Isabelle crossed the final stretch of marble floor at a pace that abandoned any pretense of ballroom composure, her black dress trailing behind her as she moved directly toward the source of Margot's distress. The older woman — silver-haired, dressed in a striking green gown, jewelry catching the chandelier light with every sharp gesture — had Margot's small arm gripped firmly, apparently in the middle of scolding her for some perceived infraction Isabelle hadn't yet identified.
"You clumsy little thing," the woman was saying, her voice carrying the particular irritation of someone unaccustomed to being inconvenienced by children at events like this. "Look what you've done to my gown."
Margot's small face was streaked with tears, her shoulders shaking with the particular overwhelmed sobbing of a toddler who understood she'd upset an adult without fully understanding why. "Mommy!" she cried again, spotting Isabelle approaching and reaching desperately in her direction.
Isabelle didn't slow down. She didn't offer any warning, any polite request for the woman to release her daughter. She simply closed the remaining distance and struck the woman's hand away from Margot's arm with a sharp, decisive slap, the sound cracking through the now-silent ballroom loud enough to draw every nearby guest's immediate, startled attention.
The older woman staggered back a step, her hand flying to her chest in shock, her earlier irritation replaced instantly by stunned disbelief.