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Over the past few days, I've found myself drifting in a lovely daze that felt both too wonderful and a bit uncertain, much like wearing an incredibly expensive coat that belongs to someone else and waiting for the moment the tailor catches on.
Living in Xavier Fairchild's mansion...because calling it a house would be a disservice, has been like stepping right into one of those glossy lifestyle magazines I used to daydream about while waiting in doctor's offices.
Breakfast is served to me on shiny silver trays by discreet staff who move as if they're part of the shadows: perfectly poached eggs with elegant truffle shavings, fresh green juice that tastes like a mix of wealth and wellness, and croissants so wonderfully flaky they just melt away before I can even feel guilty about eating them.
