I'm In Love With My Bestfriend's Billionaire Fiance!
Chapter 117: On The Path To Dilapidation!

Chapter 117: On The Path To Dilapidation!

(Jace’s POV)

_____________

Ethan and I exchanged a tense glance, our eyes silently communicating what our mouths wouldn’t. None of this added up.

The Abbey was falling apart, yes—but not in the way of an abandoned ruin, left to nature’s slow decay. No. People still very much lived here, and it was only natural that they make efforts to protect what is theirs.

However, this didn’t seem to be the case here. This was something else. A contradiction. While it reeked of human presence, it was wide open, unsecured, vulnerable. That didn’t sit right with either of us. At all!

"Why the hell would Maven leave his place open like this?" I whispered, barely moving my lips. "It’s too exposed. Too easy."

Ethan’s brow furrowed as he scanned the entrance again, his instincts clearly screaming as loudly as mine. Still, he nodded once and replied, "This is the address. I triple-checked it."

I leaned in slightly, speaking lower. "Are you a hundred percent sure?"

Ethan turned to me with a sharp look and said simply, "Of course."

That was all I got. No room for doubt.

Ethan stepped through the door first, slow and cautious, his hand brushing the inside of his jacket for better comfort and ease. I followed closely behind, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

The entryway was narrow—a short hallway boxed in by grime-streaked walls and a flickering ceiling light that buzzed like a dying insect. The air was thick, hard to breathe. The walls, once painted a dull cream, were now closer to the color of old tea, stained and greasy in places like someone had been dragging their fingers along them for years. Picture frames hung crookedly, their contents half-missing. Some had shattered glass with curled-up photos still trapped behind the shards. Others held empty frames—ghosts of memories that someone had either torn out in haste or never bothered to fill.

Each step forward felt heavier than the last.

We passed several doors, all closed. Most had scuff marks at their bases, like they’d been kicked shut one too many times. I resisted the urge to reach out and open them. Something about this place made me feel like every doorknob might burn me, every room might bite.

We made it to what seemed to be the living room, and if I hadn’t been on edge already, that room sealed it.

It was... a disaster.

Not the chaotic kind. Not ransacked. Not looted. It was worse—lived in. Regularly. Deliberately.

There was a single couch in the center of the room. Or what was left of it. The fabric was a grimy shade of gray that might once have been beige, and it sagged under its own weight like it had long given up. Torn cushions spilled foam like open wounds, and strange stains marred the upholstery—dark ones, damp ones, ones I didn’t want to identify.

My stomach turned.

I wouldn’t have touched that couch with a ten-foot pole, not even for a promise of all the wealth in the world. That thing didn’t just look diseased—it looked sentient. Like it had absorbed something from every person who’d ever sat on it. Their sweat, their skin, their fear. It had to be the embodiment of viruses. I was sure that all forms of viruses and infections known to man were nestled within the couch. All that was required for contamination was simply to sit on it.

And yet the room was otherwise bare. No chairs. No coffee table. No TV. Just that lone, abominable couch facing an empty wall.

There was no one there.

"Where the hell is he?" I muttered, half to Ethan, half to myself.

Ethan didn’t answer right away. He was busy scanning the corners of the room, noting every detail, every item—or the glaring lack of them.

"It’s like a shell," he finally said. "Like someone lives here... but doesn’t want to leave a footprint. None of this makes sense."

"Well, not yet."

I looked around again and slowly nodded as I saw what he meant. There were no photos on the walls of the living room. No books. No magazines. Not even junk mail. The air was foul, but there wasn’t a single discarded plate or coffee mug. It was like Maven—or whoever used this space—was trying to erase himself in real time. Living like a ghost. Just dirty enough to be real, but empty enough to vanish without a trace.

It made my skin crawl.

Or was he simply making it all look this way? A way to throw us off so that we would think that he wasn’t here? Was all this simply a ruse? A cover?

"Something’s off," Ethan said after a while, stepping over a crushed beer can near the couch. "Seriously off."

I nodded. "He’s hiding. Or... he wants us to think he’s gone."

"Then why leave the front door open?" Ethan asked, eyes narrowing.

I didn’t have an answer. Not one I liked, anyway.

We stood there in silence for a few long seconds, listening. The flickering light above us hummed unevenly, cutting in and out like a dying heartbeat. Somewhere deeper in the house, a floorboard creaked—just once, faint and slow.

We both heard it.

I turned toward the hallway, but nothing moved.

"Okay," Ethan said under his breath. "We’re not alone."

No, we weren’t.

And somehow, I got the sense that whoever—or whatever—was here with us had been listening this entire time.

I flicked a glance over at Ethan. No words were needed—just a look. He caught it instantly and nodded, his eyes narrowing with focus. Without speaking, he raised two fingers, pointed down the corridor, then split them in opposite directions. A silent signal: divide and sweep. I gave him a slight nod in return, then motioned that I’d take the rooms on the left.

And just like that, the hunt began.

The hallway was silent except for the creaking of the warped floorboards beneath our cautious steps. The air felt thicker the deeper we went, heavy with the stench of mildew and something else—something sour and oddly metallic. A scent that clung to the back of your throat like rot behind drywall. Like it had absorbed years of secrets and now refused to let them go.

I approached the first door on the left, the wood swollen and cracked, the handle crusted with grime. I pushed it open gently, the hinges groaning like they hadn’t moved in years. Inside was a dim, suffocating gloom. I reached for the light switch, flicked it up. Nothing. The bulb overhead just dangled, lifeless, from a twisted cord.

Still, the shape of the room revealed itself in the murk—filthy furniture draped in stained sheets, piles of clothes tossed in corners like someone had shed their past and walked away from it. It was more a storage unit than a bedroom, and even that felt too generous a label.

I backed out and moved on to the next.

Same procedure. Slow push. Quick scan.

Another room, same story: scattered belongings, a mattress with its stuffing clawed out like a carcass, walls that looked like they’d been clawed or punched one too many times. It was hard to believe anyone lived here by choice. It wasn’t even about money anymore—it was about standards. Basic humanity. Cleanliness. Survival.

And Vic Morano? He clearly didn’t give a damn about any of that.

I reached the third door and paused. Something about this one made me hesitate.

The handle was different.

Unlike the others, which were coated in dust and dirt, this one was... cleaner. Not clean per se, but less neglected. There were fingerprints on the knob. Smudges. The faintest sheen of oil from frequent use. It was subtle, but clear.

More telling was the lock—it was busted. A jagged crack splintered the metal casing where the mechanism had likely been forced. It couldn’t lock anymore. Not from the inside, not from the outside.

My heartbeat ticked up a notch.

I reached for the knob, steadied my breath, and pushed it open.

The smell hit me first—perfume. Cheap and chemical, like something bought from a gas station rack, poured on in gallons. It clawed at my nose and stung my eyes, but I didn’t care. It was fresh. Recent. Not just lingering—present.

I stepped inside.

The contrast to the rest of the house was stark. Almost unsettlingly so. The room was... maintained. The bed was neatly made with taut sheets and a single pillow aligned with mathematical precision. A rickety chair sat in the corner, clean clothes folded in a tidy pile atop it. The carpet on the floor was worn, but vacuumed. Above me, a ceiling fan spun in slow, labored circles—its motion lazy, its purpose defeated. If anything, it seemed to trap the heat instead of dispersing it.

This wasn’t just a room someone used. It was a room someone lived in. Cared for. Slept in, maybe even dreamed in. That detail chilled me more than the filth outside. It was deliberate. Chosen. It was different from the rest of the house.

"Jackpot," I muttered under my breath, stepping forward with cautious excitement.

That’s when everything went sideways.

It happened in a flash. I only had time to notice the flicker of movement at the edge of my vision, barely a whisper against the air. My brain barely had time to process it before the force hit me square in the chest, like a sledgehammer wrapped in fury.

Boom.

Pain exploded through my ribcage as I was launched backwards, out of the room, through the door, and into the hallway wall. My shoulder cracked hard against plaster, my skull ricocheted as I slammed into the wall, causing my bones to rattle within me. I hit the ground in a heap of limbs and gasps. The impact knocked the wind clean out of me.

Stars burst behind my eyes.

I groaned, blinking hard, trying to reorient myself as adrenaline surged through my blood like fire.

Footsteps pounded—Ethan? Maven? I had no way of knowing for sure!

But all I could think was: He’s here.

I was trying to coordinate my thoughts, but it was like grabbing straws with an oiled-up hand; nothing was sticking! However, one clear thought stood out the most.

Vic motherfucking Morano is home.

Search the lightnovelworld.cc website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.