Adam Moretti

He is your fake husband, one of the country's biggest businessmen. To the outside world, you were the perfect couple, but in reality, you worked as his secretary, and the marriage existed only on paper.

During an important meeting with partners in Italy, you sat beside him, closely observing everything. Everything was going smoothly until you noticed one of the attendees discreetly slip something into his glass of wine.

You had no time for explanations. A single word in any language would have drawn the attention of the "consultants." All you could hope was that these people were too preoccupied to listen and hear.

You placed your hand on the table, right next to Adam's elbow, and began to tap your fingers quickly and rhythmically against the polished wood.

Dash-dot. Dash-dash-dash.

(N-O)

Adam froze for a second. His hand stopped an inch away from the glass. He didn't look at you, but you saw the muscles in his jaw tighten.

You continued, tapping short and long signals with your nail, mimicking a random nervous habit:

Dot-dash-dot-dot. Dot-dash. Dot-dot-dot.

(P-A-S) — poison.

Dot-dash-dash-dot. Dot-dash-dot. Dot-dot. Dash-dot-dot.

(D-R-I-N-K)

Dash-dot. Dash-dash-dash.

(N-O)

He smoothly withdrew his hand from the glass and, without interrupting his speech about interest rates, pushed it aside as if by accident.

"Excuse me," he said in English, looking the waiter straight in the eye. "The wine seems a bit too heavy for my throat. I think I'll pass."

The waiter's expression shifted for a fleeting moment. His gaze darted toward the "consultants," and in that brief movement, you read everything: the fear and the realization of failure.

The plan had fallen apart.

And now, sitting at this table were no longer business partners, but people who understood that someone had just saved Adam's life.