I'm In Love With My Bestfriend's Billionaire Fiance!
Chapter 120: Who Is This... Vic?

Chapter 120: Who Is This... Vic?

(Jace’s POV)

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The moment we crossed the threshold into his room, Ethan shoved Vic down onto the bed without ceremony, his limp body landing with a dull thud against the mattress. Vic rolled slightly, his arm slumping over the edge, fingers twitching faintly, as if he were still half-tethered to consciousness. Or maybe it was just a muscle spasm. Either way, I didn’t care. Not now. Not with the surge of dread rising in my throat.

The room was just how it was before he had kicked me like a horse in the chest. Dimly lit. Claustrophobic. The air hung thick with sweat, mildew, and that ridiculous smell of cheap perfume. A single chair sat in the corner, completely buried beneath a mound of crumpled clothes that gave the whole space a sense of frantic, unwashed disarray. I moved toward it like I was wading into deep water, every step more cautious than the last.

I began sifting through the clothes, one by one, each item cold and slightly damp to the touch. At first, they looked like any other bland outfits—hoodies, jeans, T-shirts, the kind of clothes someone like Vic could disappear into. But then I saw it.

I froze.

A tan sweatshirt with the faded logo of a screaming duck, grease-stained and slightly torn at the hem. The same one Vic had worn when he went to visit Ramon at Eazi Bacon. I remembered it clearly now, like a crack in the timeline.

I dug deeper.

The next item made my stomach lurch.

Black slacks. A dark navy shirt. An outfit far too familiar from the blurry CCTV footage pulled from the hotel security feed—the very night we had the rehearsal dinner.

"Son of a bitch," I whispered under my breath.

That wasn’t just a coincidence.

That was documentation.

That was an intent.

But that wasn’t all.

I turned my attention to the desk shoved up against the wall, its surface eerily spotless. Too spotless. My instincts screamed that something had recently been cleared away. Quickly. Sloppily. I yanked open the drawers, and that’s when I found it.

A camera.

And beneath it, nestled like a secret, a flash drive.

I picked it up and flipped it over. A tiny sticker on the side read 1.5 TB. My throat tightened. That was more than enough space to store weeks—or even months—of surveillance. My heart pounded harder with each passing second.

"Fuck..." I muttered, almost reverently, as I slipped the drive into my pocket. My fingers curled around the camera next, cold and slightly sticky with some unidentifiable residue. I powered it on.

The screen blinked to life.

A grid of thumbnails appeared.

The first photo loaded and hit me like a punch to the chest.

I sucked in a sharp gasp.

Ethan spun around from where he was checking Vic’s pulse. "What is it?" he demanded.

I didn’t respond at first. Couldn’t. My eyes were glued to the image—the soft, golden lighting, the familiar gravel path, the curved iron gate.

"My house," I said, voice hollow. "He has pictures of my house."

Ethan blinked. "Your house? You mean at Paragon Park?"

I tore my gaze away from the screen to look at him, stone-faced. "Do I have a house anywhere else?"

"Holy shit..." Ethan’s voice dropped. "How the hell is that even possible? I thought Paragon Park’s security was tighter than Fort Knox. No one gets through those gates without clearance."

I nodded slowly, my grip on the camera tightening until my knuckles went white. "Unless a resident lets them in."

That hung in the air between us like a guillotine.

Ethan ran a hand through his hair. "Still—every inch of that place is covered. Facial scans. License plate recognition. Motion detectors. If someone was skulking around your property taking pictures, security should’ve flagged it instantly. There’s no way—"

"There is a way," I interrupted quietly, cutting him off. "He fucking did it, didn’t he? That means that there’s a way!"

I then advanced the camera to the next image.

Kira’s home.

I immediately recognized her rose-covered trellis perfectly captured in early morning light. The camera had zoomed in just enough to catch her through a window, brushing her hair. Completely unaware.

I flipped to the next.

And the next.

With each photo, my stomach dropped lower into my gut.

There was my car. My convoy. Ethan. Lena. Even Casey. Vic hadn’t just snapped random shots. He had built a profile. A study in obsession. Every angle was too perfect, too calculated—taken from across streets, rooftops, fences.

It was chilling.

And it was all focused on one thing.

Us. Kira and I.

"I don’t get it," Ethan whispered, coming up beside me, staring at the screen. "Why Kira? Why you?"

My mind spun as I tried to make sense of it. Vic hadn’t been some petty voyeur. This wasn’t just blackmail. This was deeper. More twisted. This was fixation.

"I think we’re just the surface," I murmured, flipping one more image. It was me. From behind. On my balcony. At night. Vic had been close. Too close. "Kira and I... we’re the pieces he thought he could use."

My fingers brushed against the flash drive in my pocket again—a small, cold sliver of truth waiting to be unearthed. Whatever secrets it held, I was going to extract every last byte. There was no turning back now. Answers were overdue, and I’d tear this entire place apart if I had to.

But as I stood in the middle of the cluttered room, I felt unease settle over me like a second skin.

"None of this adds up," I murmured, more to myself than to Ethan. My eyes roamed across the mess—piles of clothes, empty fast-food containers, flickering lightbulbs that barely lit the corners. The air reeked of sour breath and secrets long left to rot. This place didn’t reek of mastermind energy. It smelled like desperation.

Ethan glanced at me, brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how the hell was Vic running something as elaborate as this blackmail operation from this dump?" I shook my head in disbelief. "This place barely has working electricity, let alone the infrastructure to run a surveillance network. Aside from that camera and a phone, there’s nothing here. No routers. No drives. No backup power. Nothing that even suggests he’s Maven."

Ethan folded his arms, chewing on the thought. "Maybe it’s just a front. A hideout."

"Or maybe..." I trailed off. "Maybe he’s not Maven at all. Maybe he’s just the errand boy. Just another fucking errand boy."

We were both quiet for a long moment, the weight of uncertainty thick between us.

And then it happened.

A sudden stir from the bed. A shift in the mattress. The soft, rustling groan of a body returning to consciousness.

Vic.

His fingers twitched first. Then his shoulders rolled weakly, as if every nerve ending in his body were slowly rebooting. A low grunt escaped his lips as he tried to sit up, disoriented.

Ethan was on him in an instant, looming over him like a shadow with weight. He didn’t touch him—he didn’t need to. The way he stood was enough to paralyze most people.

Vic’s eyes fluttered open.

Recognition hit him like a slap.

His gaze snapped to Ethan. Then to me. Panic flickered across his face like a dying light bulb—momentary, but unmistakable.

"Shh..." Ethan whispered, voice cold and measured, razor-sharp beneath its calm. "We already know you can’t fight worth shit, so unless you’re interested in getting your ass kicked again, I suggest you cooperate. Am I clear?"

Vic didn’t speak. He stared, chest heaving slightly. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he pushed himself upright on the bed. His hands rose slightly—no sudden moves, no games. He sat on the edge of the mattress, posture tense but non-threatening. His entire body seemed to say: I give up.

It was only then—when the low light fell fully across his face—that I really saw him.

And everything inside me froze.

My breath caught. My vision narrowed. The floor felt like it dropped out beneath me.

"Holy shit..." I whispered, voice barely audible.

Ethan turned sharply to me. "What is it?"

But I couldn’t answer right away. My brain was scrambling to bridge the disconnect between memory and reality.

Because I knew this face.

It wasn’t just familiar. It was etched into my past, ghostlike, buried but not forgotten. The jawline. The scar just above his left eyebrow. The way his mouth twitched slightly when he was trying to feign calm.

I had seen that face before. Not on a screen. Not in some report.

In person.

"I think..." I swallowed hard. "I think I know who this guy is."

Vic’s eyes met mine, and in them, I saw something flicker—recognition, perhaps. Regret. Or maybe a warning. Whatever it was, it unnerved me.

Ethan turned to me then, I was sure he could remember our conversation with Casey last night when she had also found Vic familiar. His eyes screwed up as he studied me.

"Are you sure?"

"You’re damn right, I am." I replied with absolute certainty, "I’ve definitely seen that face before!"