POV: Desi Whitmore

They wanted me dead.

I stood in front of the mirror in the dormitory, adjusting my dress for the ball, and stared at my reflection. Same honey-blonde hair. Same dark eyes. Same face I'd seen every morning for seventeen years.

But someone had looked at me and decided I needed to die.

Not because of anything I'd done. Because of what I represented. A Beta who refused to stay quiet. A student who organized resistance instead of accepting corruption. Someone who made other ...