Page 4 of Sweet Betrayal

She scanned the guards’ faces. Two were strangers, so no chance there. The third had made a crude remark last month and she’d shut him down, so she wasn’t banking on him helping her either.

Panic stirred. Dammit! Time was bleeding away.

Then she spotted him.

Ibrahim.

Stationed off to the side. Ibrahim knew her well, but he also owed her. She’d fetched his child from school one afternoon when his wife was sick. A small favor, but hopefully it would be enough.

Steadying her breathing, she walked straight up to him. “Hello, Ibrahim. How’s your family?” Her Arabic came easily, warm and familiar.

“Hana.” He smiled as he said her name. It was Arabic in origin, an ode to her grandmother’s heritage. “We’re well, thankyou. Where are you going?” His eyes flicked past her, looking for an escort. When he saw none, his expression tightened. “You know I can’t let you out alone. Palace rules.”

She forced a sheepish grin. “I’ve done something foolish. I forgot to deliver this document yesterday. It’s urgent—it has to reach the Chief of Police before His Majesty notices.”

She flashed the official stamp on the folder. Her thumb masked the bottom line:For HRH Prince Hakeem’s Eyes Only.

Ibrahim’s brows drew together. She knew what he was thinking, and he’d be right. That it wasn’t like her to forget something this important.

She held his gaze, let her voice drop. “Please, Ibrahim. You owe me.”

He hesitated, his shoulders drawn tight, but then he exhaled—and she felt a surge of hope.

“Go. But be quick. If this comes back on me, we’ll both lose our jobs.”

“It won’t,” she lied, guilt making her chest tighten. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into this. None of them did.

Did they even know what was happening in Hamabad? If they didn’t, they would soon. It was only a matter of time.

She gave his arm a brief squeeze. “Thank you. You’ve saved me.”

More than you know.

Then she turned, slipped through the gate, and vanished into the hum of the street beyond.

She moved fast through the crush of morning foot traffic, head lowered, heart thudding. Each step took her farther from the palace. Hakeem’s advisors would have informed him of the revolt in Hamabad already. With a bit of luck they’d be too distracted by the crisis to notice she was missing. At least for a while.

But someone would notice soon enough. Her absence at the morning briefing would trigger questions. Her desk would be checked. Abdul Anwar would look for the memo.

That’s when it would begin.

The siren would sound, the gates slam shut, and the entire compound would be searched. When they couldn’t find her… When they saw the security footage… they’d send State Security operatives after her. The prince’s most loyal enforcers. And they wouldn’t stop until she was found.

She gulped over the lump in her throat. How long would that take?

Her meeting with the prince was in three quarters of an hour. Forty-five minutes to get to the U.S. Embassy.

She veered off the main road and slipped into a narrow alley, ducking under hanging laundry and low balconies. With her scarf pulled tight and hair hidden, she blended easily—another veiled woman with somewhere to be.

Syman City wrapped itself around the coast in elegant sprawl. When she’d first arrived, she’d marveled at the whitewashed walls and tiled roofs. Now she hardly noticed them.

She silently thanked the near-photographic memory that had always served her well. In her mind, she pictured the city layout from a map she’d studied months ago. The palace compound stood in the northern sector, while the U.S. Embassy was located to the west. Cutting straight through the downtown district would be far too risky—there were too many eyes, too many checkpoints, and not enough cover.

The souk was her best chance. The bustling local market opened early and was always crowded, noisy, and in constant motion. If she could reach it, she might be able to vanish into the chaos, at least for a little while.

She turned out of the alley and onto a road flanked with shops selling everything from olives and vegetables to clothing and materials. The pungent smell of incense thickened the air. The colorful market stalls and their exotic produce were one of the things she loved most about Syman. Shoppers, mostly women, scurried around, packets in hand. They wanted to get back to the safety of their homes. Hannah didn’t blame them. She’d rather be anywhere else but out here on the street.

But she had no choice.

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