Hospital Debauchery-Chapter 203: Finest Bachelor

Everything stopped.

Eleanor didn’t breathe.

She stood rooted to the exact square of carpet where Devon had left her, one hand still pressed flat against the base of her throat as if she could physically hold her heart inside her ribs.

The other hand hung useless at her side, fingers curled, still faintly warm, still faintly wet.

Her champagne silk gown shimmered under the low golden sconce light, but inside the silk she was ice and fire at the same time.

Her knees shook so hard she had to lock them or fall.

The air was thick with him.

His scent hadn’t even begun to fade.

It clung to every breath she tried to take: hot skin, raw sex, expensive cologne rubbed off on someone else’s body, and something darker, something that tasted like danger and power and utter ruin.

It curled into her nose, slid down her throat, pooled low in her belly and refused to leave.

She could still smell the bridal suite on him, the faint sweetness of Marianne’s perfume mixed with the salt of sweat and the sharp, unmistakable tang of what they had done for hours.

Hours.

Eleanor’s pulse hammered in her ears, loud, frantic, shameful.

She could still hear every sound as if the walls were replaying them just for her.

Marianne.

Marianne.

Marianne.

Screamed until her voice cracked.

Sobbed until there was nothing left but broken little gasps.

Moaned like she was being torn apart and rebuilt over and over again.

At first Eleanor had stood outside the door frozen in pure shock, telling herself it was someone else, some other woman with the same name.

Then the rhythm had started: wet, steady, relentless.

Then the low, filthy growl of a man’s voice giving orders that made Eleanor’s thighs clench together without permission.

Then the begging, high, desperate, filthy begging, had started and Eleanor’s hand had slipped beneath her own dress before she could stop it.

She had come right there in the hallway, biting her wrist so hard she tasted blood, hips jerking against her own fingers while Marianne screamed Devon’s name like a prayer inside the room.

And now the door had opened and the man himself had stepped out.

Devon Aldridge.

Shirt hanging open, throat scratched raw by desperate nails, mouth swollen and red, hair pushed back by hands that still smelled of another woman’s destruction.

He had looked straight at her for one endless second, black eyes lazy and sated, and smiled that slow, wicked smile that said he knew exactly what she had heard, exactly what she had done while listening.

Serena’s Devon.

The boy who used to sneak through their kitchen at two in the morning in nothing but sweatpants, stealing leftover pizza and grinning when she pretended to scold him.

The boy who once carried Serena on his back when she twisted her ankle at the beach.

The boy who fixed the garbage disposal with a coat hanger and a wink and left Eleanor laughing and flustered in her own kitchen.

That boy was gone.

This man had just spent the entire wedding reception fucking Serena’s mother until she sounded like she was dying of pleasure, and he had walked out looking like a god who had just claimed another soul.

Eleanor’s stomach flipped hard. She had heard everything from Ethan and that was how she knew about the details between them.

And why she also disliked him.

A wave of pure, dizzy horror flooded her body, chased instantly by a pulse of slick, shameful heat between her thighs that made her want to sink to the carpet and scream.

Tears pricked hot at the corners of her eyes.

She pressed both hands to her burning cheeks, pearls cold against her skin, and shook her head once, hard, like she could shake the images loose.

No.

No.

No.

This was wrong.

This was obscene.

This was a nightmare wrapped in silk and candlelight.

She forced herself to move. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

One trembling step.

Then another.

Her heels clicked sharp and uneven against the marble.

She walked faster, almost running by the time she reached the grand staircase.

There she grabbed the carved banister so hard the edges bit into her palms, and finally let out the breath she’d been holding in one long, shaking rush that tasted like Devon’s name and her own bitter, burning shame.

She stood there for a full minute, maybe two, chest heaving, trying to pull herself together.

Trying to smooth the mask back into place.

Trying to become Eleanor again, the perfect mother of the bride, instead of the woman who had just come outside her mother-in-law’s door while listening to her daughter’s ex-boyfriend ruin her.

Downstairs, the garden terrace was pure, breath-taking magic.

Hundreds upon hundreds of candles floated in crystal bowls on every table, flames dancing over water like tiny trapped suns.

Golden fairy lights crisscrossed the deep indigo sky in lazy, glowing webs that made the stars look dim by comparison.

The air was thick and sweet with night-blooming jasmine, grilled lobster tails dripping in brown butter, the crisp bite of thousand-dollar champagne, fresh figs, and the faint, smoky warmth of the tall outdoor heaters keeping the evening chill away.

Waiters in crisp white jackets moved like ghosts between the tables, refilling glasses that never stayed empty.

The band, tucked beneath a pergola drowning in purple wisteria, played something slow and sultry that made hips sway even when feet were still.

Devon stepped through the tall arched french doors and the entire night seemed to pause, just for a heartbeat, just long enough to look.

He hadn’t bothered fixing himself beyond the bare minimum.

His white dress shirt hung open at the throat, revealing the strong, tanned column of his neck and the fresh, angry red lines Marianne’s nails had clawed into his skin.

His hair was still a glorious, reckless mess, pushed back by impatient fingers that had so recently been tangled in another woman’s hair.

His mouth, swollen and red, curved in a half-smile that was pure danger wrapped in charm.

He moved like he owned gravity itself, slow, unhurried, lethal.

He didn’t make it ten feet before the first woman found him.

Then another.

Then five.

Then a dozen.

Then an entire constellation.

They drifted over like they were on invisible strings, pulled by a force they didn’t bother fighting.

Bridesmaids in blush-pink silk that clung to sweat-damp curves.

Cousins in designer gowns the colour of midnight and money.

Wives of Ethan’s colleagues wearing diamonds big enough to blind, eyes bigger still.

Some brushed his arm like it was an accident, letting manicured fingers linger on the warm skin of his forearm.

Others were bolder: tracing the sharp line of his rolled sleeve, the edge of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone like they were memorising him by touch alone.

A redhead in emerald green pressed so close her breasts brushed his chest, lips almost touching his ear as she whispered something that made Devon’s eyes darken and his smile turn razor-sharp.

Conversation rippled outward like circles in water.

"Is that him? Dr Devon?"

"Head of emergency surgery at Blissville."

"Look at the way he stands, like the world was built for him to lean on."

"Look at his hands. Those hands have held dying hearts and brought them back to life. Imagine what else they can do."

The men noticed too, and they hated every second of it.

Husbands formed tight, furious knots near the bar, jaws clenched so hard the muscles jumped.

One silver-haired banker in a bespoke tux gripped his scotch like he wanted to crush the glass into dust, eyes burning holes through Devon’s back.

His wife, a statuesque blonde in liquid gold sequins, hadn’t looked away once.

Her husband’s hand clamped around her wrist and yanked so hard she stumbled, champagne sloshing over the rim of her flute and staining the silk.

At the edge of the terrace, half-hidden beneath a curtain of wisteria so thick it looked like a waterfall of purple, Ethan stood like a statue carved from ice and barely contained violence.

His bowtie was still knife-sharp, his tux flawless, but his knuckles were bone-white around a heavy crystal tumbler of whiskey.

His best man had materialised beside him like a bad omen, voice a low, venomous hiss.

"This is your day, mate. Yours and Serena’s. Not his fucking catwalk. We can end it. Quiet. Clean. Two of the security lads still owe me from Ibiza. Ten minutes and he’s in the back of a van with a bag over his head and a one-way ticket to nowhere."

Ethan didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak for a long, terrible moment.

The muscle in his jaw ticked once.

Twice.

A third time, like a bomb counting down.

"Do it," he said finally, the words scraped raw and deadly quiet.

Callum’s grin was all teeth and triumph.

He melted into the crowd like smoke.

Serena appeared then, stepping out from the shadows near the towering champagne pyramid, and the entire terrace seemed to inhale as one.

She had changed into her reception gown, off-the-shoulder, clinging to every dangerous curve before spilling into a soft, whispering train.

Her hair was swept up in loose, romantic waves threaded with tiny diamonds that caught the candlelight and threw it back like scattered stars.

She looked like something out of a fever dream, except for the faint flush riding high on her cheekbones and the way her eyes, just for a fraction of a second, flicked to Devon and away again, quick as a heartbeat skipped.

She saw the women circling him like sharks scenting blood.

Saw the naked hunger written across their faces.

Saw the fury boiling in the men.

She took one slow, deliberate breath, painted on the radiant, camera-ready smile that had been trained into her since birth, and crossed the terrace like she was walking on water.

Every single eye followed her.

She reached Ethan, slid her arms around his neck, rose on tiptoe in crystal heels that made her legs look endless, and kissed him long and slow and sweet, right there in front of God and Instagram and everyone who had ever mattered.

Her fingers threaded into his hair.

His hand splayed possessively across the bare small of her back, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.

Cameras flashed like lightning strikes.

Guests sighed, cooed, clapped, wiped away tears they didn’t feel.

The spell shattered.

Husbands marched forward like soldiers to reclaim wives, fingers digging into upper arms hard enough to bruise tomorrow.

Single women drifted back with bitten lips and lingering glances that promised phone numbers slipped into pockets later.

Within moments the crowd rearranged itself like iron filings around a new, stronger magnet: Ethan and Serena at the centre, glowing, perfect, untouchable.

The orchestra swelled into their first dance, a slow, dreamy arrangement of "At Last."

Ethan led Serena onto the temporary wooden floor laid over the grass.

She laughed up at him, head tilted back, throat exposed, diamonds flashing as she spun under the fairy lights.

He dipped her low, one hand steady between her shoulder blades, and every camera in the place followed like it was the only thing happening in the world.

Marianne appeared at the edge of the terrace as if she had simply stepped out of a shadow and decided to exist again.

New dress, severe black silk, high neck, long sleeves, cut so perfectly it looked painted on.

Her hair was twisted back into an elegant knot, makeup flawless, lipstick the colour of fresh blood.

Not a single sign of what had happened upstairs remained visible, except perhaps the faint tremor in her fingers as she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and the way her eyes flicked, just once, toward the bridal suite windows high above before she forced them away.

Eleanor took her place beside her husband near the towering wedding cake, smiling the tight, practiced smile of the perfect mother of the bride, accepting compliments and air-kisses with murmured thank-yous, every inch the gracious hostess even as her pulse still thundered in her ears and her thighs still trembled with aftershocks.

Devon watched it all from his pillar, leaning one shoulder against cool stone, swirling whiskey he hadn’t tasted yet, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, a king surveying a kingdom that didn’t yet know it belonged to him.

Two security guards in crisp black suits materialised at his sides like they’d been conjured from the dark.

"Sir," the taller one said, voice flat, professional, and utterly unimpressed, "you need to come with us. Now."