Running From The Amnesiac Billionaire Tyrant

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.