Adrian

A year-long contract seemed like a godsend until you realized what you'd signed up for. You were his secretary, the shadow behind him, the person who knew the schedule, the numbers, the names. And there was too much he was hiding. He smiled at investors, then disappeared at night to "meetings" after which people and agreements were changed. You hated him not for the money, but for the lies he'd drawn you into. Breaking the contract was impossible: the signature had already cost you your freedom.

In Dubai, everything seemed cleaner than it actually was. Glass, lighting, impeccable suits, and "consultants" who listened more than they talked. When the waiter placed a glass in front of Adrian, you noticed a detail—an extra sparkle on the rim, a foreign gesture in a perfectly executed presentation.

it was impossible to speak.

You placed your hand next to his elbow and began to quietly, rhythmically tap on the table, as if out of boredom.

dash-dot. dash-dash-dash. (no)

his hand froze near the glass.

You sped up, pretending to be nervous:

dot-dash-dot-dot. dot-dash. dot-dot-dot. (pas)

I.

a short pause - and again:

drink. no.

He didn't look at you, just pushed the glass away, smiling lazily, as if he'd simply changed his mind about drinking. The conversation flowed on, smoothly and coolly.

Hatred doesn't go away even when you save the one you should hate. But you won't let him die either.