The video has seventeen million views when I finally force myself to watch it. My hands shake as I press play on my phone, sitting alone in my childhood bedroom like the failure I've become. There I am on the screen—Dakota Reed, America's former gymnastics sweetheart, standing on the competition floor at the Olympic Trials comeback attempt. Twenty-six years old and desperate to prove I still have it. Then I watch myself fall apart. The beam routine starts fine. My split leap is clean, my back handspring solid. But then I freeze mid-routine, just standing there on four inches of leather-covered wood, staring at nothing. The crowd goes silent. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. The commentators don't know what to say. "Is she... is Dakota Reed having some kind of panic attack?" I was. I am. I've watched this moment a hundred times now, and I still feel the phantom sensation of my lungs refusing to work, my vision tunneling, my body simply refusing to obey. I fell off the beam trying to dismount. Landed on my knees. Stayed there. The video cuts to my post-competition interview, which somehow made everything worse. The reporter asked what happened, and I—God, I can barely stand to watch this part—I blamed it on the "toxic culture" of elite gymnastics. Said I was traumatized by my previous coaches. Made it sound like I was the victim of some systemic abuse that never actually happened. The comments section is brutal. *"She's making excuses for choking."* *"Remember when she threw Margot Voss under the bus to get that gold? Karma."* *"Dakota Reed is a narcissist who can't handle not being the best anymore."* That last one might be true. My phone buzzes with a call from my agent, Simone. I consider not answering, but she'll just keep trying. "Tell me you've seen the email," she says instead of hello. "What email?" "Check. Now." I pull up my inbox with a sense of dread. The subject line makes my stomach drop: "Training Proposal from Voss Elite Gymnastics." No. Absolutely not. "Dakota, this is the only offer you're getting," Simone says, reading my silence correctly. "Every other elite coach in the country has turned you down. Your reputation is—" "I know what my reputation is." I'm a head case. A drama queen. A has-been who never really was. "Margot Voss runs the best training facility in the country now. She's produced three Olympic medalists in the last four years. If anyone can get you back in shape for—" "Margot hates me, Simone." "I'm aware." Her tone is dry. "I was there eight years ago, remember? When you told every reporter who'd listen that she was the weak link on the team? That her gold medal was a fluke? That you were the real champion?" The shame hits me like it always does when someone brings up what I did. What I said. The way I smiled for the cameras while systematically destroying the reputation of the girl who'd been my best friend since we were twelve. "That's exactly why this won't work," I say. "She'll never actually help me. This is probably some revenge plot." "Then read the email and tell me I'm wrong." I open it with trembling fingers. *Dakota,* *I've seen your recent competition footage. I've also seen the seventeen million people who watched you fall apart. You have two options: retire in disgrace, or let me fix you.* *My training program is not negotiable. You will follow my methods exactly, without question or complaint. You will live at my facility. You will eat what I tell you to eat, train when I tell you to train, and speak to the media only with my approval. You will surrender complete control of your comeback to me.* *In exchange, I will make you better than you've ever been.* *You have 24 hours to decide.* *-M* "This is insane," I whisper. "She wants me to be her puppet." "She wants you to trust someone other than yourself for once," Simone corrects. "Dakota, you've burned every bridge. Your parents won't even return my calls about sponsorship opportunities. This is it. This is your only shot at redemption." I stare at Margot's email, at the cold professionalism of it. No mention of our history. No acknowledgment of what I did to her, how I stole credit for her achievements, how I made sure every headline read "Dakota Reed's Olympic Triumph" while Margot became a footnote. She should want me to suffer. Instead, she's offering me a lifeline. "Why would she help me?" I ask quietly. "I don't know. But you have twenty-three hours to decide if you're brave enough to find out." After Simone hangs up, I sit in the dark, reading Margot's email over and over. Complete control. Zero autonomy. Absolute submission to the woman I destroyed. I open my response and type two words: *I accept.* Then I throw up in my childhood bathroom, because I know exactly what I've just agreed to. ---