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."
