His Friend, My Living Hell

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 For the rest of the night, he was withdrawn, nursing a glass of whiskey in a corner, his thumb repeatedly swiping across the screen of his phone.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."