Running From The Amnesiac Billionaire Tyrant

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.