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.
