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The disorientation was absolute. One second, I was drowning in the static-laced murmur of a late-night infomercial from my hotel room TV, the next, I was drowning in a cacophony of sound: frantic voices, thumping bass, and a shrill, ringing in ears that weren't mine. The smell hit me next—hot stage lights, hairspray, and the cloying sweetness of expensive perfume. My vision swam into focus, reflecting back at me from a brightly lit mirror surrounded by glowing bulbs.

The face staring back, wide-eyed with a panic that mirrored my own, was Selena Vance. The Selena Vance. Chart-topping pop princess, viral dance phenomenon, and the subject of the “getting ready for her big comeback performance” special I’d apparently fallen asleep watching. My heart—no, her heart—was a frantic bird trapped behind the ivory lace of a dangerously low-cut bustier.

“Two minutes, Sel! You’re killing that lip!” a stylist chirped, dabbing at my—her—mouth with a tissue. The sensation was a distant pressure. I was locked in, a prisoner in a palace of flesh and sequins.

I recognized the feeling instantly. The profound otherness, the weight distribution all wrong, the soft, restrictive hug of garments I’d never worn. It had been years since that strange, surreal summer, and I’d convinced myself it was a bizarre, isolated episode. Yet here I was, miles from my own life, piloting a global superstar’s body on the most important night of her career.

A stage manager burst into the dressing room. “Places, Selena! Now!”

Muscle memory, not mine, took over. My body—Selena’s body—stood up smoothly on terrifyingly high silver stilettos. I followed the frantic waves of the crew, my mind screaming internally. The outfit was a masterpiece of strategic illusion: the lace bustier, a sheer black mesh panel snaking down her toned stomach, and impossibly tight leather shorts that gleamed under the lights. Every inch of skin sparkled with body glitter.

We emerged into the controlled chaos of backstage. I could see the dark silhouette of the audience beyond the curtain, hear their muffled, excited roar. A technician clipped a wireless pack to the back of my shorts, the touch making me jump.

“Deep breath, you’ve got this,” a voice said, and I realized it was my own—hers—a husky, rehearsed whisper of self-encouragation.

The intro track for her new single, “Neon Ghost,” began to boom—a synth-heavy, pulsing beat I knew …