Taliana Avilla knew she hated Michael Richardson from the moment he moved a life-sized cardboard cutout of Daniel Craig—as James Bond, no less—into the living room of their Georgetown apartment. Of course, she hadn’t told him that. No, she just grit her teeth and asked if the action star wearing only a tiny blue swimsuit was going to be their third roommate.

“If he’s not going to pay rent, he’s gotta go,” she’d told Michael, but all he’d done was cling to Daniel and given her the saddest puppy eyes she’d ever seen.

Almost a year later, the cardboard cutout was still in their living room, looking a little worse for wear than when it had first arrived.

But at this point, she guessed she could say the same thing about Michael too.

The call had come in a little after midnight, leaving Taliana to fumble around on a bedside table that wasn’t her own for her phone.

“Is this Taliana Avilla?”

The voice on the other line seemed official, a little too serious for this time of night. So instead of disconnecting, tempted to curl back up next to the boy beside her, Taliana slid out of bed and stepped into hallway.

“This is she.”

She’d forgotten the detective’s name almost as soon as the woman had said it, but it would be a long time before the next words the detective said left her head.

“According to his phone, Michael Richardson has listed you as his emergency contact. Unfortunately, there’s been a car accident...”

It had taken a few minutes to get all the information, hastily scribbled down on the edge of her boyfriend’s law school notes from last semester, but eventually she had lowered the phone and padded numbly back into the bedroom.

Brad seemed to have sensed that she had gotten up, and was watching her through heavily lidded eyes. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Michael,” she’d whispered, clutching the doorframe for support. “He’s in the hospital.”

Brad had offered to drive her the hour and a half to the hospital in Maryland where Michael was being treated, but Taliana had refused, knowing this was something she had to do on her own.

And now here she sat in the waiting room, head in hands as she waited for someone to tell her something—anything – about the condition of her roommate and friend.

Part of her, the cynical part maybe, felt like she should have seen this coming. She’d known since high school that the boy was a reckless speed demon, and that hadn’t changed in the past three years they’d been at Georgetown University. When they’d moved in together at the start of their junior year, finally able to have an off-campus apartment instead of living in the overpriced dorms, she’d upped her nagging about that damn Ferrari of his, knowing it would only get him into trouble one day. Of course, she wasn’t one to talk considering the Lamborghini she had parked in the underground garage, but at least she wasn’t flooring it every opportunity she got, just like he insisted on doing.

Michael and responsibility weren’t two things that went hand in hand, but there was one thing in this world that he did take seriously.

The television in the waiting room was tuned to a news channel reporting on the finalized US Olympic team, an event that was scheduled to commence in just a few weeks’ time. She’d spent half the evening checking online for the list of swimmers going to the Games, and when Michael’s name popped up she had almost cried from joy.

Swimming was Michael Richardson’s life. Every morning he woke at four AM in order to be in the pool by five, and didn’t leave it until he knew he was better off than he had been the day before. He’d come home at night reeking of chlorine and then eaten everything in sight before starting on his schoolwork, and Taliana had lost count of how many nights she’d gotten up for a glass of water and found him passed out in the living room, books and papers strewn across the floor. In those cases, she’d always draped a blanket across him and gone back to bed, and by the time she woke in the morning, he was gone again.

She’d been to a few of his meets before, sat in the bleachers with other fans and family members of the elite athletes in the pool, and watched as he stretched and twisted and rolled his body to points she’d thought were physically impossible.

And he had almost always won.

Michael Richardson loved swimming, and swimming undoubtedly loved him back.

Everything had been going so well for him—his times had been getting better and better, sponsors had been reaching out and urging him to go pro, and his coaches had been sure he was Olympic bound. And he was.

Or, at least, he had been.

She was still trying to comprehend how this had happened, how Michael could have gotten into such a bad wreck that even the detective was wary to tell her anything. He was alive, that was all she knew, and until someone came out to talk to her, she’d just have to sit here and speculate.

What she did know, however, was that something had been off about Michael lately. In the rare moments when he was home, he was quieter, not the rambunctious roommate she was used to waking her up at three-thirty in the morning to go to the 24-hour diner down the street. She hadn’t caught him lip-syncing to Bon Jovi songs in the mirror while admiring his own abs in ages, and she couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked her to give Daniel Craig a kiss before leaving the apartment.

“He needs love too, Taliana,” she could hear Michael playfully scolding. “Besides, he’s way hotter than that ex-frat boy you’ve been dating. Come on, just one little kiss!”

With their rivaling schedules—her busy with a summer internship and Michael prepping for the Olympics—she’d hardly seen him over the past two weeks, but there had been a moment a week ago when she’d been genuinely worried about him.

She wasn’t unused to Michael stumbling in the door at all hours of the night, usually having just come from the gym for an extra training session. He hated all the workouts he had to do on dry land, hated lifting weights and hated running mile after mile, so when he came home, dropped onto the couch and didn’t say anything to her, she knew without asking that he’d had a rough day.

But one night when he came home well past midnight and reeking of alcohol, she’d been wary. He hadn’t said anything to her, just fallen onto the sofa and turned on the TV, the news immediately blaring from the speakers.

“Why does she get to be happy when the rest of us are miserable?”

Taliana had been thrown by the question, almost unsure if Michael was talking to her or to himself. “What are you talking about?”

But Michael hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked her way, just kept his gaze locked on the TV where two familiar faces were smiling back at them.

Laleh Esfandiary was standing by her husband’s side as he gave a speech to his country, looking ever the princess as she balanced a baby girl on her hip and waved to the cheering crowd. Malikbahr celebrates National Day with Crown Prince Zayn al-Haydar and his family the caption below read, and Taliana couldn’t help but admire how happy they looked.

“A successful foundation, a husband who loves her, and a beautiful baby girl. The perfect life.”

There was a bitter note in Michael’s voice that made her look away from the television and back to him. “Are you miserable, Michael?”

When he’d looked up at her, there was no life behind those hazel eyes. “Aren’t you?”

His expression had shaken her so much that she’d had to walk out of the living room, retreating to her bedroom and closing the door behind her. When she’d woken the next morning and forced herself to check on him, she’d found Michael in the kitchen making chocolate-chip pancakes, that familiar sparkle back in his eyes like nothing had ever happened.

So she’d forgotten about it and figured everything was back to normal. But now she had to wonder if that had been a warning she shouldn’t have ignored.

Please be okay, Michael. Please.

“Miss Avilla?”

She was on her feet a moment later, nervously flitting towards the doctor who had just come through a set of double doors, a grim look on his face.

“That’s me,” she said, not missing the waver in her voice. “I’m Taliana Avilla.”

“You’re here for Michael Richardson, correct?”

She nodded once.

“And how are you related to the patient?”

Behind her back, Taliana slid her heirloom ring from her right hand to her left. “I’m his fiancé.”

***

10:04 AM Gulf Standard Time

This is a secure line. You are now connected to Her Royal Highness Princess Laleh of Malikbahr.

“Laleh? You there?”

“Yeah, sorry, the phones in this stupid palace are way more complicated than they should be. I told Zayn I didn’t need a secure line for every call—it’s not like you and I are going to be discussing state secrets. But I guess you can’t blame the guy for being extra security conscious.”

“No, I guess you can’t...”

“Why do you sound like that? Wait, hold on, why are you calling me anyway? It’s two in the morning in D.C., you should be asleep.”

“I was asleep, but—something happened.”

“Talia, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I guess, I don’t know, but it’s—it’s Michael. He’s in the hospital. There was a car crash and he’s—fuck, Laleh, I don’t know what to do.”

“I… okay. We’ll figure this out. Who else knows? Have you called his parents yet? Have you talked to Sebastian?”

“No. You were the first person I called.”

“I understand, and I’m glad you did. But you need to get in contact with his family, okay? And then you need to tell his friends. They deserve to know.”

“Laleh, I haven’t talked to Seb since—”

“I know, azizam, I know. But you have to call him.”

“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

“If it’s about Michael, he will. You need to do it soon, before he finds out from someone else.”

“I know, I will, I just—I wish you were here. I can’t do this by myself. If Michael dies–”

“He’s not going to die. Do you hear me, Taliana? He’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. He’s a fighter, and always has been. He’s going to get through this. You and me are going to get through this. Together.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the baby and I are going to be there in two days. You don’t have to do this alone, Taliana. I won’t let you.”

“Laleh, no, you don’t have to—”

Your call is now disconnected.