Running From The Amnesiac Billionaire Tyrant

Aliya Barrera's eyes snapped open.

The dim overhead light burned her retinas. A dull, throbbing pain hammered against the back of her skull. She tried to sit up, but her muscles felt like liquid. Her arms gave out, and she collapsed heavily back onto the cheap, lumpy mattress.

Her lungs fought for air. Memories that did not belong to her violently shoved their way into her brain. She grabbed her head, her fingers digging into her scalp.

A car crash. A hidden body. A fabricated story about growing up in an orphanage together.

Her heart skipped a beat. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin ice-cold. She recognized these fragmented images. She had transmigrated into the American romance novel she read just last night. She was the vicious supporting character, the woman who would eventually be sent to a maximum-security prison for the rest of her life by the male lead.

Aliya looked around in sheer panic. The peeling paint on the walls and the particle-board furniture confirmed the reality of the bottom-tier life the original owner had built on a foundation of lies.

She looked down at her own hands. They were skeletal. The original Aliya had been on a hunger strike to force the male lead to buy her a designer bag. A wave of nausea hit her stomach. It was absurd. It was a death sentence.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside the door. The old wooden floorboards groaned in protest.

Aliya's breathing stopped completely.

The metallic scrape of a key sliding into the lock echoed through the thin walls. He was back. Cyrus Pace, the amnesiac billionaire currently living under the delusion that he was a broke laborer, had returned.

The front door pushed open. The biting chill of a New York winter wind swept into the living room. Aliya instinctively pulled the thin blanket up, hiding the lower half of her face.

A heavy backpack hit the living room sofa with a dull thud. The movement carried the sheer exhaustion of a man working back-to-back shifts.

He didn't turn on the light. He just stood in the dark living room and took a deep, ragged breath, suppressing his visceral disgust for this apartment and the "girlfriend" inside it.

In the bedroom, Aliya listened to his heavy breathing. Her mind flashed with images of his ruthless revenge once he regained his memory. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered against each other.

Cyrus took long strides toward the bedroom. He pushed the ajar door open. The faint light from the hallway hit his broad shoulders, casting a massive, suffocating shadow over the bed.

His deep gray eyes swept coldly toward the mattress. He expected the usual high-pitched screaming and crying for money.

Instead, he saw Aliya shrinking into the far corner of the bed like a terrified rabbit. Her eyes were wide, filled with an undisguised, raw fear directed entirely at him.

Cyrus's brow furrowed slightly. This unnatural silence and sheer terror fell outside his expectations. A sliver of doubt crept into his mind.

He took a step forward, trying to get a better look at her pale face.

Aliya reacted violently to the microscopic decrease in distance. She scrambled backward, her spine hitting the freezing bedroom wall with a hard thud.

Cyrus stopped. His voice was hoarse, laced with a thick layer of mockery.

"Are you done playing your hunger strike game?"

Aliya opened her mouth. Her throat was completely dry. No sound came out. She could only shake her head frantically. Tears of physiological terror pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Her pathetic, utterly defenseless appearance made the mockery in Cyrus's eyes freeze. It was replaced by a deeper, sharper scrutiny. His jaw ticked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. It was the tip money he had earned delivering DoorDash orders tonight. He tossed it directly onto the nightstand.

The sharp clatter of coins hitting the cheap wood was deafening in the quiet room.

"That's fifty dollars," Cyrus stated coldly. "It won't buy that designer bag you want."

Aliya stared at the wrinkled bills. They smelled like sweat and exhaust fumes. A crushing weight of guilt slammed into her chest. The man standing before her was the CEO of Pace Global Holdings, a man worth billions, reduced to throwing crumpled singles on a cheap nightstand because of her lies.

Her hand shook as she reached out. She didn't take the money. Instead, she pushed the bills back toward Cyrus's side of the nightstand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

The faint apology hit the room like a bomb. Cyrus's massive frame instantly went rigid. His gray pupils contracted.

In his memory, ever since he woke up from the car crash, this woman who claimed to be his childhood sweetheart had never spoken a soft word. Let alone an apology.

Cyrus didn't take the money back. He stared dead into Aliya's dodging eyes, trying to find the crack in whatever new manipulation tactic she was pulling.

The penetrating weight of his gaze made Aliya's scalp tingle. She forced a dry, awkward laugh to cover her panic.

"I... I'm just hungry," she stuttered. "I want to eat something."

Cyrus remained silent for ten full seconds. The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on. Finally, he withdrew his gaze. He turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving her with a cold, broad back.

Aliya collapsed onto the mattress, her muscles completely giving out.

Aliya took several deep breaths, forcing the violent shaking in her hands to stop. She pushed herself off the mattress. Her legs felt like lead.

She crept to the bedroom doorway. Through the crack, her line of sight crossed the narrow hallway and landed on the busy figure in the kitchen.

Cyrus was expertly tearing open a cheap box of Kraft Mac & Cheese. His movements were efficient, yet they carried an innate, undeniable elegance.

Aliya stared at his broad back and his faded, washed-out jeans. Her mind superimposed the image of him in a bespoke suit, stepping on the original owner's throat. A violent shiver ran down her spine.

To survive, her brain kicked into overdrive. She established her absolute priority: save enough money and flee the country before Cyrus regained his memory.

She tiptoed to the old sofa in the living room and grabbed the original owner's phone. She needed to check their current financial situation.

She unlocked the screen. A massive pile of unpaid bills and credit card overdraft alerts popped up, acting like a bucket of ice water over her head.

She opened the text messages between the original owner and Cyrus. The screen was filled with toxic, abusive demands.

Where are you?

Transfer money to me right now.

You are a useless loser.

Aliya's toes curled in profound shame. She aggressively hit the lock button. The original owner had a death wish.

The sound of boiling water bubbling over came from the kitchen. Cyrus poured the macaroni into the pot, stirring it slowly with a wooden spoon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Aliya sneaking around the living room. He didn't say a word. His eyes just grew darker.

Aliya realized she had been spotted. She awkwardly shoved the phone into her pajama pocket and forced herself to walk toward the kitchen counter.

She stood two steps away, completely unsure of what to do with her hands. She finally settled on gripping the hem of her pajama shirt tightly.

Cyrus turned off the gas. He scooped the steaming macaroni into two chipped porcelain bowls. Through the rising steam, his sharp facial features looked slightly blurred.

He picked up one bowl, turned, and handed it to Aliya. His movements were stiff. He offered zero eye contact.

Aliya reached out with both hands, overwhelmed by the gesture. As she took the bowl, her fingertips accidentally brushed against Cyrus's rough, calloused knuckles.

Cyrus yanked his hand back as if he had been burned. His brows locked together. He looked physically repulsed by her touch.

Aliya's chest tightened. She immediately lowered her head.

"Thank you, Cyrus," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Two polite expressions of gratitude in one night completely shattered Cyrus's cognitive defenses. His hand hovered mid-air.

He looked down at Aliya, scrutinizing her pale, makeup-free face. He was searching for the familiar cruelty and calculation.

But Aliya just kept her head down. She shoved large spoonfuls of the cheap macaroni into her mouth, swallowing it down as if it were a Michelin-star meal. The hot, heavy calories hit her empty stomach, providing a desperate, small burst of energy. The lingering dizziness from the original owner's psychotic hunger strike still made her head swim, but the primal need to survive pushed the physical weakness aside.

The original owner used to complain that this processed food was garbage and would rather starve than touch it. Cyrus watched her devour it, his suspicion thickening.

He pulled out a dining chair and sat down. He threw out a cold, probing question.

"Didn't you say you'd throw up if you ever ate this garbage again?"

Aliya choked on a noodle. She coughed violently, her cheeks turning a deep, flushed red.

Cyrus instinctively reached out to hand her a glass of water, but his hand stopped halfway. He pulled it back, his eyes turning cold again.

Aliya finally caught her breath. Her brain scrambled for an excuse.

"I... I was just starving," she forced a dry laugh. "Everything tastes good right now."

It was a clumsy, unconvincing lie. Cyrus let out a low scoff. He didn't press further. He looked down and quickly finished his own food.

When he was done, Cyrus stood up out of habit to clear the dishes. Aliya sprang up like a coiled spring. She snatched the empty bowl right out of his hand.

"I'll wash them!" she announced loudly.

She practically fled to the sink, turning the faucet on full blast, desperately trying to use the sound of rushing water to cover the frantic beating of her heart.

Cyrus stood behind her. He watched her clumsy but determined back as she scrubbed the bowls. A complex emotion flashed through his gray eyes. He turned and walked into the bathroom.

Aliya quickly dried her hands on a towel. She slipped out of the kitchen and scurried back to the bedroom like a thief.

She stood in front of the old Queen-size bed. It barely had enough room for two people. Panic alarms blared in her head. She had to share this bed with the future tyrant tonight.

The sound of the shower running in the bathroom acted like a ticking timer. She needed a flawless strategy to avoid any physical contact.

She ripped off her outer clothes and changed into a thick, heavily worn tracksuit. It covered her from neck to ankle, providing a pathetic but necessary layer of psychological armor.

Aliya pulled the blanket back and lay down, pressing her body flush against the wall. She occupied exactly one-fifth of the mattress edge.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcibly slowing her breathing. She deployed the oldest tactic in the book: playing dead.

Ten minutes later, the water stopped. Aliya's heart shot up into her throat. Her fingers dug into the bedsheets.

The bathroom door opened. A wave of warm, humid air rolled out. Cyrus's heavy footsteps approached the bedroom.

The door pushed open. Cyrus stood there with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Drops of water slid down the hard, defined lines of his abdominal muscles.

He stood by the bed. His gaze landed on the back of the woman who was practically trying to merge with the drywall. His jaw ticked.

Usually, if she wasn't complaining about his meager paycheck and late hours, she would be clinging to him, demanding money. Tonight, she was as quiet as a corpse.

Cyrus didn't get into bed. He turned and walked to the laundry basket in the corner of the room. He bent down and started picking up the scattered dirty clothes.

Through a tiny slit in her eyelids, Aliya watched him. When his fingertips brushed against her lace underwear, his brow twitched subtly, as if he had touched something contaminated. He pinched the fabric gingerly and tossed it into the basket. A strong sense of bizarre displacement washed over her.

Cyrus pulled a loose gray t-shirt over his head. He picked up the basket and walked out of the bedroom. The front door clicked shut.

Aliya's eyes snapped open. She let out a massive breath. He had gone down to the laundromat on the ground floor.

She felt a brief wave of relief, but she knew it was only a delay. He would be back.

Forty minutes later, the lock turned. Cyrus walked back into the room, bringing with him the faint, artificial scent of cheap laundry detergent.

Aliya instantly snapped back into her rigid, fake-sleeping posture. She didn't dare mess up a single breath.

Cyrus put the folded clothes into the flimsy wardrobe. He turned off the main overhead light, leaving only a dim, yellow bedside lamp on.

The mattress dipped violently. Cyrus's large frame lay down on the other side of the bed. His overwhelming masculine scent instantly consumed the suffocatingly small space.

A massive, invisible boundary line separated them. Cyrus lay flat on his back, his hands resting on his stomach, staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling.

In the dark, Cyrus's hearing became razor-sharp. He could clearly distinguish the forced, uneven rhythm of Aliya's breathing.

He knew she was faking it. A cold, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

To test her limits, Cyrus suddenly rolled over, facing Aliya's back.

He extended his long arm, crossing the invisible boundary. His fingertips hovered just inches above Aliya's shoulder.

Aliya felt the approaching heat source. Every hair on her body stood up. Her brain screamed at her muscles not to move.

Cyrus's fingers lightly brushed against the cheap fabric of her tracksuit shoulder. It was a highly restrained touch.

Aliya's body involuntarily went rigid for a split second. She tried to hide it, but Cyrus caught the microscopic muscle spasm instantly.

The mockery in his eyes deepened. He pulled his hand back.

"Stop pretending," his low, gravelly voice sliced through the darkness. "I know you're awake."

Aliya's mind went entirely blank. The fake-sleep strategy had catastrophically failed. She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head, meeting those piercing gray eyes in the dark.