Hospital Debauchery-Chapter 204: Interrupted celebration

The taller guard’s fingers stayed locked tight around Devon’s arm, and the terrace, which had been alive with the warm hum of laughter, the crystalline clink of champagne glasses, and the soft rustle of silk dresses swaying in the gentle night breeze, fell into a sudden hush.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch, silencing celebration and leaving only the faint chirp of crickets from the manicured gardens below.

Then the whispers started, low and buzzing, sweeping through the crowd like a warm breeze kicking up dust and leaves on a dry country road. They began as isolated murmurs but quickly grew, weaving through the guests.

A woman in a sapphire gown, her neck adorned with a cascade of pearls that caught the golden glow of the fairy lights, leaned in close to her friend, her voice a mix of shock and delight, eyes wide and sparkling with the thrill of unexpected drama.

She clutched her champagne flute a little tighter, the bubbles fizzing softly against the glass, and craned her neck to get a better view, her diamond-studded earrings swaying like pendulums.

"What’s going on over there? Is that security hauling someone away?"

Her friend, a petite brunette in emerald taffeta, gasped softly, pressing a manicured hand to her chest. "It looks like it."

Another voice piped up from a group of Ethan’s work buddies near the bar, laced with surprise and a hint of glee.

The man speaking, a broad-shouldered executive with a neatly trimmed beard and a Rolex glinting on his wrist, took a quick sip of his scotch, the ice cubes rattling as his eyebrows shot up.

His date, a stunning redhead in a slinky black dress, stood on tiptoe, straining to see over the shoulders of the crowd, her high heels sinking slightly into the soft grass.

"Are they throwing him out cause he’s Serena’s ex? How petty. I mean, the cake hasn’t even been cut yet!"

"Who called security? This is crazy," chimed in another from the group, a younger colleague with gelled hair and a loosened tie, his phone already halfway out of his pocket, thumb hovering over the camera app.

An older uncle in a rumpled tux, his bowtie slightly askew from too many toasts, muttered to his wife, who nodded slowly, her diamond earrings catching the candlelight as she turned to stare openly.

The uncle adjusted his glasses, squinting through the haze of cigar smoke that lingered from earlier. "That’s the groom’s doing, isn’t it?"

His wife, elegant in a silver sheath dress, patted his arm reassuringly.

"Of course it is, Harold. Look at Ethan’s face. He looks ready to explode. Poor Serena, this should be her perfect night."

The words came from a cluster of Serena’s cousins at a nearby table, one of them pointing not so subtly, their voices mixing with the growing hum of the crowd.

The pointer, a vivacious woman in her thirties with a pixie cut and a tattoo peeking from her strapless gown, lowered her voice but not enough to escape neighboring ears. "But why now? I thought they’ve settled this."

Her cousin smirked. "Family drama, I bet."

Every head on the terrace turned, candle flames flickering across faces lit with curiosity, delight, and that special kind of hunger for scandal that only pops up at fancy events like this.

People leaned forward in their chairs, some standing up for a better look, the golden light from the fairy strings overhead casting long, dramatic shadows that made the whole scene feel like a play unfolding right in front of them.

A few guests even abandoned their half-eaten desserts and edged closer.

Meanwhile, Devon didn’t flinch or pull away. He just looked down at the guard’s hand on his sleeve, one brow lifting in that lazy, mocking way of his, the corner of his mouth curling up like the whole thing was a mildly funny joke at someone else’s expense.

His posture remained relaxed, almost languid, as if this was just another tedious interruption in an otherwise entertaining evening.

He could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into him, a prickling sensation on his skin, but it only fueled the amusement in his expression.

He opened his mouth, when Ethan’s voice sounded. "Gentlemen."

He stepped forward from the edge of the dance floor, one arm still wrapped possessively around Serena’s waist, his fingers splaying across the delicate lace of her gown.

Ethan looked every inch the gracious host in his tailored tuxedo, the fabric hugging his athletic frame perfectly, his smile perfect and polished, betraying the storm raging beneath.

The guards froze solid, hands still on Devon, but their faces went blank, confused, like they’d forgotten their lines in a play.

Their grips loosened imperceptibly, uncertainty creeping in as Ethan approached with measured steps, his polished shoes gleaming under the lights.

Ethan gave them the tiniest wink, so quick you’d miss it if you blinked, and both men straightened up like someone had yanked their strings from above.

"What seems to be the problem here?" Ethan asked.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression one of feigned bewilderment, as if this were all a harmless misunderstanding.

The taller guard opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, glancing at his partner for help.

The shorter one, a burly man with a shaved head and a tattoo peeking from his collar, stammered slightly, his voice gruff but hesitant. "Sir, we were told... I mean, there was a report of an uninvited guest causing a disturbance."

Ethan smiled, "It’s quite all right," he said, loud and clear so every table, every chair, every eavesdropper could hear. His voice projected effortlessly, trained from years of keynote speeches. "Dr Devon is a friend of my wife family. My wife and I are delighted he could join us on our special day."

He turned to Serena, eyes going soft like melted butter, though she could feel the underlying tension in his touch.

Serena’s lips curved as she tilted her head just so, her veil trailing elegantly behind her. "Of course," she said.

Ethan raised his glass toward Devon, teeth flashing in a grin that looked friendly if you didn’t look too close—up close, it was all edges and calculation. "Stay," he said, his tone magnanimous. "Enjoy the party. Have another drink on me."

Devon’s smile widened, he inclined his head, the tiniest mockery of a bow that made a few people chuckle under their breath, appreciating the audacity. "Wouldn’t miss it for the world," he replied.

The guards stepped back, muttering apologies under their breath as they retreated.

The band struck up louder, the music swelling to fill the awkward hole in the night—a lively jazz number that encouraged guests back to the dance floor.

A group of Ethan’s college buddies near the bar shook their heads, one muttering, "That’s got to sting. Public backdown on your wedding day? Ouch." 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

He clinked glasses with his friend, who added, "Yeah, but he spun it well. Made himself look generous."

His wife nodded, sipping her drink slowly, the rim of the glass stained with her lipstick. "Handled it classy, I’ll give him that. But that Devon guy... he’s got presence. No wonder Ethan’s rattled."

Another table, Serena’s aunts, leaned in close over their plates of artisanal cheeses and crackers.

The eldest, with silver hair piled high and a string of sapphires around her neck, whispered conspiratorially, "Did you see the way he looked at Ethan? That Devon’s trouble."

Her sister, fanning herself with a lace napkin, agreed. "Absolutely. And Serena—bless her—she’s putting on a brave face, but you can tell there’s history there. Weddings bring out all the skeletons, don’t they?"

Laughter bubbled up here and there, nervous and excited, as guests processed the spectacle. The air felt charged, like the party had just gotten a shot of adrenaline, invigorating the atmosphere. Conversations flowed more freely, toasts became more animated, and the dance floor filled with renewed energy.

Ethan and Serena slipped back into the spotlight like nothing happened, their movements synchronized from years of practice. They cut the towering cake, a seven-layer monster of vanilla sponge layered with raspberry compote and buttercream roses, the knife slicing cleanly under their joined hands.

Serena laughed—a light, melodic sound—as she smeared a bit of frosting on Ethan’s nose, the crowd erupting in applause and flashes from cameras.

"To forever!" someone shouted, and glasses clinked in unison.

Photos snapped relentlessly, capturing the couple’s posed smiles. Toasts were made, Ethan’s father, a distinguished man with a booming voice and a penchant for anecdotes, raising a glass to the happy couple, recounting tales of Ethan’s childhood mischief that drew warm laughter.

Serena’s uncle followed, telling a mildly embarrassing story from her childhood—a time she’d organized a "wedding" for her dolls that ended in chaos—that made everyone chuckle, lightening the mood further.

More dancing followed, the floor filling with couples swaying under the lights, the night air cool and sweet with the promise of romance.

Skirts twirled, laughter echoed, and the band transitioned to upbeat classics, encouraging even the wallflowers to join in. Guests mingled, sharing stories of their own wedding mishaps, turning the near-disaster into communal bonding.

But Devon stayed, ahe leaned against the bar, one elbow on the polished mahogany wood, whiskey in hand—neat, no ice—watching the room with half-lidded eyes that missed nothing.

The amber liquid swirled in his glass as he took measured sips, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a hawk surveying its territory. Women found reasons to pass by again and again, drawn by his magnetic aura.

A bridesmaid "accidentally" dropped her napkin and bent slowly to pick it up, giving him a view that lingered, her cheeks flushing as she straightened with a coy smile.

"Oops, clumsy me," she murmured, batting her eyelashes before sauntering away.

A married cousin asked him to take a photo of her and her friends, pressing close while he held her phone, her breast brushing his arm intentionally.

"Make sure we look fabulous," she purred, her hand lingering on his as she retrieved the device.

One bold redhead in emerald green simply walked straight up, slid a business card into his shirt pocket, let her fingers linger against his chest long enough to feel his heartbeat through the fabric.

"Call me when you’re bored," she whispered, breath hot against his ear, and walked away with a sway that turned heads, her heels clicking assertively.

Devon never moved to stop any of it. He just smiled that same slow, dangerous smile and let them come, like he knew they always would, his confidence a silent siren call.

He exchanged light banter with a few, his wit sharp and disarming, leaving them laughing and intrigued.

Across the terrace, Eleanor couldn’t stop looking, but not with the heat of desire—oh no, her glances were fueled by a seething fury that simmered just below the surface.

She stood beside her husband, laughing at the right jokes with a forced politeness, nodding at the right compliments about her elegant gown, but her eyes kept sliding back to Devon like daggers.

Every time their gazes brushed, something hot and sharp twisted low in her belly—not lust, but a burning rage that made her fists clench subtly at her sides.

Finally, she couldn’t bear it anymore.

Excusing herself from her husband with a murmur about needing fresh air, she slipped away from the crowd, her champagne silk skirt whispering against the stone as she made her way toward a side door. But before vanishing, she caught the eye of a passing waiter—a discreet young man carrying a tray of flutes—and pressed a folded note into his palm with a urgent whisper.

"Deliver this to that man at the bar. The one in the dark suit. Quickly."

The waiter nodded, professional and unquestioning, weaving through the guests with practiced ease. He approached Devon, offering the note with a neutral expression. "For you, sir," he said simply, before melting back into the service flow.

Devon unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning the terse script: "East wing. Now. We need to talk." His brow lifted.

He set his glass down, straightened his jacket, and followed the path she’d taken.

Eleanor turned without waiting to see if he followed, her champagne silk skirt whispering as she slipped through a side door that led into the east wing.

She didn’t look back, her steps quick and purposeful, fury propelling her forward like a storm gathering strength.

But thirty seconds later, the door opened again, and Devon stepped through, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable as he moved.