The estate was brighter than she remembered — not in beauty, but in artificial brilliance. Every chandelier was lit like a stage. Every marble column gleamed with disinfected history.
Layla walked in through the front entrance wearing a black gown, modest, sharp, and without jewelry. Her only accessory: the small transmitter pressed against her inner thigh beneath the dress — transmitting live to a private cloud server Fadi had rigged.
If she didn't make it out, the files on Project Safa would.
The guest list was predictable: top military brass, business elites, foreign diplomats, and the vultures of state media. She smiled at them all.
She wasn't here to be believed. She was here to be seen.
And she made sure every camera in the room saw her.
Sami approached her during the starter course, carrying two flutes of wine.
"You clean up well," he said, handing her a glass.
"Careful," she replied. "Compliments sound a lot like apologies in your mouth."
He smirked.
They sat at the center table, beneath a portrait of the President, who hadn't been seen in public in months.
The seat to Layla's left was empty.
"Where's General Faris?" she asked.
Sami didn't look up from his plate. "Gone. Heart failure."
She knew that meant eliminated. Quietly. Cleanly.
Layla glanced around. Ministers leaned in close to one another, pretending to be relaxed, but their fingers twitched, their eyes darted. Something was off.
Then, the lights dimmed.
The President's voice echoed through the room — a pre-recorded message projected on the grand wall:
"Tonight, we celebrate unity. And tomorrow, we act in strength. Let the world know: Aldarrah cannot be divided. Because silence is not weakness. It is discipline."
Layla shivered.
Not from the words — but from the applause that followed.
Loyalty had never sounded so hollow.
At the end of the speech, Sami rose.
He gestured for Layla to follow him through a side door.
Inside was a private chamber. No guards. No glass.
Only one chair and a screen.
"Sit," he said.
She hesitated, then obeyed.
On the screen: images began to flash.
Her. In Paris. On the phone with Fadi. Entering the warehouse. Talking to Reza.
They had it all.
"You're not as quiet as you thought," Sami said softly. "But I haven't handed you in. Yet."
"Why?"
"Because I want to offer you a trade."
Layla narrowed her eyes.
"I can give you your brother."
Her chest tightened. "Alive?"
He gave the smallest of nods. "But only if you walk away from this. Destroy the files. Disappear."
She stood.
"I'm not making deals with fascists."
"No," he said. "You're making a mistake."
She walked to the door.
He called out to her back:
"If you speak tomorrow, Layla…
You won't just die.
You'll die wrong."
That night, she sent the signal to Fadi.
The leak would go public at noon the next day.
She didn't sleep.
Because some revolutions aren't loud.
They're whispered.
And sometimes… whispered by the ones expected to stay silent.