My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Turning around, Esther’s trembling, tear-filled eyes met Ulrich standing there, watching her in silence.

At once she pulled away from Airam’s arms and hurriedly wiped at her face, as if that could erase everything he had already seen.

"I—I wasn’t crying..." She forced out the words.

The claim fell apart immediately. Her voice came out hoarse and choked, and her reddened cheeks and wet lashes only made it worse.

Ulrich said nothing.

He only kept looking at her.

Esther could not bear it for long. The shame rose too quickly in her chest. She lowered her gaze at once, fingers bunching tightly in the fabric of her gown as she fought to keep more tears from falling.

She had wanted this evening to go differently.

More than that, she had wanted Ulrich to see her at her best.

This whole event had mattered to her in a way it did not matter to Airam and Hermione. She had listened seriously to every instruction, every correction, every warning. She had wanted to stand tall, smile properly, and leave a good impression on the nobles, not only because that was what they had been told to do, but because she truly wished for Ulrich to feel satisfied with them. He had brought them here for a reason. He had wanted them to dazzle, to impress, to imprint themselves in the memory of every noble who looked their way.

Instead, she had cried.

Instead, she and her sisters had been ridiculed, isolated, and turned into a spectacle.

For Esther, who had always possessed the softest heart among the three of them, it had hurt more than she wanted to admit. Standing there while others curved around them, pretending not to see them, laughing just loudly enough for them to hear, none of it had felt small. It had cut deeply.

And the dance made it worse.

They had practiced so much for it.

Hour after hour with Elana. Steps repeated until their legs ached. Posture corrected. Hands adjusted. Turns rehearsed again and again until Esther could almost hear Elana’s voice even now, precise, kind yet stern, demanding elegance, courage, grace.

For Esther, the idea of dancing at a royal event had sounded like something from a storybook. Candlelight, beautiful gowns, music, and noble dances beneath a glittering ceiling. She had imagined it as something wondrous, something almost magical.

Instead, it had turned into humiliation.

She and her sisters had not even been allowed the chance to show what they had practiced hardest for this last month. That hurt almost more than the mockery itself. And beneath all of it sat one heavier fear: that Ulrich would see only failure. That instead of impressing anyone, she had only caused him more trouble.

As her thoughts spiraled deeper into shame and dread, she suddenly noticed movement before her.

A hand.

Ulrich’s hand, stretched toward her.

Esther’s breath caught.

Slowly, timidly, she raised her gaze again.

Ulrich was still looking at her.

His face remained unreadable as always. No softness showed openly there, no comfort, no indulgence. Yet compared to the cutting coldness he had worn earlier, or rather since stepping into this place, this was a real change. He did not look angry. He did not look displeased. He was simply waiting.

Her eyes dropped back to his hand.

For one dazed second, her heart forgot how to beat properly.

She was young, not foolish.

She understood what it meant.

Then she felt a small push at her shoulder from the side.

Hermione.

Esther took a shaky step forward and looked up at Ulrich once more.

He had not withdrawn his hand.

He was still waiting, patient and still in the middle of that unique moment that already felt more unreal than anything else tonight.

Her heart began to pound so much that she thought it might burst through her ribs. Nervousness flooded her all at once, but something else came with it too, something light and bright and disbelieving.

Happiness.

Carefully, hesitantly, Esther lifted her hand and placed it in his.

The moment her small fingers touched his palm, Ulrich closed his hand around hers with surprising gentleness and turned.

Esther followed him at once, her face flushed so hot she feared everyone around them could see it.

She could not believe this was truly happening.

Not even in her most foolish innate dreams had she expected this. Ulrich did not care for dancing. He did not seem like the sort of man who would cross a ballroom simply to rescue a crying girl from humiliation. Yet he had come to her.

To her.

She walked where he led, hardly trusting her own feet, until they reached the center of the hall where the others were dancing. Only then did he stop.

Around them the music continued, though Esther suddenly heard it differently now. She could still catch the movement of skirts, the turn of shoes, the rustle of sleeves, the hush of murmurs, but all of it seemed more distant than before. The whispers around them had not vanished; if anything, they had multiplied, but they were more restrained now, pressed low beneath surprise.

Many people were looking at them.

Esther knew it.

Her pulse only raced harder because of it.

But Elana’s lessons returned to her at once, surfacing through the panic.

"Confidence and posture. Do not look like you do not belong. No matter who watches, act as though the floor was always yours."

Gathering what courage she could, Esther raised her left hand the way she had been taught. Then she rose awkwardly onto the tips of her shoes, trying to reach Ulrich’s shoulder.

She almost made it.

Almost.

The problem was ridiculous once she actually attempted it.

Ulrich was far too tall.

He stood well over six feet, broad-shouldered and immovable, while she was still only a twelve-year-old girl. The top of her head barely reached below his sternum. Even straining upward, she could not reach properly, and if she somehow managed it, keeping the position through the full dance would be hopeless.

Ulrich watched her struggle for a second and understood immediately.

Elana had clearly drilled etiquette into them without mercy, but she had likely imagined Esther dancing with boys nearer her own age. If a taller man led her, then the proper form would have to bend.

"Lower your hand," Ulrich said. "It is unnecessary if you are shorter."

Esther froze in the middle of her awkward reach.

"Hah... um... okay," she nodded quickly, her voice small with embarrassment.

She lowered her hand at once, though where to place it became a different problem entirely. When it came down near his side, her blush deepened so much it nearly stung.

Had she ever touched him like this before?

Not like this.

Not in front of everyone.

Not with his hand holding hers and his body standing this close, with the whole hall watching as though the floor itself had tilted beneath them.

Esther swallowed and tried very hard not to think about any of that.

Ulrich, mercifully, did not comment further. He only adjusted their hold, guiding her into a simpler position that she could actually maintain, one hand steadying hers, the other set carefully enough to lead without forcing.

Then, under most of the eyes, he began the first step.