Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

8. Folder Invitation

Dominic let out a slow breath — deeper than mine — and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head, his lips lingering there as if he didn’t quite want to let me go.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly, his voice low and protective. “I want to talk about this. I know you have so much happening right now, and I know it’s fast — I didn’t wait six months like people say you should before talking about the future — but please don’t shut us down. I mean this, Thumper. I really do.”

The way he held me when he pulled me into his arms wasn’t careless. It was close, steady, almost as if he was afraid I might slip away if he loosened his grip even a little. My cheek pressed against his chest, and for a heartbeat I just stayed there, listening to the sound of him, feeling the warmth of being wanted and not knowing what to do with it.

Then the doorbell rang again.

Dominic groaned softly in frustration, but he stepped back, already turning toward the door. The sudden distance made the room feel colder.

“Are you… are you done eating?” I asked quickly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Or—”

He turned back with a small, tired smile — gentle, but firm in a way that made it clear he wasn’t staying.

“Yeah. You can put the plates in the dishwasher — it’ll take care of them. I’ll see you tomorrow at work. You’ve had a long day.”

He didn’t say it like he was leaving me.

But it felt like he was.

And that hurt more than I expected.

I nodded, even though my throat felt tight. He went to the door, and I stayed where I was, suddenly unsure of what I’d wanted from him in the first place — or why the empty space he left behind felt so loud.

I rushed through the dishes, my movements too quick, too sharp. I washed the glasses by hand, scrubbing harder than necessary, like I could rinse the ache out of myself if I tried hard enough.

When I was done, I didn’t look back.

I just went to my room and closed the door, the weight of everything — the kiss, the words, the almost — pressing down on me in the quiet.

Because wanting someone was terrifying…

and being wanted back might be even worse.

I had just finished cleaning when I started up the stairs to my room.

That’s when I saw them.

A small group of women walked through the front door together — laughter soft and confident, heels clicking against the floor like they belonged there. Each of them was stunning in a way that felt effortless. Long legs. Perfect curves. Smooth skin. Dresses that looked like they’d been chosen by stylists who knew exactly how to make a woman look untouchable.

They were the kind of women magazines were built around.

The kind men bragged about.

And standing there in my cardigan and dress, I suddenly felt… wrong. Too soft in the wrong places. Too tired in the face. Too small.

They could have easily been my ex-husband’s new girlfriend.

They could have easily been Dominic’s.

That was the kind of woman he deserved — someone flawless, someone radiant, someone who didn’t have to count dollars or hide panic behind polite smiles.

Not me.

Not the girl who had lived in a tent.

Not the girl who couldn’t even pay her own debts.

Not the woman who flinched every time someone offered her something nice.

The thought twisted deep in my chest — bitter and sharp.

I didn’t belong here.

Not in this house.

Not in Dominic’s life.

And the worst part was that I wanted to.

The pressure built until it felt unbearable. I turned away from them and marched straight to my room, heart pounding, already forming the only plan that ever made sense to me.

Work.

If I couldn’t be worthy, I could at least be useful.

If I worked hard enough — two jobs, three jobs — I could open my own bank account, start paying back every single cent that had been spent on me. I could erase the weight of being helped.

Even if it killed me.

But first, I needed to know how much I owed.

I locked my door and opened my laptop, fingers trembling as I connected to Dominic’s Wi-Fi — the password he’d given me so casually, like I wasn’t terrified of needing anything.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the computer.

And as I began to type, the truth pressed down on me harder than ever:

If I didn’t build something for myself…

I was going to disappear inside someone else’s life.

Changing into my pajamas, I sat on the bed and opened my laptop, balancing it on my knees as I pulled up a blank notes page. My fingers hovered for a second before I forced them to move.

Work.

Plan.

Survive.

I cross-checked the numbers in the folder with what I could find online, my heart sinking lower with every total that formed on the screen.

Five hundred thousand dollars for Sabrina’s legal work.

Five hundred fifty thousand for the mysterious man who had erased my debts.

Seventy-five thousand — roughly — for everything Dominic had done for me.

I stared at the numbers until they blurred.

I let out a shaky breath. If I worked enough — two jobs, maybe three — I could leave the gas station for something better. Something that paid more. I could chip away at the debt piece by piece, even if it took years. I could make myself clean again.

I had to.

I started stripping things away in my head like a survival checklist. Dominic would never let me stop eating in his house or sleeping in his spare room — I knew that already — but everything else could go. I could wash in the river. Drink water at work. Wear the same clothes if I washed then dried them in the river. Use the public library for internet instead of his Wi-Fi.

I didn’t need comfort.

I needed freedom.

Finding ways to make myself smaller, cheaper, lighter made the knot in my chest loosen just a little.

I searched job listings — fast-food counters, late-night diners, another gas station across town. Anything that would let me stack hours until my body gave out.

This was a start.

Just before I closed the laptop, I remembered the folder.

I opened it slowly.

Inside was not paperwork — but something elegant. Thick cream-colored paper. Gold calligraphy.

Le Morgan’s Restaurant

8:00 PM — 04/05/25

A phone number sat neatly below the invitation.

The moment I saw it, a chill crept down my spine.

Whoever this man was, he wasn’t just paying my debts — he was staging me. Dressing me. Imagining me as something I wasn’t. I could already picture it: stylists, makeup, clothes chosen to make me look like whatever fantasy he’d built in his head.

Part of me was curious.

Another part of me felt hunted.

I closed the folder, pressing my palm against it as if I could quiet the unease inside me.

I wanted to meet the man who had rewritten my life with money.

But I didn’t know if I was walking toward a savior…

or a predator.

I tucked everything away and sat still for a moment, staring at the closed laptop like it might tell me what to do next.

Then I walked to the door.

I don’t know why I did it — maybe I needed proof. Maybe I wanted to see if Dominic was okay with whatever choice I was about to make. I didn’t want to be something that complicated his life. I didn’t want to be a burden he had to explain.

I cracked the door open just enough to hear voices drifting up the hall.

Soft laughter.

Easy conversation.

“Do you think she’ll be okay with our help?” one of the women said. “She isn’t like us. We don’t want her to feel out of place… but we’ll try.”

My stomach sank.

Not like us.

I closed the door quietly and leaned my arm against it, my forehead resting against the wood.

Foolish.

That was the only word that fit.

Foolish to think Dominic saw me the way I wanted him to. Foolish to imagine I belonged in this house — in his world — when I was just something being accommodated.

They didn’t want me here.

They were being polite. Kind. But kindness isn’t the same as wanting someone to stay.

The decision hardened inside me.

If I was going to be here at all, I would be invisible.

I had no car, meaning Dominic would try to give me rides all the time, but the junkyard a few miles away always had scrap bikes, old frames, something that could be repaired if you worked hard enough. Tomorrow after work, I’d walk there. Maybe I could piece one together. Maybe I could ride to my second job without needing anyone.

Needing Dominic.

Independence was the only thing I had left to fight for.

I turned off the lights, slid beneath the covers, and stared at the ceiling — already planning how to disappear before anyone noticed how much space I was taking.

I just hoped I could get everything in order…

Before I ruined this, too.