The Husband I Thought Was Dead Has Returned - Chapter 32

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The Husband Who Should Have Died Returns Episode 032
There was no need to hesitate. The moment I regained my composure, I sought out Cherez. The main mansion was under strict control, so there was no reason to delay.
Fortunately, both Cherez and Borgus were in the study.
“I have something to say.”
I could hear the stiffness in my own voice.
Cherez glanced at Borgus, then fixed his gaze upon him and spoke.
“Sir Borgus needs to hear this as well.”
This was the first time I was facing him directly like this.
He was also the one who had brought Chloe into this mansion.
Borgus stopped moving and stared directly at me.
“Let’s sit and discuss this.”
At Cherez’s words, I settled onto the sofa. I took a deep breath and recounted my entire conversation with the Duchess without omission.
I feared that leaving out even a single detail might invite unnecessary misunderstanding.
With Borgus present, I made an effort to explain in greater detail.
I conveyed the Duchess’s tone as accurately as possible. There were things to be gleaned from that very inflection.
The atmosphere in the study grew increasingly heavy, and Borgus’s eyes narrowed sharply.
Cherez’s face had hardened into an unreadable mask.
After a moment of silence, Cherez spoke.
“Why would she tell you all of that?”
Beneath his calm tone lay something else. After all, the daughter of Hejest had essentially abandoned Hejest.
I steadied my breathing.
My reason, my logic, my sense of justice and righteous cause.
I could never persuade these men with such things. Was I supposed to tell them I was a transmigrator who didn’t want to perish alongside Hejest?
There was a better excuse than that.
“I spent a living hell in Hejest.”
At those words, Cherez’s brow furrowed. As if he didn’t understand what I meant.
“I was no better than a dog raised in Hejest. I had to do as I was told, eat what was given to me. In winter, I endured the cold in a single thin garment, and all I was given was a small room.”
“That’s absurd….”
Borgus muttered.
“And then, as if bestowing charity, they would give me something.”
Rich food, warm clothes, a warm room. Those days when I ate ravenously without knowing if I would become ill.
Then I would spend the night retching and return to my impoverished existence. I had been conditioned in that situation.
It was highly likely that Hejest had been involved in my escape from this place as well.
Hejest had simply sent a well-trained dog to Bereidan.
“I no longer wish to live that way.”
Cherez dragged his hand across his face.
“Still, Cherez….”
I paused for a moment, then continued slowly.
“You treated me like a human being.”
The study fell silent. Cherez exhaled deeply.
“Ha.”
Cherez let out a dry chuckle. His eyes wavered, unable to find their footing.
Laying bare the truth was never an easy thing. It was Roana’s weakness, her trauma.
Merely recalling what she had endured felt like watching her soul wither away.
“That’s enough.”
Cherez furrowed his brow and fixed his gaze upon Borgus.
“Is there more you need?”
“…No, sir.”
Borgus answered with a voice thick with emotion. Once I obtained his response, Cherez’s attention turned toward me.
The look he gave me stirred something deep within—a sudden swell of feeling.
“Roana.”
He paused, then spoke.
“You endured well. You’ve suffered enough.”
Those words carried more weight than the Duchess’s threats. Perhaps they brought comfort to Roana as well.
“…Thank you.”
My sincerity seemed to reach him. I couldn’t know what difference my words might make.
Yet still, I hoped the situation might improve, even by the smallest measure.

* * *
Meanwhile, Morigan and the Duchess of Hejest.
Petunia Hejest fingered the shabby fabric of her disguise. Never had she imagined a day when she would wear such things.
The worn cap upon her head refused to feel natural against her skin.
“Do people truly purchase such garments? Do they live wearing and adorning themselves with such things?”
“Yes, madam.”
Morigan spoke with a hint of amusement in his voice.
“And yet, your grace cannot be concealed, even now.”
Their eyes met for a fleeting instant, and within that glance, long-buried emotions dripped away like water. It was but a moment.
Petunia exhaled slowly. Sometimes such moments felt eternal. Only after gathering all those feelings could she move forward.
The two of them, having changed their clothes and completed their disguise, paid the Clothing Shop and stepped outside.
The Central City of Bereidan Territory thrummed with vitality befitting the Southern Region. Goods fresh from the Harbor filled the streets. Where goods gathered, people followed. The Duchess spared the scene not a single glance.
Morigan led the way.
They passed through the Market Alley and turned into the Back Alley. The path narrowed, and dilapidated buildings came into view. The sunlight filtering in grew dimmer with each step. After turning twice more, a building without a sign appeared before them.
On the first floor stood a shabby Tavern, and a man stood before its door. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, but his expression changed the moment he saw Morigan.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Morigan of Beltria Textile Merchant. Second floor.”
The man opened the door upon hearing the assumed name. Morigan had slipped away from Bereidan Mansion the moment he arrived yesterday and come here to arrange this meeting.
The two ascended past the Tavern and climbed to the second floor. The wooden stairs creaked beneath their weight. The Duchess frowned beneath her hood but betrayed no discomfort.
At the end of the narrow Corridor on the second floor stood a single Room.
Inside sat two men.
One was in his early forties—dark-skinned with short hair and white eyes. Even seated in his chair, his large frame was unmistakable.
The other man appeared to be in his late thirties. He had a lean frame, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. He stood at the table, arranging a stack of documents while absently toying with a quill pen.
The White-Eyed Man spoke.
“Please, be seated.”
The Duchess and Morigan took their seats across from him.
The Lean Man spoke first.
“You mentioned Beltria Textile Merchant, but I assume you’re not here to discuss fabric trade.”
“I’ve come to acquire people.”
Morigan replied.
“What sort of people?”
“Those skilled in surveillance, and capable of taking direct action when necessary.”
“And the target?”
“Roana, the Duchess of Bereidan. The new bride of Bereidan.”
“You’ve brought us dangerous work. In such cases, the price increases. It depends on whether infiltration is required or external surveillance will suffice.”
“I wish to know everything—her movements when she leaves, the people she contacts, the correspondence she exchanges.”
Petunia observed the two men from beneath her hood. She had followed along to confirm matters herself, and at first glance, they appeared to be men who engaged in perilous work. There was even a faint scent of blood about them.
Morigan had chosen his people well.
The Lean Man spoke.
“Two operatives for one month: eight thousand Bek. We don’t consider it an excessive sum. However, you must provide an advance payment.”
Morigan glanced at the Duchess. The Duchess gave a subtle nod.
Morigan withdrew a leather purse from his garment and placed it on the table. It landed with a heavy sound.
“The advance.”
The Lean Man opened the purse and examined its contents. Silence fell as he counted the gold coins.
Once he had verified the amount, the Lean Man slid the purse aside. The White-Eyed Man retrieved it and tucked it away.
“And one more thing.”
Morigan spoke.
“Depending on the surveillance results, there may be additional commissions.”
“What sort of commission?”
“The target may need to be eliminated.”
The air above the table shifted. The White-Eyed Man narrowed his eyes and uncrossed his arms.
The Lean Man spoke slowly.
“That is a separate contract. The price varies depending on the target’s status. For a noble, the minimum is fifty thousand Bek. And we accept no responsibility for failure—the client must handle the aftermath. If the target is a Duchess… I would require at least one hundred fifty thousand Bek. We risk our lives for such work, after all.”
“Of course.”
Morigan answered calmly.
“Then where should we deliver our reports?”
“To the textile merchant, naturally. We’ll receive them there.”
The transaction concluded thus.
To the Duchess of Hejest, her daughters were merely tools. Use them if useful, discard them if not. There was never room for sentiment.
‘After all, I have four daughters besides Roana.’
The youngest, still unmarried, remained.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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