Sweet Betrayal

Chapter 1

T he folder that would change her life looked like any other piece of official correspondence.

Made of heavy cream card stock, it bore the royal falcon embossed in gold on the front, the emblem gleaming under the fluorescent office light.

Tucked neatly inside was a single sheet of paper.

Across the front of the folder, printed in bold block letters, was the warning:

FOR H.H. PRINCE HAKEEM’S EYES ONLY

After six months as the Crown Prince of Syman’s personal assistant, Hannah barely noticed the admonition. Everything bound for His Highness carried a similar stamp.

Hannah enjoyed her job at the royal compound. Syman, an island monarchy perched in the Gulf, marketed itself as a cosmopolitan playground. Turquoise coves, glittering casinos, five-star hotels that lured celebrities, billionaires and influencers every long weekend.

As the prince’s PA, she often accompanied him to charity galas on the marble terraces of the Miraj Resort, impromptu shopping sprees in air-conditioned malls the size of small towns. In many ways it was a dream job.

But glamour wasn’t the only reason Hannah had taken the position. After the blow-up with her father, Walter Evans—fourth-generation owner of Evans & Son Accountancy in Savannah—she was cut off.

With what the prince was paying her, she could save enough in two years to return to the States and open up her own boutique PR agency. That was her real goal.

She could still hear her father’s disapproving voice.

Evans & Son is one of the most prestigious accounting firms in the county, Hannah Leigh. It’s your duty to come home and take your place.

The only problem was she had no interest in the family firm.

Ledgers suffocated her. She was a people person like her late mother.

A future in public relations was what she wanted, and this job was a giant step in the right direction.

Shaping the prince’s image was exactly the kind of high-pressure brand work that would electrify her résumé.

Rounding a corner, she slammed straight into a housekeeping attendant whose arms overflowed with linen. Sheets scattered across the brocade runner.

“Ma’ as-salaama—sorry!” Hannah blurted in fluent Arabic. She’d learned it from her grandparents as a child. It was the chief reason why the Prince had hired her over the other English-speaking applicants.

The attendant knelt to gather up the discarded linen. Hannah crouched to help her—then froze. Her official folder lay open exposing the heading on the letter inside. She couldn’t help but see it.

URGENT: MEASURES FOR CIVIL UNREST

Unrest?

There had been rumors, but nothing concrete. Her mind struggled to make sense of the heading. Confused, she read on.

Due to unrest in neighboring countries like Egypt and Syria, we need to prepare a plan for the immediate evacuation of the royal family and take steps to stop similar uprisings from spreading inside Syman.

Hannah glanced around, but apart from the maid scurrying away, the hallway was deserted. The plush carpets made no sound as she snatched up the letter, shoved it back inside the folder, and ran to the nearest restroom.

She didn’t want to think about what would happen if anyone found her, but this was too shocking to ignore. Locking a stall, she read the four-page memorandum in one breathless sweep.

Protests in the southern seaport of Hamabad had turned violent. If the unrest spread north, civil war could ignite in hours.

Security chief Abdul Anwar had outlined a response plan that read more like a crackdown than a strategy.

It included the immediate imposition of strict curfews across the capital and surrounding cities, along with a total blackout of all news outlets, mobile networks, and internet access to prevent the spread of information.

Most chilling of all was the authorization for military forces to use live ammunition against civilians if protests escalated.

No warning shots. No rubber bullets. Just real rounds fired into real crowds.

The memorandum also detailed a series of coordinated escape routes for the royal family.

Two private coastal villas with direct access to the Gulf were prepped for rapid evacuation by boat, and three safe houses in neighboring countries were already stocked and staffed.

It wasn’t just a plan—it was a blueprint for survival at the cost of civilian lives.

By the time she’d finished reading, she was trembling. But thanks to the memory that had served her so well in school and through years of high-pressure admin work, the contents were already locked in—word for word. She couldn’t unsee it now, even if she wanted to.

Footsteps entered, then left. Hannah remained motionless, the lines of text still floating before her eyes.

Move!

She’d been gone too long. Someone would come looking for her. Then what? How could she explain she’d seen the confidential document by accident?

They’d never believe her.

Somehow, she managed to get to her feet and stumble from the cubicle.

She splashed cold water over her face, then stared at her reflection in the mirror.

A shocked, pale woman gazed back at her, made even paler by the blond curls that she’d pulled back into her signature chignon, the way the Prince liked it.

In the space of five minutes, her whole reality had shifted.

The situation was serious, and one question plagued her.

How did I not know this?

Then again, the palace was a bubble. Outside news was censored, if it got to them at all.

She suspected it was like that all over the country.

The Palace controlled the flow of information.

The few e-mails from college friends that had made it through the firewall had urged caution, but nothing had hinted at this.

Anger at the brutal crackdown suggested in the memo coursed through her. Surely the Prince wouldn’t condone this? He prided himself on being a forward-thinking, liberal and modern ruler.

Doubt clogged her brain. Hakeem was popular abroad but divisive at home. He talked big reforms but didn’t follow through. Still, the economy boomed. Skyscrapers, malls, and resorts lifted living standards across the island. Surely he couldn’t be all bad.

Hannah pursed her lips at her reflection. What should she do?

Could there really be a civil war?

Was she in danger?

The letter included an evacuation plan for the royal family, should the compound fall to opposing forces. Did that include her?

No way. They wouldn’t take a westerner with them, and certainly not an employee at that.

Tension radiated through her as she thought about Abdul Anwar.

She’d never liked the creepy Head of State Security, and one of the prince’s closest allies.

He went out of his way to make her feel uncomfortable.

She shivered thinking about the way his dark eyes crept over her, filled with loathing, like he had some unspoken grudge against her.

Of course, on the surface he was painstakingly polite but underneath, he simmered with pent-up aggression. To think he was the architect of this… this unimaginable horror made her realize how evil he was.

Suddenly, Hannah knew what she had to do.

In just a few months, she’d grown to love Syman’s stark beauty and the quiet dignity of its people.

The thought of the principality reduced to rubble—families uprooted, jobs wiped out, civilians caught in the crossfire—turned her stomach.

If the regime went ahead with a full-scale assault, innocents would pay the price.

No, she’d walk away and find another way to fund her PR dream.

Decision made, she went back to her office to write her letter of resignation. She buried the folder under a pile of briefing documents. She was not going to be responsible for passing it on to the prince. There would be no blood on her hands.

A shout from across the open-plan office made her look up.

Ahmed, the rake-thin receptionist with nervous hands and wide eyes, was pointing at the television mounted high on the far wall.

The screen was muted, but the images playing on the local news channel needed no sound to deliver their message.

A wide boulevard filled the frame, choked with protesters. Men in street clothes raised rifles and fired into a saffron-tinted sky, while women clutched their children, dragging them through thick, swirling clouds of tear gas.

She felt her stomach tighten as she turned to Ahmed. “Can we turn it up?”

He did so, curiosity and shock overriding his fear of being reprimanded. Shouts and screams filled the air, along with the sound of bullets being fired.

“Where is that?” she asked, already fearing the answer.

“Hamabad,” he whispered, his face paler than hers had been only moments before.

The fine hair on her arms stood on end. Hamabad was the principality’s second-largest city after the capital, where she was based.

The memo seemed to smolder in her inbox as she reached the inevitable conclusion. Civil war was breaking out.

Hannah stared at the TV screen. It was really happening, just like Abdul Anwar had said. That’s why he’d taken early action, that’s why he’d formulated an escape plan.

She let out a long, slow breath, trying to still her thumping heart. None of the palace staff were aware of the danger. They’d been insulated, living behind high walls and wrought-iron gates.

“How are we watching this?” she rasped.

“It’s a dissident broadcast. My friend messaged me to turn it on.”

Somehow, this had got through the Palace censors. It would only be a matter of time before they were shut down—yet she’d seen enough.

The unrest was occurring less than fifty miles south of her, right now. She watched in morbid fascination as the riot police attacked demonstrators with batons. It was getting ugly.

She thought of the measures Abdul Anwar had outlined. Water cannons and teargas, and if that didn’t work, live rounds. Nausea made her grip the desk in front of her. Resignation was pointless. She needed to escape.

But how?

Forcing herself not to hyperventilate, she considered her options. Airport routes were uncertain, given the current situation, but the U.S. Embassy, a concrete fortress on the city’s west bank, sat within walking distance, and she could use the backstreets.

She ran back to her desk, opened a drawer and pulled out her purse, passport, and employment contract. Everything was kept on hand in case the prince wanted to go somewhere on a whim. She checked insider her passport and fingered the eagle watermark. It was a fragile lifeline.

Looking around, she snatched a dove-gray hijab off the back of a nearby chair. Once she got outside, she could use it to cover her blond hair. The disguise wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.

She cast one final look around the office that had been her workplace for the last six months. Never in her wildest dreams had she pictured it ending like this.

Her eyes flickered to the memo in her in-box. Should she take it or leave it? Those pages held secrets the regime would kill to protect, yet without them the embassy might dismiss her story.

If she left the file where it lay, the prince might assume she’d never opened it— might . But carrying it out of the palace was treason, and treason here meant a death sentence. Did she really want that hanging over her head?

What to do?

A fresh roar from the TV sealed her choice. Grabbing the folder containing the memo, she tucked it under her arm and slipped into the colonnaded corridor.