In my first life, I went from Moonridge’s 240-pound joke to a national principal ballerina—then died onstage. Reborn at seventeen, I returned to a boyfriend ashamed of me and his ex Vanessa determined to humiliate me. So I made her a bet: whoever lost the principal title would have to run one naked lap across the main quad on livestream and admit defeat. Two months later, I walked back onto the stage in pink. Vanessa stopped laughing. And the Alpha heir who was once ashamed of me finally started regretting everything.
