Page 1 of Ruthless Reign

CHAPTER ONE

LIZA

The bruise under my eye is definitely going to be a problem.

I gingerly touch the smudge of purple, wincing from the bite of pain.

Digging in my makeup drawer, I find a long-forgotten peachy-coral lipstick tucked in the top right-hand side. According to a YouTube makeup tutorial I watched on concealing dark under-eye circles, peach shades work best to neutralize violet hues.

But it’s not a late night that I’m covering up. It’s a bruise my fiancé gave me at a party last night because I told the mayor that his new public transportation plan was flawed. I was just stating facts, but I should have known better.

Anatoly hates when I talk politics.

He hates when I have an opinion that doesn’t align with his.

And he really hates when I disagree with him publicly.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, his face hardened. He said nothing, just seized my arm and led me to a dark corner of the veranda. His anger usually comes in the form of a berating lecture, so I wasn’t expecting his fist.

It happened quickly. He raised his arm and backhanded me. I cried out as the bite of pain jolted through my skull like a bolt of lightning. My hand flew to my face as tears welled up. My body trembled, not just from the cold air but from a raw, tangled knot of disbelief.

Disbelief and fear.

The glint in his eyes as my knees weakened is branded into my memory. He liked it. It made him feel powerful. There’s nothing Anatoly likes more than power, especially over me.

A suffocating helplessness washes over me. Now that he’s raised a hand to me once, what’s to stop him from doing it again?

I wince a little as I carefully dab the lipstick over the bruise, patting it until the purple hue fades, before I add a final layer of concealer that matches my skin tone. I blow out a breath, and angle my chin this way and that under the mirror’s bright lights, making sure nothing shows through. Making sure I look perfect.

I startle at the sharp knock on my bedroom door.

Without waiting for a response, my mother sweeps into my room in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and absolute confidence. As always, Anastasia Ivanova looks impeccable—her hair is styled in an elegant up-do, and her figure is sculpted from private workouts and draped in the latest designer fashion, thanks to Anatoly's deep pockets.

“I came to see if you need my help with your hair or makeup,” my mother offers as sweetly as she can manage, but we both know why she's really here.

Her eyes flick over my face, assessing. She must have noticed the bruise this morning—not that she said anything. My parents very conveniently turn the other way when it comes to Anatoly because, to them, he’s the white knight who pays our bills and keeps us in good social standing.

“I don’t need your help,” I say tightly. “Where’s Sofiya?”

For some reason, my mother insisted that my sister come home from boarding school for the dinner party we’re hosting tonight. Even though I don’t see why it’s necessary, I’m always happy to see Sofiya. She’s the one bright light in my world.

“She’s in her room getting ready. You’ll see her soon.” My mother reaches out, adjusting one of my earrings. “I don’t have to remind you how important tonight is.”

Important to her, that is. This evening, we're hosting two of Moscow’s most influential families: the Petroviches, my fiancé’s family and owners of Russia’s largest shipping company; and the Belovs, which includes my best friend, Kira, and her husband, Maxim Belov, who leads the country’s most powerful bratva.

Funny how Mama never gave a damn about Kira until she married Maxim last year. Now she treats her like the Queen of England, and it drives me crazy. At least Kira has a sense of humor about it all.

I sigh and cross my arms. “It’s just a party, so don’t make it out to be a state dinner. Everything will be fine.”

She frowns. “Liza, this is your future family we’re talking about. It’s important for everything to go perfectly. Did you get the dress Anatoly sent?”

My lips flatten into a thin line. “I sure did.”

This morning, an ornate gift box—courtesy of my asshole fiancé—was delivered to our house. Inside, there was a dress, a pair of designer shoes, jewelry, and an ‘I’m sorry it’ll never happen again’ note tucked into a bouquet of roses.

The dress is white, skin-tight, and despite the designer label, trashy. It’s exactly how he likes me to dress.

My mother went on and on about his generosity, but his so-called gifts are just another way to control me. Everything about how I look tonight is calibrated to please him. My long dark auburn hair is down and in waves. My makeup is smoky and sexy, the smattering of freckles across my nose covered up by a layer of foundation. I’m even wearing one of two acceptable perfumes he selected.

---