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The following day was Saturday, thank the Lord, because the past week had been an exhausting act of pretending I fit in Xavier Fairchild's world, all while nervously anticipating when the whole facade would burst like an overstuffed balloon.
I woke up slowly, that kind of leisurely awakening that only happens when sunlight sneaks through blackout curtains that someone else had kindly left just ajar.
A silver tray was balanced on my lap, steaming coffee in a delicate porcelain cup that seemed too fragile for a simple breath, a flawlessly cut half grapefruit, a perfect pain au chocolat still warm from whatever magical oven was downstairs, and a tiny crystal vase holding a single white orchid that probably cost more than my previous rent.
