Hospital Debauchery-Chapter 213: Return to Geneva

The private jet from the States hummed to a gentle stop on the runway at Geneva Airport, the engines winding down like a sigh after a long night.

Devon unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, stretching his long legs.

He grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment, the one that still smelled faintly of hotel soap and perfume from the wedding weekend. As he stepped down the stairs.

The black Maybach was waiting right there, shiny under the airport lights, with the driver standing by the open door. "Welcome back, sir," the man said with a nod, his voice steady and professional.

Devon slid into the back seat, the soft leather hugging him like an old friend.

He loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes for a second to flex his toes, and pulled out his phone. A quick scroll through messages—nothing urgent. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the memories play like a movie in his head.

The drive to the suite took about forty minutes, winding through the city streets lined with holiday lights twinkling early against the fading day.

Geneva looked peaceful, all neat buildings and quiet luxury.

Spotlights lit up the paths, making the whole place glow soft and inviting. Devon stepped out, thanked the driver with a quick tip, and walked inside. The security guard at the door gave him a silent nod—no chit-chat needed. Everyone knew the drill.

The lobby was huge, with marble floors and big windows showing the dark lake outside. And there she was, right by those windows.

Yvonne.

She stood with her arms crossed, back straight, she wore a dark green silk blouse that fit her just right, showing off her slim figure without trying too hard, paired with a black pencil skirt and heels that clicked when she moved.

Her black hair was in a neat bun, and even from across the room, Devon could see the tension in her shoulders. It hit him like a wave—Deja vu.

How many times had he walked in here to this exact scene?

But instead, he let a slow smile creep onto his face as those wedding memories bubbled up again. Serena’s legs wrapped around him, her wedding ring catching the light.

Marianne on her knees, eyes locked on his. Eleanor squirting all over the sheets, whispering how wrong it felt but begging for more.

His cock twitched just thinking about it. And now, with the honeymoon info in his pocket, the fun didn’t have to end.

The staff noticed him right away.

"Good evening, Dr Devon. Welcome back."

Another one, an older guy. "Dr Devon, glad you’re home safe."

He gave them all a simple nod, keeping it cool, but his eyes slid over to Yvonne.

She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. Annoyance was written all over her face—furrowed brows, tight lips, like she could read his mind and hated every word.

"Devon," she called out,

The elevator doors slid shut behind him, leaving her in the lobby. He leaned against the wall as it went up, still smiling.

Down in the lobby, the air felt thicker after he left. Yvonne stood there for a second, staring at the closed elevator doors, her arms still crossed.

She could feel her pulse in her temples.

She turned back to the window, trying to calm down, when a soft footstep caught her ear.

A woman stepped out from a side hallway, the one near the reception desk where shadows hid her well. She was in her late fifties, with short gray hair cut neat and practical, wire-rimmed glasses that made her look smart and no-nonsense.

Her navy suit was tailored perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight, with low heels that didn’t make a sound. She moved like a ghost.

"Ms. Kessler," the woman said in a low, even voice, stopping a few feet away.

Yvonne turned, her face relaxing just a bit. It was a relief to see her. "Mrs Adler. You’re right on time."

"Of course. Shall we sit?"

Yvonne nodded and led the way to the small sitting area by the windows—two comfy cream armchairs facing the lake, with a low table between them.

It was private enough, away from the staff’s ears.

They sat down, sinking into the cushions. Mrs Adler reached into her black leather bag and pulled out a slim tablet, flipping it open with practiced ease.

"I have the full report from the wedding weekend," she said, her tone steady, like she was reading a grocery list. "Everything you asked me to track. His movements, interactions, the works."

Yvonne leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped in her lap. "Go ahead. Tell me all of it. Don’t leave anything out."

Mrs. Adler adjusted her glasses and started from the top, her voice clear but quiet, making sure no one else could overhear.

Then she started recounting everything that happened in the wedding.

Yvonne’s fingers tightened in her lap, but she stayed silent.

"The room was a mess. Bed sheets tangled and stained—sweat, other fluids."

The words hung in the air. Yvonne could picture it too clearly—Devon’s charm, the way he could make any woman feel like the center of the world.

"Then the wedding," Mrs. Adler went on. "Ceremony was smooth, but at the reception, he and slipped away around eight-forty-five. Cameras caught them going into the top floor. Door shut. They were in there for one hour and twelve minutes. When they came back down, Mrs Eleanor hair was loose instead of pinned up, her dress had wrinkles in the back like it’d been hiked up."

Mrs Adler tapped the tablet and turned it toward Yvonne. Grainy stills from the security feed popped up: Devon holding Eleanor’s hand, her leaning into him with a dazed look. Another shot, Eleanor adjusting her strap.

Yvonne stared at the images, her stomach twisting.

"And that night?" she asked.

Mrs Adler tapped the tablet once more and turned it fully toward Yvonne. A new set of photos loaded, crisp black-and-white stills from the hotel’s hallway camera.

"This is the wedding night," she said quietly.

The first image, 02:14 am. Devon, still in his dark suit jacket but tie gone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, walking down the corridor toward the Eleanor room. He looked relaxed, almost casual, like he was just popping in to the ice machine.

Second image, the door opening from the inside. Eleanor stood there in a thin silk robe, hair messy from sleep, cheeks flushed. She reached out, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him in. Door closed.

Then a long gap of nothing.

Third image, 05:47 a.m. The door opened again. Devon stepped out first, hair tousled, lips swollen, a fresh red mark on his neck.

Eleanor followed him into the hallway, barefoot, robe hanging loose, barely tied. She looked wrecked in the best and worst way, eyes glassy, legs unsteady.

The final photo froze the moment perfectly, Eleanor pressed against the wall, Devon’s hand cupping the back of her neck, the two of them locked in a deep, hungry kiss.

Her fingers were twisted in his shirt like she didn’t want to let go. You could almost feel the heat coming off the screen. After a long few seconds they broke apart, Eleanor touched her lips, gave him a small, dazed smile, then slipped back inside. Devon adjusted his cloth, ran a hand through his hair, and strolled toward the elevator like he owned the night.

Mrs. Adler let the images sit there for a beat before closing the tablet with the same soft click.

"That’s the full rundown."

Yvonne leaned back in the chair, staring out at the lake where tiny lights from boats bobbed in the dark. Her mind raced. She had hired Mrs. Adler months ago, a private investigator l to keep tabs on Devon whenever he left Geneva. It was supposed to help her understand him, maybe fix whatever was broken.

But this? This was worse than usual.

The frown on her face deepened, lines etching around her mouth. She clenched her hand into a tight fist on the armrest, nails digging into her palm. "What do I do now?" she muttered, more to herself than anything. "Is this really how he wants to live his life? Throwing away all that potential, all that knowledge, just chasing women and... and vaginas? Is that all he wants? To be some playboy doctor who wrecks families for fun?"

Mrs. Adler watched her quietly, letting the words settle.

Yvonne looked at her, eyes searching. "What do you suggest? You’ve seen this kind of thing before. How do I get through to him?"

Mrs. Adler took a deep breath, adjusting her glasses again. "I suggest you talk to him. But not like a boss to an employee. Not with orders or lectures. Talk like a friend. Or even like a sibling—someone who cares without the power trip. Get to know his story. People don’t turn out like this for no reason. There’s always something behind it—a hurt, a loss, something that pushed them this way."

Yvonne nodded slowly, the words sinking in. She couldn’t argue with that. Devon was brilliant, exceptional, But he hid behind this mask of charm and conquests. Maybe it was time to peel it back.

"You’re right," she said after a moment. "Thanks, Adler. I appreciate the detail."

Mrs. Adler stood up, slipping the tablet back into her bag. "Anytime. Call if you need more."

She gave a small nod and walked away, blending back into the shadows like she was never there.

Yvonne sat for another ten minutes, watching the lake ripple under the night sky. Her fist unclenched, but the tension stayed.

Finally, she stood up, smoothed her skirt, and headed to the private elevator. She pressed the button for the top floor where Devon was.