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.

The drama should have ended there. Catarina was gone. The music was trying to restart.

But the doors opened again.

This time, there was a scuffle.

"You can't go in there!" a security guard shouted.

"We have an invitation!" a male voice argued. It was rough, desperate.

Three people pushed past the guards.

They looked like they had walked off a bus from the Rust Belt. Their clothes were clean but worn. The man wore a suit that was two sizes too big. The woman had a kind, tired face. The younger man, the one arguing, had fierce, intelligent eyes.

Ali's heart stopped.

It was them.

Griffith, Denise, and George Mckay.

Her biological family.

In her past life, they hadn't come tonight. They had come a week later, after the scandal had ruined her. She had been too ashamed to see them. She had let Carroll drive them away.

"Get them out!" Carroll screeched, spotting them. "Who let these beggars in?"

Senator Ellwood signaled the guards. "Remove them. Now."

"Wait."

Isadore's voice cut through the noise again.

He walked toward the entrance. Ali followed him, drawn by a magnetic pull.

The guards stepped back as Isadore approached.

George Mckay stepped in front of his mother, his fists clenched. "We're not leaving until we see her."

Isadore didn't look at George. He looked at Ellwood, his gaze like chips of ice.

"These people have an invitation," Isadore stated, his voice a low command. "One that I personally extended. Are you suggesting my guests are not welcome, Senator?"

The room went dead silent.

Ali stared at Isadore. She stared at her biological mother.

Denise blinked, squinting at the tall, powerful man in front of her, then her eyes locked onto Ali.

The world fell away. Ali saw the resemblance instantly. She had her eyes. She had her chin.

"Ali?" Denise choked out. "My baby?"

Tears pricked Ali's eyes. She wanted to run to her. She wanted to apologize for a lifetime of separation, for a lifetime of ingratitude she hadn't even committed yet in this timeline.

"Who are these people?" Carroll marched over, Mrs. Hoover, their housekeeper, trailing behind her like a shadow.

Mrs. Hoover took one look at Denise and turned the color of old parchment.

"Oh my god," Hoover gasped. She pointed a shaking finger at Denise. "Security! Arrest her! That's the woman! The one who was stalking us right before the kidnapping!"

It was a brilliant, evil lie. Hoover was striking first.

Carroll's eyes went wide. "What? The kidnapper?"

"Yes!" Hoover screamed, her voice cracking. "Years ago! She was lurking around for weeks! She's obsessed! A criminal!"

The crowd gasped. The narrative was shifting instantly. The poor, crazy woman trying to get to the Senator's daughter.

"No!" Denise cried. "That's not true!"

"Call the police!" Carroll yelled. "Get this psycho away from my daughter!"

Ali looked at Hoover. She saw the sweat on her upper lip. She saw the terror in her eyes.

Hoover was lying to save her own skin.

Ali stepped forward, placing herself between Denise and the guards.

"No one touches her," she said.