Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
One minute I'm the CEO of Sass, the Pizza-God's favorite business major, and the proud owner of a high-speed golden dragon. The next? I'm looking at my own face from the outside, and let me tell you, I look stressed.
I tried to scream. I tried to do my signature "I'm about to sue the universe" rant. But all that came out was a tiny, pathetic wheeze that sounded like a deflating balloon.
I was trapped.
Somehow, in the chaotic mess of soul-grafting, memory-pasting, and Wraith-evicting, the cosmic wires got crossed. I wasn't in the 65-kilo body of Seraphine anymore—the body I'd worked hard to slim down to, mind you (goodbye, extra snacks, hello, progress!). Instead, I was looking out from the eyes of Princess Milabuella.
And let me tell you, being a dying Princess is a zero-star experience. I couldn't feel my legs. My arms felt like they were made of damp tissue paper.
