My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Taking Airam’s hand, Ulrich stepped onto the dance space once again.

By now, it had become impossible for the rest of the ballroom to ignore him.

At first, many had tried. Or at least pretended to. The arrival of the three sisters had already changed the atmosphere enough on its own. Their beauty, their composure, their origin, the name they now carried, none of it made for an easy sight among nobles who preferred their judgments neat and their prejudices unchallenged. Yet Ulrich had made matters worse for them in the most visible way possible.

He had brought the three sisters into the heart of the event.

He had let everyone see them.

And now, after the girls had been so plainly avoided and quietly shunned, he was dancing with each of them in turn as though none of that rejection mattered at all.

It left people confused.

Deeply so.

By all expectations, Ulrich should have been among the last men in the Kingdom willing to stand this close to witches, much less claim them so openly beneath the light of a royal ballroom.

His mother had died from a witch’s curse.

Everyone knew that story.

They said the curse had not killed her quickly either. They said she had lingered for months, suffering in ways no decent person liked to describe too clearly, and that Ulrich had witnessed enough of it to carry the memory for life. With a history like that, it would have been simple, natural, even for him to follow the path many had expected of him. To inherit not only his father’s authority, but also his hatred. To hunt witches, purge them, make an example of them, and win easy praise from every noble who thought cruelty became virtue when directed at the right target.

Instead, he had adopted three of them.

Not imprisoned them.

Not hidden them away.

Not used them as some private object of humiliation or punishment.

He had given them his name, his protection, his estate, and now, more shockingly still, a place beside him at one of the most prestigious gatherings in the kingdom.

And he was dancing with them, willingly.

Without even the slightest hint of disgust on his face.

That alone was enough to weird out people who had spent years believing they understood exactly what kind of man Ulrich Van Rubenhart was.

Anyone who looked closely enough might have noticed something even stranger.

His face remained as stern as ever, yes. His expression was never easy to read, and there was still that familiar reserve in him that kept others at a distance. But around the sisters, some hard edge in him seemed to ease. Not enough for a smile. Not enough for warmth that anyone could call obvious. Yet enough that the contrast existed.

Enough that it could be seen.

His expression softened around them.

Only slightly.

Only in ways that required attention.

But it was there, and that made the sight before them more startling than any open display of affection might have. A man like Ulrich was not expected to show softness at all, much less toward girls the rest of noble society would have preferred to cast out.

It gave the impression of a weakness.

Or perhaps not weakness.

A soft spot.

And for Ulrich, that was far more shocking.

Of course, that was not the only reason people kept watching.

There was also the simple fact that Ulrich stood out no matter where he went.

He was, without much real competition, the most handsome man in the ballroom, overtaking even the Crown Prince, who hadn’t inherited as much as his mother’s delicate elven features, like his younger sister. Ulrich, on the other hand, drew the eye even when he seemed determined to discourage it. And each of the three sisters possessed beauty enough to rival even the princess herself, though in very different ways. Together they made for a picture difficult to ignore: dark formal elegance, aristocratic bearing, youth, beauty, and a tension no painter could have invented more carefully.

Those who had already finished their dances, and those who had never found partners at all, kept glancing toward them whether they meant to or not.

Among them were more than a few women watching with poorly hidden envy.

Ulrich was rarely seen in the capital to begin with. Rarer still was seeing him attend noble functions in person, remain for longer than duty required, and place himself visibly within reach of the marriage market that had circled him for years. He was still unmarried. Still powerful. Still young. Still the sort of match ambitious families dreamed of securing.

But that dream had always come with a problem.

Ulrich was difficult to approach.

He did not invite familiarity. He did not linger where conversation might trap him. He did not seem inclined to chase women, flatter them, or offer easy openings. Most of the noble daughters who had once hoped to gain his notice had long since realized that waiting for him to take interest was as useful as waiting for winter roses to bloom in open snow.

Only Louise had managed that first dance, and even that could be explained. She was a marquis’s daughter, well-born enough to stand before him without impropriety, and more importantly, she had known him since childhood. That gave her a place no stranger possessed.

The rest could only watch and envy.

Ulrich, naturally, seemed as oblivious to all of it as ever.

Or perhaps not oblivious.

Simply uninterested.

The opinions of people he did not care about had never held much weight with him, and tonight was no different. He moved across the floor without once acknowledging the speculation gathering around his name, his gaze fixed instead on the girl before him.

When they reached their place, he lifted his hand and settled it at Airam’s waist.

Airam placed her own hand against his side a moment later.

Unlike Hermione, she did not need to stretch awkwardly into the frame of the dance. She was taller by several inches, and the difference showed at once. The posture came more naturally to her. The distance between their shoulders, the angle of their arms, the line of the hold itself- it all fit more easily.

And Airam, for all her silence, seemed to notice that too as she lifted her chin and met his eyes without flinching.

Ulrich looked down at Airam.

There was none of the unease he had seen in her younger sisters. No hesitation, no blush, no awkwardness born from standing this close to him before half the kingdom’s nobility. Airam met his gaze with the same dark neutral look she always wore, as though being placed in his arms for a dance was not enough to perturb her in the slightest.

As expected, she was different.

Of the three sisters, she was by far the least emotionally transparent with him. Esther wore her feelings openly, even when she tried not to. Hermione fought hers, but they still reached the surface in her voice, her face, the way she stiffened or hurried her words. Airam was another matter entirely. Whatever she felt, she kept it locked behind that calm, unreadable face of hers, very similarly to him.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Ulrich found her easier to deal with at times.

Not gentler.

Not simpler.

Only easier to understand.

He understood one thing about her with certainty: Airam loved her younger sisters more than she loved anything else in the world. More than pride, more than comfort, more than herself. For Esther and Hermione, she would endure insult, humiliation, pain, whatever was required. That much was enough. As long as he understood where her heart was fixed, he understood how far she would go and what would keep her in line.

The musicians shifted into another piece before either of them spoke again.

The melody changed cleanly, the slower grace of the previous waltz giving way to something quicker, livelier, with a firmer pulse beneath it. Around them, the dancers adjusted almost at once, following the new rhythm as though the floor itself had changed beneath their feet.

Ulrich listened only long enough to catch that new rhythm.

Then he moved.

His hand settled more firmly at Airam’s waist as he guided her into the opening step...only to feel a resistance.

His gaze sharpened at once.

Airam had not moved with him.

She stood where she was, refusing the direction of his hand, her black eyes still lifted to his face as though this were the most natural interruption in the world.

Ulrich looked at her.

Airam looked back.

"I will lead," she said.

Ulrich’s expression turned dry.

For a brief moment, he wondered whether she was provoking him for the sake of it. But there was no such thing on her face. She looked serious, which somehow made the request more absurd.

"No," he said.

"You can follow."

"I said no."

Airam’s grip tightened around the hand she held. "Why?"

Ulrich gave her a long, dry stare.

The answer should have been obvious.

In a Skargardian waltz, the man led and the woman followed. That was not some random preference to be debated in the middle of the ballroom. It was the form itself. The structure. The rule by which the dance was understood. There were other kingdoms with looser customs, stranger habits, foreign variations that played differently with courtship and ceremony, but that had nothing to do with this floor, this music, or this hall.

Here, the man led.

The woman followed.

That was how it was done.

The follower’s role was finer, more responsive, more restrained. The leader’s role required direction, control, placement. Even if Ulrich had been inclined to entertain foolishness, which he was not, the sight alone would have been ridiculous. Airam was tall for her age, yes, but she still only reached his chest. The very idea of her trying to lead him across the floor in front of the capital’s nobility bordered on farce.

And he had no intention of being made ridiculous because of one of Airam’s whims.

"I will lead," he said, each word articulated. "You will follow."

"I want to lead," Airam repeated.

Ulrich barely reacted outwardly, but he stared her more carefully.

Why this?

Airam was stubborn often enough, but she rarely pressed a point this directly without reason. Pride, perhaps? He considered it for a second and discarded it. If she were embarrassed to be led by him, it would show differently. She would have stiffened, withdrawn, or turned cold in that cutting way of hers. This was not embarrassment. Nor did it feel like wounded dignity.

There was intent behind it.

"You want something," he said.

Airam did not answer.

She only kept staring at him.

Ulrich watched her in silence for another moment, then followed the line of her thoughts as far as he could. Airam herself had no great affection for dancing. She had not asked out of personal desire. She had not stepped onto the floor for vanity, nor for the sake of appearances.

Which meant...

"You want to impress Esther."

Airam’s face remained still.

But her silence was answer enough.

Ulrich understood immediately.

Esther had asked to see her eldest sister dance. Not simply stand there. Not merely endure it. Dance properly. Airam, predictably weak where her younger sisters were concerned, had decided that meant more than participating. She wanted Esther to watch something memorable. Something beautiful. Something that would make those bright eyes shine even more and listen her praises.

And so she had decided, for reasons known only to her own mind, that leading him would accomplish that.

"..."

"I will be leading," Ulrich said again.

Airam’s fingers closed harder around his hand.

"No."

Ulrich did not argue further.

He had already given her an answer. Repeating himself a third or fourth time would not improve the quality of the discussion. Airam was not Esther, to be coaxed, nor Hermione, to be reasoned into surrender through explanation. When she planted her feet like this, words quickly lost their value.

So he acted.

He tightened his hold at her waist and drew her closer with a strong pull, leaving no room for dodging in the movement.

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