Grace Keller POV:

The "psychiatrist's clinic" was a private, unmarked building in a forgotten part of the city. There were bars on the windows. The man who called himself a doctor had cold, dead eyes and a smile that never reached them. He was not a doctor. He was a sadist, one of Julian' s hired monsters who specialized in breaking people without leaving visible marks.

For a week, I lived in a waking nightmare. He used sensory deprivation, sleep deprivation, hours of interrogation under blinding lights. He played on my fears, whispering about rats in the walls, about the feeling of suffocation, until my mind began to fray at the edges.

When Julian finally came to get me, I could barely stand. I was a hollowed-out shell of myself, my body trembling with exhaustion and terror.

"You look better," he said, frowning slightly at my gaunt face and haunted eyes. "Rested."

I said nothing. There were no words left.

Fabiola was with him, of course. She smirked at me. "See? I told you a little rest was all she needed."

Julian' s phone buzzed. A business call he couldn't ignore. While he was distracted, Fabiola leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper.

"I visited your brother," she hissed. "Such a shame about his leg. It will never heal properly. He'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life. And your father... it's so easy for mistakes to happen in a hospital. A wrong medication, an air bubble in an IV... so many sad, little accidents."

I stared at her, my blood turning to ice. But I didn't react. I couldn't. My face was a blank mask. My plan was nearly complete. Josephine had confirmed it just this morning. My family was safe. They were already gone, on a private jet to a new country, a new life. All I had to do was play my final part.

"It's Fabiola's birthday tonight," Julian said, ending his call. "A party on the yacht. You'll be there."

It wasn't a request.

The yacht was ablaze with lights, a floating palace on the dark water. I moved through the crowd like a phantom, my mind calm and clear. I was a soldier on a mission, focused on the final objective.

Fabiola found me on the upper deck, away from the noise of the party.

"Enjoying the view?" she purred, leaning against the railing beside me. "It's a long way down." She laughed, a low, ugly sound. "That 'doctor' really did a number on you, didn't he? Julian was so worried. He thought you might actually be broken."

I ignored her, my fingers discreetly tapping a message on the small burner phone hidden in my clutch. Ready.

Fabiola' s eyes narrowed. She lunged, snatching the phone from my hand and throwing it to the deck, where it skittered against the railing. "What's this? Texting another lover?"

"You're pathetic, Fabiola," I said, my voice steady. "You think you've won. You think you have him. But you never will."

"What did you say?" she snarled.

"He'll never love you," I continued, my words precise and cruel. "Not like he loved me. In his bed, late at night, whose name do you think he whispers in his sleep? It's not yours."

Her face contorted with rage. "You lie!"

"I am his wife," I said, the words a blade. "I am Mrs. Julian Pena. And you? You're just the childhood friend. The charity case. The consolation prize."

That was it. That was the final push.

With a scream of pure, animalistic fury, she launched herself at me. Her hands shoved against my chest, hard.

I didn't fight. I didn't struggle.

I let myself go.

The world tilted crazily. For a split second, I saw the look of shocked horror on her face as she realized what she had done.

Then, there was only the cold night air rushing past me and the dark, unforgiving water below.

As I fell, I closed my eyes, a sense of profound, liberating peace washing over me. In my hand, I clutched a tiny waterproof GPS tracker. Its signal was already broadcasting my location.

This was not an end. It was a beginning. The water embraced me like a cold, dark cradle.

Goodbye, Julian.

Fabiola Barron POV:

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, wild bird trapped in a cage. I stared at the dark, churning water where Grace had disappeared. She was gone. Just... gone.

A wave of panic, cold and sickening, threatened to drown me. I killed her. I actually killed her.

But then, another thought, sharp and venomous, pierced through the fear. She's gone. The obstacle, the constant reminder of my second-place status, was finally, permanently, gone.

Julian would protect me. He always did. He would believe any story I told him. A tragic accident. She slipped. She was unstable, suicidal. He'd believe it because he had to.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across my face. I won.

I smoothed my hair, straightened my dress, and turned to go back to the party. Back to my party. Back to Julian.

He was standing right there.

"Fabiola?" he said, his brow furrowed. "What are you doing out here? It's cold." He sounded... off. A strange, unsettling premonition seemed to be prickling at him.

"Just getting some air," I said, forcing a bright smile. "Where's Grace? I thought I saw her come this way."

"I haven't seen her," he said, his gaze sweeping the empty deck. The unease on his face deepened.

I feigned a pout. "Well, don't let her ruin the mood. It's my birthday. Come on, it's time to cut the cake."

I led him back to the party, my hand tucked in his arm. He seemed distracted, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching. Searching for her. The thought sent a fresh spike of irritation through me.

During the cake-cutting, I made my wish out loud, my voice ringing with false sweetness. "I wish to be with my best friend, my Julian, forever and ever."

The guests cheered and whistled. Someone shouted, "Kiss her, Julian!"

He looked flustered, his face turning a dark red. "She's my friend," he said, his voice tight. "My best friend. I'm a married man."

The words were a slap. The air grew thick with awkwardness. My smile felt frozen on my face.

For the rest of the night, he was withdrawn, nursing a glass of whiskey in a corner, his thumb repeatedly swiping across the screen of his phone. I knew he was looking for a message from her. From Grace.

I watched him, a cold knot of fury tightening in my stomach. She was dead, and she was still more important than me.

Later, I found him in one of the yacht's staterooms, passed out on the sofa, reeking of alcohol. This was my chance.

I slipped into the room, my heart pounding with a mixture of desire and desperation. I gently touched his face, my fingers tracing the line of his strong jaw.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. They were hazy, unfocused.

"Grace?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and longing. He reached for me, pulling me into a fierce embrace. "Grace, you're back."

My heart soared. He wanted me. Even if he thought I was her, he wanted me.

"I'm here, Julian," I whispered, pressing my lips to his.

But as my lips touched his, his body went rigid. His eyes snapped open, clear and sharp with dawning horror.

"You're not Grace," he snarled, shoving me away with such force that I stumbled and fell to the floor.

"Julian..." I whimpered, looking up at him from the ground, my carefully constructed facade crumbling.

He looked at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated revulsion. "Get out."