The week blurred into itself, measured only by exams, exhaustion, and the unchanging rhythm of mornings and nights.
Lana had barely been home. Most of her time was spent between the campus library, classrooms, and the long drives in between. Yet somehow, every single morning when she stumbled back into the mansion with aching eyes and a body that wanted nothing more than to collapse, there was breakfast waiting for her.
It had started with that sandwich.
Now, without fail, one of the staffs would stop her on her way out, pressing a bag into her hand with a polite, almost rehearsed, "You have exams so you should eat. For strength."
Sometimes it was toast, sometimes pasta, sometimes a smoothie if oddly enough they could tell she was in too much of a hurry to sit. But it was always warm, always fresh and always tasted nothing like the cook's regular cooking.
