Hospital Debauchery-Chapter 205: Groom’s Mother
The door clicked shut behind Devon. The sound was soft, final, and louder than it should have been in the sudden quiet of the east wing.
He paused just inside the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the low light.
The corridor was long and dim, lit only by a row of wall sconces that threw small pools of gold onto the dark wood paneling.
A faint scent of lavender and old roses hung in the air.
Eleanor stood twenty feet away, her back to him, one hand resting on the marble windowsill. Moonlight from the tall arched window cut across her silhouette, turning the champagne silk of her gown almost silver.
She hadn’t moved since sending the note. She hadn’t even turned around.
Devon took a few slow steps forward and stopped. Hands in his pockets, he waited.
The silence stretched.
Then her voice cam
"I know what you did."
The words hung suspended in the air, she didn’t turn immediately, letting the statement linger like a challenge thrown down, as if to gauge his reaction from the subtle shifts in the atmosphere behind her—the way his breathing might quicken or his stance might alter.
But Devon remained silent, giving nothing away, his features schooled into that effortless poise that had disarmed so many before her.
Only after another deliberate beat, when the echo of her voice had faded into the shadows, did she slowly pivot to face him. Her movements were deliberate, almost theatrical in their grace, the champagne silk skirt of her gown swirling around her legs.
As she turned fully, the golden glow illuminated her features in exquisite detail, high cheekbones flushed with a potent mix of righteous anger and something deeper
Devon had to admit it to himself in that electric instant—what a woman she truly was.
How old could she possibly have been when she’d had Ethan?
The years had not just been kind, they had refined her, sculpting her into a vision of mature allure that outshone the fleeting beauty of youth, like a fine wine aged to perfection.
Her skin glowed with a natural, radiant luminosity, smooth and unmarred except for the faint, endearing laugh lines at the corners of her eyes—testaments to a life filled with joys and sorrows, triumphs and heartaches.
Her body, enveloped in that form-fitting gown, was a masterpiece of feminine grace, full breasts rising and falling with her quickened, indignant breaths, straining subtly against the silk dress, she wore.
Everything about the woman standing before him was very, very hot and enticing.
Devon couldn’t hide the fascination etching across his chiseled features as he sized her up from head to toe, his gaze lingering appreciatively on the elegant sweep of her collarbone exposed by the gown’s plunging neckline.
The way the silk clung to her form in all the right places, accentuating her poise and power.
As for Eleanor, she was far too engrossed in what she wanted to say to notice the heat in his stare.
She drew in a deep, steadying breath, the cool night air from the slightly ajar window brushing against her flushed skin.
Her hands, clasped tightly in front of her to steady the tremor of rage, bore nails painted a deep crimson that matched the intensity of her emotions. She continued. "Not only are you Serena’s ex-boyfriend—the one who left her heartbroken and questioning her worth all those years ago—but you’re also sleeping with her mother, Marianne."
The revelation dropped like a thunderclap into the quiet space, reverberating with the weight of scandal, but to her mounting surprise—and a growing frustration that knotted her stomach—Devon offered no immediate reaction.
No vehement denial, no flare of defensive anger, not even a flicker of surprise or guilt crossed his handsome, angular features.
He simply stood there, hands still buried in his pockets, his dark eyes—framed by thick lashes and holding depths that seemed to pull her in despite herself—locked on hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken against her will, thudding in her ears like a distant drum.
She searched his face desperately for any sign of bluff or evasion, any crack in that enigmatic calm, but found only a still pond hiding unfathomable depths, his lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile that could be amusement or arrogance.
Thinking perhaps he dismissed her as a mere bluffing gossipmonger, armed with rumors but lacking concrete proof, she pressed on relentlessly, her words tumbling out in a fervent rush fueled by months of pent-up suspicion and simmering outrage, her voice echoing with the passion of a woman protecting her own.
"And don’t think you can lie your way around this I witnessed what happened between you and Marianne—every damning detail. I heard everything."
She stepped forward unconsciously, closing a fraction of the distance between them.
"Does Serena know about this? Does she know that you’re sleeping with her mother? That you’ve turned what should be a sacred family bond—a mother’s love, a daughter’s trust—into some sordid, twisted affair that could shatter everything they’ve built?"
With each passing moment, the frown etching deeper across Eleanor’s forehead deepened.
But Devon’s continued silence was utterly maddening, His eyes weren’t just meeting hers in defiance—they were roaming, tracing the contours of her body with a blatant, unapologetic hunger that had nothing to do with her words and everything to do with the chemistry crackling between them.
Her own eyes flew wide open in shock, a myriad of expressions emerging as she realized that Devon was actually seizing her up.
"Y-You..." She stuttered then took a few steps backward.
But Devon mirrored her retreat with a deliberate advance, taking a slow, purposeful step forward, his presence filling the space she’d just vacated.
The air between them grew electric, humming with energy, the faint warmth of his body heat reaching her even from a few feet away.
"Was your reason for calling me to this space because you wanted to say this," he asked, "or is there another reason you have? Something... more personal?"
His question caught her completely off guard.
Eleanor blinked rapidly, momentarily speechless. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, trying to regain her composure amid the rush of adrenaline. "I... what are you implying?" she stammered, her voice faltering for the first time, but he didn’t give her a moment to recover.
"You could have decided to handle this any other way," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, drawing her in despite her resistance.
"You could have done this any but no—you chose to pull me here, to this secluded place ." He paused deliberately, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch in her throat, her chest rising and falling more rapidly.
"Could it be that even you want a share in the cake and that’s the real reason you approached me."
Eleanor shook her head repeatedly, the motion vehement and frantic, her chignon loosening further as more strands escaped to frame her face in wild, silken waves, adding to her disheveled allure.
She seemed totally repulsed by what Devon had just suggested, her lips curling in genuine disdain, her eyes flashing with a fire that could melt steel. "
How dare you," she hissed through clenched teeth, tglaring at him with all the ferocity she could muster.
As he walked even closer, now mere feet away, she didn’t back down an inch, standing her ground, her spine straight as an arrow, her chin held high. Her eyes fixed on his, unyielding and fierce, even as the proximity sent an unwelcome shiver racing down her spine, goosebumps blooming across her arms beneath the silk sleeves.
And even though this wasn’t the moment for it—far from it, with fury boiling in her veins like molten lava—she herself had to admit, in a fleeting, traitorous thought that flashed through her mind like lightning, that she understood all too well why women were drawn to him like moths to a flame.
He was indeed very handsome, devastatingly so. the sharp, chiseled jawline shadowed with just the right amount of evening stubble that begged to be touched.
His smile, when it curved his full lips, was a weapon disguised as charm, capable of disarming the most guarded hearts.
As those unwelcome thoughts surfaced she shook her head immediately, dispelling them with a fierce mental shove, forcing her focus back to the anger that anchored her, her breaths coming in short, controlled bursts.
But with Devon standing right in front of her now, only a few tantalizing inches separating them, she didn’t deter even as he towered over her slightly, his height casting a subtle, enveloping shadow across her face, making the sconce light halo around him like a dark angel.
"How do you think your husband would feel," he murmured, "or even your son, Ethan—the groom himself, if he found his mother here with me? Alone, in this hidden corner of the house, while the reception celebrates without us, toasts raised to love and loyalty?"
Eleanor’s chin lifted even higher in defiant response, her blue eyes blazing as she met his gaze head-on, her words quick and cutting, laced with venom. "You should be more worried about yourself rather than about me."
"What do you think they’d do if they knew the truth about you and Marianne. What do you think they will do to Marianne?"
Devon chuckled softly. "Oh really?" He tilted his head slightly to the side, studying her with unabashed, lingering interest, his gaze tracing the curve of her neck.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted one hand from his pocket—the motion fluid and unhurried—and trailed a single finger along the delicate curve of her jawline.
It traced down to her chin, lingering there with gentle pressure, tilting her face up just a fraction more, forcing her to hold his gaze.
Her skin tingled under his fingertip, a treacherous betrayal of her body’s response that she fought desperately to ignore, her breath catching in her throat as waves of conflicting sensations crashed over her—anger, awareness, an unwelcome thrill. "So you don’t think they would find it disturbing that you’re here with me, alone, in this close proximity?
