Page 4 of Billionaire’s Cruelty

I figured I might as well make conversation. Besides, if he turned out to be some kind of serial killer, I’d at least die knowing how that happened.

“You can say that.” He said, his voice rough and disinterested. His accent was thick—Indian, maybe—but there was more to it.

“What’s your name?” I asked, looking for a clue.

“Listen miss, I’m not telling you my name. If you really need one, just call me Raj.”

“Raj? Really?” I scoffed. “You don’t look like an Indian dude.”

“Yes, but I sound like one, don’t I?”

He was as white as my dad—and as white as any white Americans that I’d ever met. “Not really. Were you born here?”

A deep, drawn-out sigh escaped him. “Alright, since we’ve got a long drive ahead of us, I’ll tell you. But you’ll have to tell me why you’re running.”

“Deal.”

Up until now, he hadn’t asked me how I planned to pay him. He must’ve noticed I didn’t have anything on me. Still, I couldn’t help but appreciate his trust—or maybe he wasn’t planning to take me to Myrtle Beach at all. I shook the thought away and focused on our conversation.

“I was adopted,” he said, as if that explained everything. “My parents were illegal immigrants from, uh, Asia. The poor couple couldn’t have kids. Prayed for a child night and day. Then, viola, one evening, they found me in a dumpster behind their house.”

“Wow. Really?” My voice dripped with skepticism.

“Sounds ridiculous, huh? It’s true.”

“Why didn’t they turn you into the authorities?” I asked, struggling to believe a story like this could still exist in this day and age.

Raj let out a short laugh.

“Wow, really?” he said, mockingly. “Now who’s the white dude, here? My parents are great. They raised me up like their own. And trust me—going through the system wouldn’t have given me a better life.”

He shifted his grip on the steering wheel and cast me a sideway glance. “Now your turn. Why are you running? Who were those people at the airport?”

I stared out the window, trying to organize my thoughts. Where did I even begin—and how much should I tell Raj?

“My abusive husband⁠—”

“Cut the crap.” Raj snapped. “And what’s your name, by the way? I told you mine.”

“June.” I said, deciding against making one up. I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Alright, June—just tell me the truth.”

So, I did.

I told Raj about Mack—a member of a Hong Kong triad—how he tried to hurt me but was arrested, only to be released soon after for no apparent reason. How he was later kidnapped by my rich friend’s security team, but he somehow escaped. And now, he was after me.

“That’s why I’m running. My friend’s security team was helping me at the airport, but we got attacked. I got away and somehow ended up in your car.”

I knew that we were in a Toyota, but I couldn’t tell the model. Probably one of those hybrids everybody seemed to love.

“Interesting. You know they’re not airport security, right?”

“What?”

“The people chasing you—they’re not airport sec–”

“I heard you,” I interrupted. “I mean, how do you know?”