If he wasn't the most attractive guy I'd ever seen, then I would've been indifferent. His chiseled body didn't have an ounce of fat on him. His medium-brown hair looked effortlessly tousled, and his hazel-brown eyes stayed narrowed at me as I hurried to the weight racks.
My father's personal gym was quite impressive. Spanning the length of multiple rooms, one wall of mirrors reflected the various stations: free weights, a large padded training mat, a punching bag, and several pieces of cardio equipment.
Every surface possible sported a mirror, which reflected multiple angles of my shortcomings and failures.
Damien was a few years older than me and the only person here close to my age. Despite my previous attempts for his attention, he wanted nothing to do with me personally. He walled up against my personal engagement efforts and retaliated with pushups and burpees.
He also had an annoying habit in that he called me Princess.
"Sorry." I swept my hair back in a ponytail, slid a headband over, and tucked the band behind my ears. Despite my long hair, a few shorter, annoying wisps always stuck to my forehead during workouts.
Damien's physical appearance, with rippled muscles upon muscles that clenched with his movements, made any teenage girl swoon. Personality-wise, he had two levels: indifference and irritation. As my eyes scanned over him, his legs and spine drew rigid, jaw clenched with a tick, and a storm of some unspoken emotion swirled in his eyes.
Today definitely irritated Damien.
"Legs first." With a frown and nod of his head, he motioned to a set of weights machines.
"Jeez, Damien," I groaned as my fingers clasped around the cool, textured metal handlebars of a set of weights. "Was the kitchen out of protein bars this morning?"
"Deadlifts, then squats and lunges. You're already late, so stop wasting my time," was his version of a motivational speech.
Leg day... boring and painful. Like spending time with Damien.
My lips pulled to one side as I assumed a hip-width positioning of my feet and stacked a bar on my shoulders. The injection site throbbed as I grounded my heels and gritted my teeth.
Damien grunted. "Just do it, Princess."
"Miss Zira, change of plans."
One of my father's security guards interrupted my training session with Damien with a bang open of the door. The glass rattled as I looked up, single beads of sweat trickling down either side of my forehead.
"Your father is here early. Shower and meet him in the dining room in ten minutes."
"Now?" The weights my hands gripped trembled against the sides of my legs, bumping the tensed muscles. My cheeks flushed warm, and I threw a glance at Damien. He shrugged, then cocked his head in the direction of the glass-doored exit.
I couldn't remember the last time my schedule changed, not once in the last four years. The guard nodded, so I racked my weights and hurried back to my room.
Wisps of hair clung to my face and neck, which itched my skin as I hurried down the long, dark hallways back to my room. Passing an occasional security guard at each corner, my aching legs burned, moving as fast as possible until reaching my bedroom. My cheeks flushed hotter at the glances I received since my workout attire clung to my body.
After a quick shower, I rolled my eyes at the clothes hanging up for me on the back of the bathroom door. My nose scrunched up at the flowered pinafore dress, tights, and dress shoes. Only my father assumed that I still dressed like a five-year-old for a tea party, but I obliged and dressed while my skin was still damp.
Running a brush through my stringy hair, I glanced in the mirror. Regardless of how I felt about my hair, my father insisted I wore it long and straight, pinned back with clips behind my ears. When I was a child, my hair was white-blonde, the color of corn silk. As I got older, it faded into a darker shade.
He insisted that my makeup complimented my clear aquamarine eyes and pale skin, which is why I spent so much time experimenting with different looks before they were wiped out of existence. My skin wouldn't be so pale if I went outside more, but any poolside tanning attempts during my free hour resulted in me falling asleep.
Oddly, even in my limited capacity, I had never come across someone who shared similar physical features of pale skin and light blonde hair. Even my eyebrows and lashes were light blonde. My father and all of his staff had brown hair and eyes, rugged with age.
"This way, Miss Zira."
I followed the security guard to the dining room, the pinnacle joke of the entire mansion. A giant crystal chandelier hung over the middle of the table in a configuration that resembled an upside-down glacier. Twinkling ice-like crystals cast angles of light and shadow down the walls and ceiling. The expansive dining table was for looks only, for the two of us here.
The room dripped with opulence, and the table seated sixteen chairs. My eyes widened when I saw my father seated at one end with one person flanking each side. For the first time in years, someone else sat at the dining table other than him and me. And we weren't even eating, since it was mid-morning.
I recognized Nurse Anna on his right, but not the girl on his left. She looked roughly my age, maybe a year or two older. She had a small frame, curly brown hair, and rounded, ruddy cheeks. Thin, round, wiry glasses balanced on her nose and shaded her brown eyes. By her stiff posture and darting eyes, my father made her nervous.
He tends to have that effect.
A man of few words, my father still possessed an authoritative, commanding presence. He gestured and pointed with his eyes, and people dropped everything and interpreted what he'd requested. His tall, muscular build thinned with age or maybe lack of use, threads of gray ran through his dark brown hair, and his shoulders wore a slight, forward slump. His dark, brooding brown eyes remained hooded as he spoke with a man in a suit who stood behind him.
My eyes narrowed at my father's executive assistant, Baron. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man with visible scars on his chin and neck. My father was the brains of the operation, and Baron was the brawn. Another assistant, Erik, was a shorter, stockier-built man with hair so short he should have shaved his head bald.