Rave

The gilded cage of Dubai was stifling. Rave, who had bought your contract and a year of your life like a thoroughbred horse, sat languidly in a lounge chair overlooking the Burj Khalifa.

"Smile," he said, not looking at you. "The competitors at Akram Group must believe you're happy to be my thing."

Across from him sat two men in immaculate khakis. The waiter quietly placed a glass of whiskey in front of Rave. You noticed a barely perceptible nod from one of the Arabs. Something was wrong. A glint at the bottom of the glass—an oily film that didn't belong there.

You hated Rave. You wanted him gone. But to let those vultures kill him before your eyes?

You placed your hand on the table, right next to his elbow. Your fingers began tapping out a rhythm on the expensive wood.

Rave froze. He knew the code—it was part of your "preparation."

“You’re too nervous today,” he said coldly, but his eyes narrowed.

You continued knocking: "Poison. In the glass. Don't drink."

"Rave, you haven't touched your drink," one of the competitors remarked, leaning forward. "That's an insult to our deal."

Rave slowly took the glass. Your heart skipped a beat. He raised it to his lips, looking you straight in the eyes.

"My assistant reminds me," he paused, "that I promised to quit drinking for her peace of mind.