Carroll was waiting for Ali by the patio doors. Her face was a mask of strained patience.

"Alisson," Carroll hissed, grabbing Ali's elbow. Her nails dug into Ali's skin. "Look at you. You're a disaster. Go through the servants' entrance and get upstairs. Don't let anyone else see you like this."

The old Alisson would have apologized. She would have shrunk into herself, ashamed of ruining the perfect evening Carroll had spent months planning.

Ali looked down at Carroll's hand on her arm.

"No," she said.

Carroll blinked, her mouth opening slightly. "Excuse me?"

"I am the debutante," Ali said, her tone flat. "This is my party. Why should I scurry away like a rat?"

She pulled her arm free. She didn't wait for Carroll's response. She walked past her, her wet bare feet slapping against the polished marble of the hallway, leaving a trail of pool water and defiance.

She headed straight for the changing room off the main ballroom.

Jazmyne was there, pacing. When she saw Ali, she let out a sob and rushed forward with a towel.

"Miss Ali! Oh my god, are you hurt?"

Jazmyne.

Seeing her face-young, alive, unblemished-felt like a punch to the gut for Ali. In the timeline she had just left, Jazmyne had died because of her. She had taken a beating meant for Ali, her loyalty repaid with a shallow grave.

Ali's throat tightened. She reached out and touched Jazmyne's cheek. Warm. Real.

"I'm okay, Jaz," Ali whispered. "I'm okay."

"Your dress..." Jazmyne looked at the ruined silk. "And... whose jacket is this?"

Ali shrugged the jacket off her shoulders. Her fingers brushed against the hard outline of the knife in the pocket. Before laying the garment on the velvet ottoman, she discreetly slipped the cold, metal object out and tucked it into a hidden seam of her ruined dress, a seam she knew Carroll's seamstress favored.

Under the harsh lights of the vanity, the quality of the garment was undeniable. It wasn't just a jacket; it was a piece of architecture. The fabric was a heavy, midnight-blue wool blend.

Ali flipped the lapel.

Embroidered in silver thread, barely visible against the dark lining: I.W.

And below it, the signature of a tailor on Savile Row.

Her pulse quickened. Isadore Walker.

He had been here. He had pulled her out. And he had left her this.

She ran her thumb over the embroidery. Why? Why did he care? In her memories, he was a distant figure, a political fixer who occasionally visited Senator Ellwood. They had barely spoken ten words to each other.

Yet, he had died for her.

"Miss Ali," Jazmyne said, holding up a garment bag. "Mrs. Lancaster prepared a backup dress. Just in case."

She unzipped the bag.

It was hideous. A high-necked, long-sleeved white gown with enough lace to choke a Victorian widow. It was a dress designed to make Ali look meek, chaste, and utterly forgettable. Catarina had picked it out, no doubt.

Ali stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was wet, slicked back. Her mascara had run slightly, giving her a dark, dangerous look.

"I'm not wearing that," she said.

"But... it's the only one left."

Ali looked around the room. Her eyes landed on a pair of fabric shears on the tailor's table.

"Give it to me."

Jazmyne handed Ali the dress, confused.

Ali took the shears. The metal was cold and heavy.

She didn't hesitate. She jammed the blades into the high lace collar and ripped. The sound of tearing fabric was satisfying, like a scream.

"Miss Ali!" Jazmyne gasped.

Ali didn't stop. She slashed the sleeves off. She cut a slit in the skirt that went all the way up to her mid-thigh. She plunged the neckline down, turning the suffocating bodice into a daring V-neck.

She stepped into the ruined, reborn dress.

It wasn't perfect. The edges were raw. But it clung to her damp skin like a second layer of armor. It looked wild. It looked like something a survivor would wear.

Ali turned to the mirror. The scratch on her neck-a parting gift from Catarina's nails during the struggle-was now visible. A thin red line against her pale skin.

"Don't cover the scratch," Ali ordered Jazmyne, who was reaching for the concealer.

"But..."

"It's evidence," she said.

Ali picked up Isadore's jacket. She folded it carefully.

"Keep this safe for me, Jaz. Don't let anyone touch it. Not even my mother."

"Yes, Miss." Jazmyne looked at Ali with wide, awestruck eyes.

Ali walked to the door. She could hear Cody's voice on the other side, loud and booming.

"...yeah, dived right in. Didn't even think about my tux. Just had to save her."

Ali opened the door.

Cody was leaning against the wall, recounting his heroism to a group of debutantes. When he saw Ali, he straightened up, a dazzling smile plastered on his face.

"Ali! You look..." His eyes dropped to the slit in her dress, then to the raw neckline. He swallowed. "...different."

"You changed quickly, Mr. Stevens," Ali said.

Her voice was cool, devoid of the adoration he was used to.

"I... uh..." He tugged at his cuffs. "I had a spare in the car."

"A spare tuxedo. In your car." Ali stepped closer to him. "How convenient. And your hair? Did you have a spare blow dryer in the car too?"

The girls around him giggled. Cody's face turned a splotchy red.

"I have a very good stylist," he muttered.

"You must," Ali said. "Or maybe you just never got wet."

She didn't wait for his rebuttal. Senator Ellwood was waving frantically from the ballroom entrance, signaling her to come out and salvage the night.

Ali took a deep breath.

She wasn't walking into a party. She was walking into an arena.

She pushed the double doors open.

The ballroom went silent.

Ali could feel the weight of three hundred pairs of eyes on her. The crystal chandeliers seemed to vibrate with the tension.

She walked in.

She didn't walk like the shy girl who tripped over her own feet. She walked with the muscle memory of a woman who had seen the end of the world. Her chin was up. Her wet hair was slicked back, exposing the sharp angles of her face. The raw edges of her dress fluttered with each step, the high slit revealing her leg.

She saw Catarina.

Catarina was standing near the center of the room, holding court. She had a glass of champagne in one hand, and she was laughing. A light, tinkling sound that grated on Ali's nerves.

When Catarina saw Ali, the laugh died in her throat.

Ali walked straight toward her. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

"Ali," Catarina stammered, her eyes darting around. She put on her best concerned-best-friend face. "Oh my god, are you okay? I was so worried..."

She reached out to grab Ali's hands.

Ali didn't let her touch her.

She raised her hand.

She put every ounce of her frustration, her betrayal, and her three years of pent-up rage into the swing.

SMACK.

The sound was like a gunshot.

Catarina's head snapped to the side. She stumbled back, clutching her cheek. The imprint of Ali's hand was already blooming red on her pale skin.

The silence in the room was absolute. Even the string quartet stopped playing.

"You..." Catarina gasped, tears instantly welling up in her eyes. "You hit me! Why would you hit me?"

Mrs. Collins, Catarina's mother, shrieked from the sidelines. "She's crazy! Alisson has gone crazy!"

Senator Ellwood dropped his glass. It shattered, the sound echoing painfully.

"Alisson!" he roared, starting toward her. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Ali didn't look at him. She kept her eyes locked on Catarina.

"That," Ali said, her voice steady and projecting to the back of the room, "was for pushing me."

"I didn't!" Catarina sobbed. "I tried to catch you! You slipped!"

"Is that so?"

Ali raised her left hand. She opened her fist.

Resting on her palm was a single, iridescent pearl button.

"Then explain this," she said.

Catarina's eyes widened. She instinctively grabbed her left wrist. The cuff of her expensive silk gown was torn, missing a button.

"If you were trying to catch me," Ali said, stepping closer, "the fabric would have torn toward you. But this button was ripped off because I grabbed you while you were shoving me away."

"And if that's not enough," Ali added, tilting her head to expose the thin red line on her neck, "perhaps the skin under your fingernails will match the evidence you left right here."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. People were leaning in, looking at the button, then at Catarina's sleeve. The physics were undeniable.

Mrs. Collins rushed forward, her face twisted in fury. "You little liar! You probably tore it off yourself!"

She raised her hand to strike Ali.

Ali didn't flinch. She prepared to catch her wrist.

But she didn't have to.

"Enough."

The word was spoken softly, but it carried more weight than Ellwood's shout. It was a deep, baritone command that vibrated in the floorboards.

The doors at the far end of the ballroom swung open.

Isadore Walker walked in.

He was flanked by four men in dark suits, but no one was looking at them. Isadore sucked the oxygen out of the room. He had changed his shirt, but he still wore the same dark trousers. His presence was terrifyingly calm.

He walked with a predatory grace, his eyes scanning the room like he was assessing threats in a war zone.

He stopped a few feet away from them.

Senator Ellwood paled. "Mr. Walker. I... we didn't expect you to intervene in a family matter."

Isadore looked at Ellwood with bored disdain.

"Family matter?" he repeated. "I see an assault."

He turned his gaze to Ali. For a second, the coldness in his eyes thawed.

"If the Senator won't uphold justice in his own house," Isadore said, his voice ringing clear, "then I will."

Isadore didn't look at Ali. He looked at the crowd.

"I was on the terrace," he said, his voice carrying a deliberate weight. "My view of the pool deck was... unobstructed."

He pointed a gloved finger at Catarina.

"I saw her put two hands on Miss Lancaster's back and shove."

Catarina's knees gave out. She collapsed into her mother's arms, wailing.

"No! He's lying!" Mrs. Collins screamed. "He's lying to protect her!"

Isadore slowly turned his head to look at Mrs. Collins. It was like watching a lion turn its attention to a yapping dog.

"Are you questioning my eyesight, Mrs. Collins?" he asked softly. "Or my integrity?"

The room went cold. Questioning Isadore Walker's integrity in D.C. was a death sentence for one's social and financial life. He was the Shadow Regent. He held the secrets of half the Senate in his safe.

Mrs. Collins clamped her mouth shut, trembling.

Isadore gestured to the shadows behind him. A man stepped forward. He wore a rumpled suit and wire-rimmed glasses.

Bertram Schmidt. The Federal Prosecutor.

A collective gasp went through the room. Why was the Federal Prosecutor at a debutante ball?

"Mr. Walker invited me for a drink," Schmidt said, adjusting his glasses. "We were discussing... policy. He directed my attention to the pool just moments before the incident."

Two witnesses. One was the most powerful power broker in the city, the other was the law itself.

"Given the depth of the pool and the weight of the victim's dress," Schmidt continued, his tone dry and clinical, "this constitutes attempted murder. Or at the very least, aggravated assault with intent to cause great bodily harm."

"Arrest her," Schmidt said to the security team.

"Daddy!" Catarina screamed as the guards moved in. "Daddy, do something!"

Her father, Mr. Collins, stood frozen in the crowd, looking at Isadore. He knew better than to intervene. He looked away.

As Catarina was dragged out, kicking and screaming obscenities, the ballroom felt strangely empty.

Isadore finally moved. He walked over to Ali.

He stood close. Too close for a stranger. She could smell the tobacco smoke clinging to him.

He began to peel off his black leather gloves. Finger by finger. The movement was slow, deliberate, almost hypnotic.

"Your hand," he said.

Ali looked down at her right hand. It was stinging. Her palm was red from the force of the slap.

"It's fine," she said.

"It's red," he corrected.

He held out his gloves.

"Next time," he said, his voice dropping an octave so only Ali could hear, "wear these. You shouldn't bruise your skin on trash."

Ali's breath hitched.

This was... intimate. Possessive.

The debutantes nearby were staring with their mouths open. Isadore Walker, the Ice King, was offering his gloves to the girl who just fell in a pool?

Ali took the gloves. The leather was still warm from his hands.

"Thank you, Mr. Walker," she said.

His eyes narrowed slightly at the formal address.

"Isadore," he corrected.

Senator Ellwood bustled over, sweating profusely. "Mr. Walker, thank you for... clarifying things. Though, surely, arrest is a bit harsh? It's just a girls' spat..."

Isadore turned on him.

"Ellwood," he said, his voice like a whip crack. "Your daughter was nearly drowned. And you are worried about the optics?"

Ellwood flinched. "I... no, of course not. I just..."

"You are a disappointment," Isadore said. He didn't shout, but the words echoed.

He turned back to Ali, and for a moment, she saw the man from her vision. The man who had burned the world for her.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Ali clutched his gloves. "I am now."

He nodded, once. "Good."

He didn't leave. He stood beside her, a dark monolith, creating a barrier between her and the rest of the world.