at the contract, my anxiety coiling tighter with every breath.

This wasn’t safety.

This was control dressed up as concern.

And I didn’t know how much more of it I could survive.

Letting out a slow, shaky breath, I realized just how trapped I truly was.

No matter how hard I had tried—no matter how many hours I worked, how little I slept, how much I denied myself—I had run out of choices. This wasn’t about pride anymore. This was survival. Sign this… or go back to sleeping with one eye open, wondering if tomorrow would mean another sidewalk, another shelter, another night of pretending I was fine when I wasn’t.

My chest tightened as I forced myself to keep breathing, to keep the tears from spilling over in front of them. Crying wouldn’t fix this. Crying never fixed anything.

I read the agreement again, slower this time.

On paper, it was reasonable. Fair, even. Balanced in a way that made it hard to argue without sounding ungrateful. The rules were clean. The structure solid. Proof that Dominic had thought this through carefully—thought about scenarios I hadn’t even had the energy to imagine.

And that somehow made it worse.

Because it meant this wasn’t impulsive.

It wasn’t emotional.

It wasn’t about me falling apart.

It was calculated.

My anger simmered beneath my skin, not loud enough to explode, but hot enough to burn. I hated how cornered I felt. I hated that the same part of me that wanted to scream also knew I couldn’t afford to walk away from this.

I was exhausted—bone deep, soul deep. Exhausted from fighting, from justifying my existence, from being strong when no one ever asked if I wanted to be.

I swallowed hard.

The date with the mystery man—the one choice that had felt like it belonged to me—would have to wait. It felt fragile now, like a dream I wasn’t allowed to touch yet. Before I could even think about stepping into someone else’s world, I needed Dominic out of mine.

Out of my space.

Out of my head.

Out of my heart.

Because if I didn’t draw that line now, I was afraid I would disappear completely—signed away, managed, and mistaken for safe… while quietly breaking inside.

Taking the pen Sabrina handed me, my fingers trembled just enough that I had to steady my wrist against the paper. I signed the contract anyway. Slow. Careful. As if neat handwriting could keep my heart from splintering.

When I went to write the date, my mind betrayed me.

That night came back without warning.

The sound of laughter drifting up the stairs. The way the house had felt suddenly smaller, tighter—like I was intruding in a space that was never meant for me. Those beautiful young women standing in his living room as if they belonged there. As if they always had.

That memory was enough to remind me exactly where my place was.

I had let myself hope before that moment. Hope is dangerous like that—it sneaks in quietly, makes you believe in things you didn’t ask for, then disappears when you need it most. Overhearing them say I didn’t fit in had carved something permanent inside me.

Whatever doubts I had about Dominic wanting something romantic with me finally dissolved into something sour and final. I couldn’t keep lying to myself, couldn’t keep twisting his kindness into something it wasn’t just because I was desperate to belong somewhere.

The women in that house that night were my answer.

At my jobs I saw many of them again. Not one of them had come to explain why they were there. Not one had tried to make me feel included, or even acknowledged. They avoided me like I was contagious—and I couldn’t even blame them.

Two of them I recognized. I had seen them before, laughing alongside my ex-husband’s new girlfriend, looking perfectly at ease in her orbit. Even she kept her distance from me, like I was a reminder she didn’t want.

That was my closure.

Not a conversation.

Not an apology.

Not even anger.

Just clarity.

All of this—for not doing what my parents wanted. For not becoming who my ex-husband needed. For believing, foolishly, that I could be something different this time.

Maybe this was why I could never keep friendships. Why people drifted in and out of my life like I was a temporary stop instead of a destination.

The thought settled heavy and final in my chest.

I’m simply not good enough.