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.

"Ali, move!" Carroll shouted. "She's dangerous!"

"The only dangerous person here is the liar standing behind you," Ali said, pointing at Hoover.

Mrs. Hoover recoiled. "I... I am a loyal servant of this family!"

"Stalking?" George Mckay stepped up. He pulled a thick manila envelope from his jacket. "Is that why you received a fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer from an offshore account on the day my sister was taken?"

He ripped the envelope open.

"These are phone records and bank statements," George said, his voice booming. "Timestamped. An hour after you got the money, you called in sick and left a ten-year-old girl unsupervised in a public park. That wasn't stalking. That was a payoff."

He threw the documents onto the floor. They scattered like leaves.

"My mother," George continued, pointing at Denise, "has spent every day since then searching. We're here because we finally found you."

"Lies!" Hoover shrieked. "He's making it up! She's some grifter trying to extort us!"

"Is that so?" Ali asked.

She turned to Denise. "How can you prove I'm your daughter?"

Denise was trembling, wiping tears from her face. "You... you have a mark. A birthmark. On your left shoulder. It looks like a red butterfly."

Carroll froze. "I... I never saw a mark."

Of course she hadn't. Nannies bathed her. Nannies dressed her. Carroll only saw her when she was presented for photos.

But Ali knew.

"Jazmyne," Isadore said. He didn't need to shout.

Jazmyne stepped forward. She knew exactly what to do.

She reached for the shoulder of Ali's ruined dress-the side she had slashed open with the shears. She pulled the fabric down a few inches.

There, stark against Ali's pale skin, was the birthmark. A distinct, crimson butterfly.

A collective gasp swept through the room.

"Oh my god," Carroll whispered. She looked at Ali, really looked at her, and realized she was looking at a stranger.

"That's my daughter," Denise wept. "That's my Ali."

Ali pulled her dress back up. She turned to Mrs. Hoover.

"You said she was a stalker," Ali said, her voice cold. "You said she was obsessed. If she was a stranger, how would she know about a birthmark that is usually covered by clothes?"

Hoover opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"The only way she would know," Ali continued, stepping closer to the housekeeper, "is if she gave birth to me. And the only reason you are lying is because you took a bribe to look the other way during my kidnapping. When I was returned, traumatized and with my memory fractured, you fed my parents a story to cover your tracks and keep your job."

The logic was ironclad.

Senator Ellwood looked at the bank statements on the floor, then at Hoover's terrified face. He realized the liability. He realized the scandal waiting to happen.

He turned purple.

"You..." Ellwood pointed a shaking finger at Hoover. "You incompetent... You lied to me? For all these years?"

"Senator, please!" Hoover fell to her knees. "I was scared! They threatened me!"

"Get her out of my sight!" Ellwood roared. "I'm pressing charges! Fraud! Negligence! Conspiracy to kidnap!"

Security grabbed Hoover. She was dragged away, sobbing, following the same path Catarina had taken.

The ballroom was chaotic. The Lancaster family image was in tatters.

Ali stood in the center of the storm, looking at Denise.

"Mom," she said.

It felt strange on her tongue. But it felt right.

Denise rushed forward and hugged her. She smelled of cheap soap and rain, but it was the warmest hug Ali had ever felt.

Isadore watched them from the side. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the 'No Smoking' signs.

He caught Ali's eye through the smoke. He didn't smile, but he dipped his head in a small, acknowledging nod.

Well played, Little Fish, his eyes seemed to say.