Page 61 of Ruthless Reign

“I insist that the maid of honor’s dress be red, Mother. It’s my best color.” Katerina’s whiny voice is heard before she even enters the room. Moments later, she steps in, greeting us with a frown. “Oh. You’re both here.”

My back straightens with irritation.

Talya Petrovich gives her daughter an admonishing look. “It’s the bride and mother of the bride, so of course they’re both here.” The older woman steps forward, offering us both air kisses.

“I think red for the bridesmaid’s dresses sounds lovely,” my mother gushes as the two women sit down. “Don’t you think, Liza?” Her kick under the table is a not-so-subtle nudge to agree.

“Sure." My grin lacks any genuine warmth.

Katerina flares her nostrils and flips her long golden hair behind her back. “I wasn’t talking about the bridesmaid dresses. I don’t care what they wear. As the maid of honor, I should be the only one wearing red.”

“Red for a wedding? You’ll look like a harlot.” Talya frowns.

I have to bite my lip to keep in my laughter. I respect her bluntness.

“Maybe something softer,” my mother jumps in. “Like a pink blush?”

“Maybe not.” Katerina pulls a face and checks the time on her phone. “Anyhow, what do we need to do here? I have a facial in an hour.”

“I thought you might want a say in the color scheme we choose, considering it will greatly influence the floral arrangements,” my mother offers. “Your taste is impeccable, and it would mean so much to have your input.”

My God. Could she suck up any harder?

While Talya and my mother start discussing the merits of lilies versus white roses, I lean back in my chair and sneak a quick glance at my phone, checking on my trades.

“So, do you have your outfit sorted for the opera this weekend?” Katerina leans closer, putting on a falsely sweet tone that immediately has me on edge. She doesn't wait for my response. “I have a few designer dresses from last season, which you're welcome to borrow. You don't mind wearing last season's fashion, do you?” Her tone is casual, but there’s a mocking undercurrent.

Like Anatoly, his sister loves to remind me how indebted I am to her family. How much less fortunate we are.

“I’m fine,” I answer back cooly. “I’ll just wear something from my closet.” I give her a blank smile and hope she takes the message to fuck off. I’m not interested in playing her power games, especially right now.

She gives a nonchalant shrug and examines her manicure. “It’s just that my brother will expect you to look the part of a Petrovich. All of Moscow will be watching your first time out together since announcing your wedding date. It’s important you look”—her eyes rake over me critically—“polished.”

I fight a very strong instinct to push her face-first into the bouquet of hydrangeas in the center of the table.

“I’ll manage with what I have,” I respond, my voice frosty.

“Oh, sure, whatever you want.”

I can sense her eyes still on me, like a vulture circling before the kill.

“I can send my aesthetician over to your place. She’s amazing at threading, you know. She can help you with that facial hair.” Katerina grins like the cat that ate the canary and motions to my upper lip.

I bite my cheek, not allowing her veiled insults to get to me. “Sure,” I say. “How kind of you.”

“I’ll send her over to your house once I’m done. You probably don’t know this, but guys go wild for a full wax—everywhere.” Her eyebrows do a little dance to emphasize her point. “Considering who my date is, I'm aiming for silky smooth.” Her tone drips with insinuation.

I do my best to not take the bait. She obviously has an agenda.

When I say nothing, her mouth tightens and she leans in closer like I’m hard of hearing. “Roman Vasiliev is taking me. He’s been asking me out forever, and I just couldn’t say no any longer.” She shrugs, takes a tube of red lipstick out of her purse, and applies it slowly.

Her news hits me like a punch to the gut.

Roman and Katerina? Out on a date?

Envy flares like an itch under my skin. I don’t like it one bit.

I reach for my water glass in front of me, trying to react like my heart isn’t slamming against my rib cage.

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